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 Garden State Deli and Bar was empty, save for the manager and one of his employees. Two men were waiting at the bar when the two F.B.I. agents arrived.
"Samantha Spade," the blonde tossed along with her badge. "This is Vivian Johnson. We're from the Manhattan Missing Persons Bureau. We'd like to talk to you about a man who was in here sometime yesterday afternoon."
"I'm Richie Glenn. I already gave a statement to the Atlantic City cops."
"Well, humor us, okay?" Vivian addressed the whiny tone of the thirtyish, slightly build man with sandy hair.
"He'll be happy to cooperate," the gray haired man next to him glared, "Won't you, Richie?"
"Yeah."
"I'm Leo Carlin, the manager."
Vivian nodded at the other man, then turned to the bartender in question.
"What can you tell me about the man you saw?"
"Tall, a couple inches over six foot and lean, maybe one eighty. Dark hair, with a little gray shooting through. Light blue eyes, nice features. Good looking guy," he nodded, "Eye candy for the ladies, you know what I mean?"
"Did you see a little girl who looked like this with that man yesterday?"
Richie sighed in frustration and eyed the computerized image. It wasn't bad enough he'd worked until midnight. He'd gotten a flat on the way home and his girlfriend had been in a bitchy mood. Then the boss calls and says to be here ASAP. He wasn't scheduled until 3 p.m. He stared at the image and handed it back.
"Could be, I guess. Her hair was longer, halfway down her back. She looked sick or something."
"Sick how?" Samantha asked.
"Out of it... sleepy..." he shrugged, "Her eyes weren't right, almost like she was doped up." He saw the two women exchange a hard glance. "Hey, that's my two cents, you know. Could be I'm wrong."
"Did he call her by name?" Spade followed up.
"No."
"What about the man? Anything stick out?" Vivian asked, while Sam took notes.
"Uh, he seemed pissed off. Nasty, you know? He got a beer and got the kid a coke and a grilled cheese sandwich. He made his call and she ate. They didn't stay long."
"Did you hear him mention a rental car? Was he meeting someone?" Samantha asked.
"No," he shook his head, "I remember feeling sorry for her. She seemed really sick and he was a real cold bastard. She was stumbling along, trying to keep up with his strides. She dropped that beat up bear twice."
"What beat up bear?"
"A stuffed bear... teddy bear," he yawned, "She dropped it as they turned to leave, it landed on the seat next to her. I reached over and grabbed it. It had a name written on the foot... Hamlet or something."
"Hamley's?" Vivian asked.
"Yeah, that's it — in blue. How'd you know that?"
"F.B.I., remember, " Samantha issued, keeping a straight face, "We know everything."
"He pay in cash?" Vivian inquired.
"Yeah, he left a twenty. Didn't take change."
"What time was it when he left?" Samantha asked.
"Uh," the tired barkeep sighed, "Three p.m. maybe."
"Anything else?" Johnson waited, pen poised.
"No, that' it." He took the card handed to him by the blonde and stuck it in his pocket.
"Okay, thanks, if you think of anything else." Sam turned, following Vivian to the main aisle.
"Hey! Hey! Wait a minute."
They turned back as the young man jogged over to them.
"I didn't remember it yesterday, when them other cops asked. But his watch was broken, at least I think it was."
"Why?" Sam furrowed her brows.
"The numbers were backwards. You asked what time they left. It was just after three, I