A short fictional work based on the tv series 'Without a Trace'
Rating: PG-17 (Language, violence)
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the show or characters. This story is for entertainment purposes only, without profit or gain of any kind.
Note: First, thanks to all of you who've read both of my earlier Without a Trace pieces, Nothing Gold Can Stay from last year and more recently, In Extremis: Epilogue. I truly appreciate your kind and generous support, it really does make a difference hearing from you, it helps me write better.
A big huge Debt of gratitude to my friend and advise giver and most excellent editor, Christy. Thanks Pard, without you, this story wouldn't be here.
Warning, this story might be long, (those of you who've read my Magnificent Seven Fic's know how hard it is for me to write short stories. Stop laughing Laramee, I can hear you!)
Without Further interruption, let the tale begin.
The exit road from the Interstate was dark and eerie. Fog rolled onto the highway, causing the driver to put on his fog lights. He slowed down and eyed the black ribbon ahead with caution. He squinted slightly, thinking on the area and expecting Sleepy Hollow's Ichabod Crane to appear without his head.
"It's not far; there's a sign after this curve," Jack Malone supplied, rubbing his eyes.
"You still chasing that headache?" Martin Fitzgerald asked, spotting the sign and guiding the car to the right.
"More like it's chasing me," he returned, squinting painfully. "Could be it's driving me."
"Funny," Martin grimaced, draining the bottle of water he'd brought from his apartment. "Don't give up your day job."
The road narrowed and a large iron gate appeared. Jack got out and headed for the phone in a box by the fence. He spoke briefly and then returned to the car. Shortly thereafter, the gates opened and they proceeded through.
"It looks like a castle," Martin commented, eyeing the gray stone edifice complete with turrets.
"Gothic Revival," Jack replied, "It was built at the turn of the century by William Blackmore, a wealthy retired industrialist. His widow was a devout Catholic and sold it to the Archdiocese of New York in the 1940's," Jack recounted of the Nursing Home's history.
"Nice catch," Fitzgerald noted, blinking and shaking his head. "Grounds seem to go on forever."
"Seventy acres, give or take," Jack assessed, then noticed the younger man's eyes unnaturally wide. He frowned when Martin shook his head slightly and blinked rapidly. "You okay?"
"Yeah," the dizzy agent replied, wondering why his heart was racing, "just tired, I guess."
"Want me to drive?" Jack offered.
"Nah," Martin denied, "we're almost here, but thanks."
Large hedges, well over twenty feet, guided them down the long path. The closer they got to the large main building, the more impressive the sweeping lawns and well manicured landscaping became. Suddenly, a man appeared in the mist, at the foot of a narrow path. Several inches over six feet, his dark hair was bushy and unkempt. A scar ran under one eye and over the shadowed face, which needed a shave.
"There's a face only a mother could love," Martin deadpanned, "All he needs is a hook for a hand."
"We all weren't blessed with your face, Fitzgerald," Jack shot back, getting out of the car, "Thank God." He noted the identification tag clinging to the man's overall pocket, which announced he was part of the maintenance department.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Martin scowled, not as much for the comment as for lightheaded sensation that lingered.
"I'm Jack Malone, F.B.I." He flipped his badge and the strange man in the black overalls nodded and pointed to the main drive, where a reserved parking spot waited. "This is Special Agent Fitzgerald."
"Bates," the stranger lifted his identification badge and let the federal agent inspect it. He nodded to the main drive and the building. "Security told me you were coming. They're tied up on the grounds. Park it here, follow the path to the door."
"Okay," Jack jerked his head to the choking younger agent, resisting the urge to thwack his head.
"You're shittin' me," Martin kept turning back, "Bates? Tell me his first name was Norman?"
"What, and spoil your fun?" Malone smirked, eyeing the handsome agent's profile.
He was glad Martin Fitzgerald was learning to relax a little. Fitting into an elite team like theirs wasn't easy. Melding comfortably with four other strong personalities was hard, especially when they spent so much time together. But the heaviest mantle was the fact that the rookie was the son of Victor Fitzgerald, Deputy Director of the Bureau, whose pit bull-like tenacity had taken him up the ladder of success quickly. Now that power was known both within Washington D.C. and around the country.
Jack cast an eye at the profile of the handsome young agent as they walked. He had to give him credit, just carrying that name would be tough. Choosing the same profession as the juggernaut took balls and Jack admired that.
But finally, after the initial six months, a mid-year trial period, the newest member of the team was a good fit. Jack would never admit it, but he enjoyed Taylor and Fitzgerald driving each other nuts. Taylor's outgoing personality and street smarts were just what the lone wolf rookie needed to round out his rough spots. In turn the Ivy League grad's dogged determination, razor sharp tenacity and strong deductive skills made the two a great team. He'd need that tonight, since Samantha Spade and Vivian Johnson, the remaining members of the team, were flying in late from Denver. The two had been called to testify in a case from early last summer.
"Nice place."
"One of the best in the state," the team leader replied, eyeing the statue of the Blessed Mother in the midst of the roses in the garden.
"Looks expensive," the younger man stated, eyeing the well manicured rolling lawns, roses and cobbled paths. He took several deep breaths of the cold night air, glad that it seemed to calm his jittery nerves.
"Close to seven thousand dollars a month." He heard Fitzgerald's sharp whistle as they jogged up the steps. He nodded to a security guard, held up his badge and waited. "Skilled nursing care, top quality care, runs upwards of two hundred a day."
"Good thing I plan to die on my honeymoon." Martin flashed his badge and followed the taller man into the building. The foyer was lit up and several offices were flanking the main corridor.
"Honeymoon?" Jack puzzled, nodding to the approaching nun.
"Yeah, on my ninety-ninth birthday with my twenty-one year old bride."
"Keep dreamin', Junior!" he shot back, then took the nun's hand. "Sister Catherine, it's good to see you again."
"I never forget a face..." She paused, staring hard at his features and inquisitive dark eyes. "Murrow... Mallon..."
"Malone," he supplied.
"Of course!" she accepted the warm shake. "You're Rosemary's nephew. How are you, young man, and how's your wife and family?"
"Young?" Martin's voice rose and he choked, before catching a dark-eyed glare.
"Got somethin' stuck in your craw, Martin?"
"Somethin' like that..." the imp smirked, eyes crinkled in mirth.
"See that you don't choke on it!" Malone warned. "Sister Catherine, this is special agent Martin Fitzgerald, one of my team." He turned and let the amused agent shake the elderly nun's hand. "Sister Catherine has been the administrator here for the last forty years."
"Impressive," Martin nodded, "that's a huge job. You've earned your wings."
"Thank you." She eyed the fair face and smiled, before turning back to her old friend, "My, they get younger and younger. Such a handsome boy."
"Boy..." Martin mouthed to his boss, thumping his chest and wagging his eyebrows.
Jack ignored the mischievous dancing blue eyes and walked with the elderly nun, leaving the amused agent to walk behind them.
"How long has it been?" she asked.
"About eighteen months since she died. She loved it here, you were all good to her," Malone replied of his elderly aunt.
"She was a lovely woman, had a voice like an angel. She so enjoyed singing at Mass every day." As they turned past a statue of St Joseph, her smile faded. "I wish you weren't here in your official capacity."
"Me too, Sister. What can you tell us?"
"Sister Michael is new to us, just four months. She came to us from Costa Rica. She works with those here in St. Joseph's wing, for those suffering with Alzheimer's and dementia. She was taking a resident, John Stewart, to the chapel."
"Wasn't it kind of late for that?" Martin quizzed, "Shouldn't he have been in bed?"
"The patients in this wing are lost in their own world, often they don't recognize time or space. When he became troubled, Sister often would take him to chapel, it calmed him down. He gets peace from looking at the images on the stained glass."
"What happened then?" Jack pressed, stepping into the small chapel and noting the beautiful windows.
It was rectangular, twenty-four feet wide by fifty-eight feet long. Rows of shiny wooden pews stood by coldly as they passed. In the loft behind them, an organ stood waiting for work. The marble altar was a few feet behind a small marble railing with blue velvet kneelers. To the right of the altar, in a niche, was a statue of Mary holding the infant Jesus. On the left side, in an identical niche, was Saint Joseph with Jesus as a small boy.
"That would have been about eight p.m. or so... at nine, Carl Winters, from our maintenance department, came to chapel to fix the wiring. The lights have been dimming and flickering during services," the administrator noted. "He found John alone and felt air rushing in. He checked the sacristy, which is behind the altar, and found the side door open. I made sure no one was permitted in there once we realized she was missing."
"Was she troubled lately? Did she have any run-ins with family members of the residents? Any nasty letters or the like?" Jack inquired.
"No," Sister Catherine shook her head. "She was a very private person. She was an excellent nurse and worked tirelessly among the poor souls in this wing. She's quiet, but I think if something like that, a nasty letter or altercation had occurred, she'd have told me or Sister Claire. She and Sister Claire have become close friends."
"Where is she?"
"Sleeping, I guess, in the convent, it's in a separate building. Her shift ends at seven p.m."
"We'll talk to her in the morning," Jack replied, "But I want to talk to the staff who were on duty. Can you arrange that?"
"Certainly, there's a conference room near my office. You can use that. Sister's records are in my office, you will want them of course." She saw him nod and turned as the younger agent began to speak.
"What about family?" Martin asked, steadying himself on a pew. Once the dizziness passed, he resumed taking notes.
"None, according to her records. She entered the convent at age twelve in California, I believe, after her parents were killed. She completed her education and traveled as needed, to many parts of the world. Costa Rica was her last position, as Nursing Administrator to a large orphanage."
As she spoke, Martin shoved his notebook in his pocket and eyed the rest of the chapel. He ducked behind the altar and through a doorway. The small square room housed the instruments the priest would use in celebrating Mass. Against one wall, a linen covered altar held several silver containers of incense, next to those were a chalice and ciborium, used to hold the Holy Eucharist and the wine. In the corner, a closet held liturgical vestments that the priest would wear during Mass. On the shorter wall, next to the open door, was a long cabinet. Using the edge of his pen, he tipped the door open. It held extra vessels and instruments for use in the mass, as well as bibles, missals, candles, altar linens and wine. Nothing seemed out of order; he tipped the door closed.
He bent down and examined the door, the lock, the knob and the floor. Then the blue-eyed agent moved outside, squinting as he searched the small path. A wooden fence, a good two feet above his head, started at the wall beside the door and elbowed out, running about ten feet. He pulled out a flashlight from his pocket and spent several minutes scouring the ground. He walked the narrow concrete path until it hit dirt at the end of the fenceline. He squatted down, sending the light over the earth. A short path widened out, with a thick copse of trees bordering it. He took the light slowly over the dirt, spotting an odd array of prints. He rose and followed them to where they hit the woods.
He paused when something silver hit his eye. Squatting down by a tree, he shifted the light and took out a plastic bag, carefully picking up the small cross. He spent five more minutes, but the dense woods had no more answers, so he retreated back to the door.
>From this new perspective, he eyed the tidy sacristy again. Against the remaining wall was a sink. Martin walked closer and his brow furrowed.
"Jack."
"Whaddya got?" the senior agent inquired, ducking into the room, "Signs of a struggle?"
"No, apple pie order," he remarked, "The door was forced and there's this." He pointed, "Looks like blood in the sink."
"Piscina," Jack corrected and saw the younger man's features crease.
"A what?" Martin frowned at the unfamiliar word.
"It's not a sink, it's a piscina, it's sacred. You see, unused wine and crumbs or bits of the host can't be put down a normal sink that leads to the sewer, because they've been consecrated. So they are poured down here," he pointed to the drain, "and they go directly into the earth. God's orders." He saw a cross between amazement and amusement in the blue eyes. "What? I'm an ex-altar boy, we never forget."
"I didn't say a word!" the amused agent smirked.
"No, you never do," Jack shot back, hiding a smile, "Anything else?"
"Some crazy prints outside," he held up the bag, "and this. Found it by a tree in the woods."
"Crazy how?"
"Weird pattern. I'll show you."
Jack moved quickly to keep up with Martin's brisk pace. He followed the beam of the light, and listened as the younger man spoke.
"See?" Martin stood and flicked the light behind them. "They start out normal, side by side, one larger, a male's, at the start of the path. But then when closer to the woods," he moved the light again, "they fan out. Almost as if they went one way, turned back and went another."
"So?" Jack prodded, watching the wheels turning behind the clever blue eyes.
"It doesn't add up. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to grab her. Just gettin' out of the woods to the main road would be tough at night; it's pitch black out there. He would have a route mapped out, there'd be no time for indecision. It stuck out."
"Maybe she got loose, tried to run away."
"No, then the prints would be turned and twisted, and solo. They're together. It's like they got that far and changed their minds."
"They?"
"She's keeping pace with him, she's not struggling, or the prints wouldn't be so neat."
"Maybe she didn't have a choice, he could have a gun. Maybe she was hurt." Jack turned back towards the door.
"No," Martin decided, "pretend you're forcing me to walk." He moved to the far left, away from the tracks.
"You'd make a cute nun." Jack's lip twitched as the other man grimaced and rolled his blue eyes. "Okay, I'll buy." He grabbed Martin with his left hand on the other man's neck and used his right to press his side, like a gun. Then they moved, and stopped.
"See!" Martin said, "Look at my footprints, they're in front of yours and uneven. Those are side by side... even and neat. They were walking next to each other and about six inches apart. It doesn't figure."
"No, it doesn't, Junior." He held up the cross and headed back. "Sister?" Jack took the bag back into the chapel. "Is this hers?"
"Yes," she eyed the cross, "Yes, it is. It's much smaller than ours. I think she mentioned receiving it as a gift many years ago, as a child."
"Looks like the lab is here." Jack waved to the team at the back of the chapel. While he updated them, Fitzgerald pressed onward.
"What can you tell me about the security system, Sister?" Martin asked, his pen poised.
"We have nine guards spread over three shifts," she paused, "Mike Kennedy is the supervisor, I called him immediately. He called some help in and they've been searching the grounds."
"Do you have cameras?" he followed up.
"Several, at various parts of the building. One in the employees' parking lot, and one above the entrance."
"Did security check them?"
"I believe Mike instructed one of the guards to begin reviewing."
"Check it out," Jack directed to his partner, as he came back to the pair, "But check out her room first. Sister?"
"I'll be right back." She waited for the fair-faced young man and walked with him to the main corridor, pausing before a sign. "This is where we are," her finger moved, "This is the convent. It's connected by this stairwell and indoor bridge."
"Got it," Martin nodded, "Where's her room?"
"I'll call Sister Anne, she'll meet you at the entry. When you return, come back here." She moved her hand to the map again. "If you turn right outside the door to the chapel, you follow the long aisle and turn, there you'll find the Security Office. Paul Hooper should be in there, I believe."
"Okay, Sister, thanks." Martin paused, "Is there a bathroom here?"
"Just over there," she pointed to the sign above a door across the way.
"Thanks!" he nodded, hoping that splashing cold water on his face would help the odd, lightheaded sensation.
"When can we speak to John Stewart?" Jack asked when she returned.
"In the morning, but... he suffers from Alzheimer's. I don't know how much help he'll be."
"He's our only witness," Jack sighed, "I'm going to need all the information you have on Sister Michael "
"It's in my office," the administrator agreed, stepping past the lab crew who were working.
Jack turned and nodded to Susan Lennon, from the lab. "Sue, keep me posted. We'll be in the Administration office."
"Okay Jack," the tall redhead nodded, then grinned wickedly. "Where's that blue-eyed boy wonder? Could be I might need his assistance."
"Busy," Malone smirked, "and young enough to be your..."
"Brother!" she interrupted, "and we'll leave it at that!"
Martin looked up in surprise when he entered the door to the security office. Inside the room were a high counter and a wall with several television monitors. Each had a different view of the floors, parking lot and grounds. Two doors on the far wall could be seen. One was open, revealing a long table and a kitchen set-up, with sink, microwave and refrigerator. The other door was closed, marked 'locker room'. Just inside the room, was a third door, with M. Kennedy, CHIEF, in black letters. The young agent was startled when a dark head rose from behind the tall counter by the monitors.
"Where'd you come from?" the rookie asked, taking his overcoat off. It was extremely warm inside the room. He wiped his brow and tried to control his trembling hand. He took a few breaths, trying to overcome the smothering sensation that was gripping him.
"See, that's the difference between us," Danny Taylor grinned, "I knew all about that before I got out of grade school. You're ass deep in degrees and still in the dark about the birds and the bees." He wagged his eyebrows and enjoyed the blue eyes rolling. "Hey, that rhymes!"
"Just like a Hallmark card," Martin rasped, concentrating on every shaky step as he crossed the room, "Where's the guard?"
"Getting the plans for this place," Danny replied without looking up. He was reviewing the files on the security personnel.
Martin eased his lean frame though the half-door that separated the monitors and outer office. He hung onto the small hip-level door for an extra moment as the room seemed to spin. He felt sweat running down his back and clinging to his face as well. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and waited for it to pass. He wondered how he could have picked up the flu. Finally he let go of the door. He tossed his jacket on the empty chair and eyed the cold can of ginger ale the other agent was drinking.
"When'd you get here?"
"A few minutes ago."
Danny reached for his soda and saw Martin slip into a chair. His brows furrowed at the damp face and brown hair curling up. He saw the trembling hands curl into fists on Martin's lap and noticed just how pale he was.
"You look like shit, man."
"Thank you."
Danny ignored the acid in the reply and remembered that Martin was scheduled off that day. If his memory served him right, Fitzgerald had planned on spending the day rock climbing and hiking. He eyed the clock on the wall, recalling his own call from Jack Malone. Knowing how driven the blue-eyed agent was, he thought on the shaking figure.
"Let me guess, you got home around eight and Jack called. You tossed on clean threads and scurried your rookie ass across town to pick him up..."
"Yeah, so?" Martin was annoyed, he glared sideways at the other man and let his anger show.
"So, I'm guessing you didn't eat dinner, and I know when you do that hiking shit, all you eat is granola and stuff." He paused, watching the blank face, then he sighed and leaned over. "You skipped dinner. You burned a lot of calories playing Daniel Boone today." Still the face was blank. "Two and two make four yet?"
Martin rummaged through his coat pocket and pulled out a new pony bottle of water. He uncapped it and took a swig before a hand clamped on his wrist.
"You need to eat! You burned off all your carbs. That's why you're shaking all over. How come you didn't grab—"
"I didn't have time!" Martin snapped, "Until we were on the road, it wasn't so bad."
"There's some doughnuts and cookies and crackers in there," he jerked his head towards the small kitchen, "Coke in the ice box. You get some sugar inside and you'll feel better. Help yourself, the guard said it was okay."
Martin stood up and swayed, grabbing the edge of the long table.
"Whoa!" Danny stood up, sat him down and studied his face, "Don't you faint on me. I got enough to do finding a missing nun."
"Get offa me," Martin protested weakly, shoving the hand away. "I'm not gonna pass out. I just need a minute," he vowed, trying to control his racing heart.
"Yeah, well, I don't need extra incident reports to fill out. You stay put!" Danny ordered, trotting to the kitchen. He took out a twenty-four-ounce bottle of coke, picked up a paper plate and eyed the boxes. He took a package of orange peanut butter crackers, a doughnut and an orange.
He put the plate down, pointed and snapped his fingers. Before he even got settled into his own seat, the melting man had sucked nearly half of the coke. A badly suppressed belch slipped past the pale lips.
"Proud of you!" Danny shook his head.
"'Scuse me," Martin managed, then eyed his partner. "You know what they say, 'hang around a dog long enough...'"
"Eat!" Taylor ordered, and watched the doughnut disappear first. "Jack called and updated me. You find anything in her room?"
"No, small and tidy, and I mean tidy!" Martin shook his head, shoving a peanut butter cracker down. "Not even any dust. A single bed, one small bureau, a closet with some habits in it and shoes. A cross on the wall and a statue of Madonna..."
"Madonna huh?" Danny grinned, "Me, I'm a J-Lo guy myself."
"Not that Madonna," Fitzgerald grimaced, trying to navigate the orange peeling process, "the original. Anyhow, there was no mail, letters, nothing. A bible and a book of poems in the nightstand."
"Gimme that!" Danny attempted to take the orange from the stubborn blue-eyed terrier, "You're a mess."
"I can peel my own fuckin' orange!" Martin fumbled, hitting Danny's hand and sending the wayward fruit off the counter and across the floor.
"Now look what you did!" Taylor stood up.
"I was doing fine," Martin protested.
"You were flunking Orange Peeling 101!" Danny retrieved the fruit and began peeling it on the way back. "Here, I started it, you can finish up, okay?" He watched the damp head nod and eyed the water cooler nearby. He picked up the paper towels, soaked a few and handed them to his partner.
"Thanks," Martin wiped his face and resumed eating his orange. "Anything here?"
"There's nothing suspicious in the log book," Danny assessed, " Two guards make rounds inside and one outside. Also, the maintenance man was out there tonight; he works the gate."
"The Missing Link," Martin recalled, watching the different angles on the television, "We met."
"Anything new on the nun?"
"Sister Michael," Martin pulled out his notes, "she's been here about four months. She works mostly with the patients in the Saint Joseph's wing, Alzheimer's and dementia."
"Man, talk about a calling," Danny's voice rose in admiration. "That's what I call an angel. She local?"
"Jack's getting her background. She came here from Central America. She took one of the residents to the chapel about eight p.m. The maintenance guy found the old guy, a John Stewart, alone an hour later. Behind the door to the chapel, in the sacristy, the door was forced. The prints outside don't add up, though."
"How?" Danny asked, glad to see the trembling seemed better and Martin wasn't as stuporous. He noted how fast the food had disappeared and that the coke was nearly gone. "You need another round?"
"Thanks!" Martin looked over, his gaze giving far more than gratitude for the soda. He saw the crooked grin come back to him and nodded, "I'll get it; I'm okay now."
After getting them each another soda, Martin filled in his partner on all that they had found so far. He couldn't help but notice the dark eyes scrutinizing his chest. Finally, after taking another gulp of soda, he placed the can down and frowned, eyeing his white shirt.
"What? I spill something?"
"No," Danny chuckled, the chocolate eyes lighting up, "Man, How much stock do have in 'Striped Ties R Us'?"
"What's wrong with my tie?" Martin's voice was laced with indignation.
"In a word," Danny paused, eyeing the red and navy diagonal stripes. "YECH! Nothing that a man with style and class, not unlike myself," Danny offered, draping a brotherly arm over Martin's shoulder, "can't fix for a slight fee!"
"Humble aren't you?" Martin shot back, unconsciously tugging on his tie, "Thanks, but I'll pass."
Danny just laughed and reached for his radio, as Jack's voice came through. "Yeah. No, the Fashion Assassin was just filling me in. Okay, we'll hang out here." He pointed to the guard's bathroom, near the locker room, when his partner stood and eyed the room. Fitzgerald's head bobbed and he headed for the door. "Yeah, okay, later, Boss!"
The office was immaculate; he'd have expected no less. She moved around the desk to a small table and picked up a folder.
"I took the liberty of copying Sister's records." She handed the item to the agent. "I'm sorry there isn't more. We don't know much about her early years, before she her parents died. There is no record of family of any kind. By the time she was sixteen or so, she'd discovered a talent for nursing. Apparently, she assisted the Sisters in the convent in that capacity. She was very bright and eventually, thanks to a missionary named Father Paulo Santiago, she was able to attend nursing school in San Diego."
"Francesca Maria Alvarez," he studied her birth certificate. "She'd be forty-five years old. This the only photo?" Jack eyed the young woman in a white habit standing between two other nuns. He flipped to the back, where the date was written in pencil. "May 1980?"
"That was when she graduated from school; those are two of the sisters from the convent that sponsored her in La Jolla."
"Point Loma Nazarene University," Jack scanned the notes, clipping the small photo to the end.
"She was very good, especially with the mentally disabled," Sister Catherine noted, "We were very surprised when she chose to come to us, just after the new year. You see, Father Santiago was from Costa Rica. He returned there while Sister was in school and upon graduation, she joined him there. He needed good help, the village he was working in was very poor."
"Isn't that a little unusual?" Jack frowned, "I mean, why would she leave there after all these years?"
"Unusual? No, although she considered Costa Rica her home, which it was for many years, she did travel quite a bit. There's been trouble in the village near the hospital where she worked. Father Paulo got permission to have most of the sisters transferred. He feared for their safety."
"So," he squinted at the small photo of the missing woman from over twenty-two years ago. "This is it? What about her passport?"
"It's in the safe." She moved into a small side room and returned a few moments later. "I'm afraid it's not much better."
"At least we're in the ninety's," he observed of the passport date from ten years prior. The two-inch photo showed her features: dark eyebrows, dark eyes, and a plain, somewhat full face. "Looks like half of New York. What can you tell me about her?"
"She worked tirelessly, very long hours. She had such patience with the troubled souls. Her schedule left little time for anything else other than chapel and rest."
"What?" Jack heard the pause and saw the question in the older nun's eyes.
"Well... she seemed troubled at times. Distraught... deeply hurt... almost in pain. I witnessed her weeping on more than one occasion while on her knees in chapel. She wouldn't talk about it, other than to say than she was homesick."
"Did she get any visitors? Or phone calls or letters?"
"Not that I'm aware of."
"Does she leave here? Go to town on errands? Could she have witnessed something? Did she seem more upset than usual today?"
"No," Sister Catherine shook her head, "she hasn't been away."
"This weeping you mentioned, when did that start?"
"Actually, since she arrived. Almost as if she's bearing some painful weight inside."
"Do you have a point of contact in Costa Rica? I'll need some background information. What about this Father Paulo?"
"That's quite an order. Father Paulo travels extensively in the most remote areas. He's very hard to reach. But I can leave word with the bishop down there."
"Thanks," Jack rose, then shook the small hand, "Try not to worry. I'll be in touch."
"You look almost human again!" Danny teased when Fitzgerald returned from the bathroom. The damp hair was combed and the face still pale, but better than it had been. Just as Martin sat down, the door opened. A tall, well-built man with a graying crew cut entered.
"Mike Kennedy," the supervisor walked into the security office, extending his hand to a casually dressed young man with inquisitive brown eyes. "Paul said you wanted these," he tapped the blueprints in a canister under his arm. "I'm in charge of security. I'm retired NYPD, twenty-two years."
"I'm Special Agent Danny Taylor," the dark-haired man nodded to his partner. He saw the security guard eyeing them curiously. His own black jeans, dark polo shirt and mussed hair were a stark contrast to his partner's neat hair, gray suit, pristine white shirt and that tie. "This is my partner, Martin Fitzgerald. He's a retired boy scout," he smirked. Then, pointing to a monitor, "That one on the top, is that the only shot you have of the area behind the chapel?"
"Yeah, it's all woods after that, dense and thick." The chief put a large cylinder on the counter and popped the top off.
"How far to the river?" Martin asked.
"Uh," the guard turned and eyed the air, as if taking a mental calculation, "Two, maybe three miles."
"Any other outlets?" Danny asked, "besides the river?"
"No, well, not really..."
"Define not really," the rookie asked as he looked up briefly before putting a paperweight on one end of the now spread out blueprints.
"See this?" Kennedy moved in, using a pencil to illustrate, "it's the back of the chapel. If you go north, you hit the river. West takes you out the main gate..."
"What's that?" Martin pointed to a six-sided shape on the east side of the prints.
"That's all that's left of the Old Hickock Prison. It went up during the Civil War, later it was used as a munitions armory. The army used it on and off for storage until, oh, just after Viet Nam." He saw the question the blue-eyed agent was about to ask in his gaze. "I sent two men over, nothing yet."
"What's on the other side?" Danny asked, for the map ended where the odd shaped building was located.
"A dirt road that eventually leads to Route 9, but it's rough, no way a nun could get through it," the guard replied.
"Might not have been up to her," Martin said, eyeing the computer. "Can you get me online? I want download a map. Did you call the State Troopers?"
"No," he said, watching the dark haired man moved towards the phone, "What was I gonna tell them? Look for the Flying Nun?"
"Easy, partner." Danny's voice was calm as he read the message in the irate sky eyes. He huffed in annoyance; he knew the ex-cop was angry at his 'turf' being invaded. He paused at the dial, watching Martin work the internet.
"Kennedy, your men find any tracks out there?" Danny asked, waiting for the Westchester County Office to pick up.
"I don't think so," the paid cop retorted in a shade of indifference.
"That's a helluva answer!" Martin snarled, pushing the print button. He waited for his partner to update the state troopers. Once the phone was back in the cradle, he spoke. "Danny, look at this."
"Whaddya got?" He moved in, leaning over the back of the chair.
"Take a look." He hit the page down button and brought up the history on the old army depot.
"It went up in 1862, three stories..." Taylor scanned the article, "...stone and brick..."
"No, down there." Martin tapped the screen near the bottom.
"...a seventy-five foot long tunnel runs from the cellar of the building into the woods beyond. It was thought to have been constructed by prisoners in the waning days of the war." The dark-eyed agent paused, "Later, during prohibition in the nineteen twenties, bootleggers reinforced it and used it to illegally transport liquor from Canada."
"Could be that tunnel leads to another spot on the river — one where he could have a boat waiting," Martin observed.
"It's possible," he read the other man's thought, "but seems like a stretch, Martin. Why go to all that trouble when the direct route to the river was closer?"
"Maybe whoever took her wasn't interested in getting to the river," Martin noted quietly, unsettled at he the idea of a nun being assaulted, "Maybe he had another reason for using that tunnel." He flinched inwardly at the image of a dead nun in the subterranean area.
"I think we need to check it out." Danny flipped his walkie-talkie on as Martin copied more info.
"Malone," Jack paused in the conference room, where the ward's staff was waiting. He nodded as Taylor updated him. "Okay, but I want you two to view those tapes." He eyed his watch, "No, I'm gonna talk to the staff, then head back, unless you find something down there. I've got to be in court tomorrow." He rubbed his eyes and sighed, "We'll meet back at the office, I should be done by noon."
"Let's go," Danny gave Martin's shoulder a pat, then paused, scrutinizing the unsteady body rising. He grabbed a wrist and locked onto the troubled eyes. "You up for this? I can get Jack to —"
"No!" Martin hissed, then winced, "Sorry. I'm okay, Danny." He watched those strong eyes absorbing his reply. For several seconds, the hand remained locked onto his wrist, then a nod and it was released.
"Lenny will meet you, he's on day shift, but I called him in," Mike noted, picking up the radio, "Lenny?"
"Yeah"
"Two F.B.I. agents need to get to the Old Prison. Meet them outside the chapel."
"Okay."
Lenny hadn't arrived yet when the two young men got to the chapel. Danny smirked openly as Sue Lennon, from the lab, openly appraised the unsuspecting Fitzgerald's backside as he bent over. He was retrieving his notebook, which he'd dropped, before standing up and putting his coat on.
"Naughty, naughty, Sue," Taylor teased, wagging his eyebrows as he went by, following Martin behind the altar, "Don't forget you're in church..."
"Hey, a girl can dream," she chuckled and gave the other agent a bold wink.
Taylor followed his partner around, listening as the other pointed out what they'd found earlier. They were examining the odd prints when a flashlight hit them full in the face.
"FBI!" Martin hollered on instinct, reaching for his gun.
"Security!"
"You should know better!" Danny scolded the guard, putting his gun down, "You saw us, you should have called out. "
"Sorry," the other man apologized, "I'm Lenny Harper. It's this way." He paused and waited until both men acknowledged him, and then turned.
"What?" Martin eyed his smirking partner.
"It's like looking in a crystal ball," Taylor chased back, "Twenty-five years from now. All that crap you eat will catch up to you." He grinned, eyeing again the guard who was waiting for them. "Some things never change."
Martin tried not to laugh. For a few minutes it worked. But every time he looked up, the striped tie on the paunchy guard seemed to be blinking at him. He smirked, he snorted in a bad attempt not to laugh, he chuckled, then he gave up and laughed.
"It's a nervous disorder," Danny whispered to the puzzled guard, who was staring at the nearly convulsed agent. "He's sensitive about it, try not to notice."
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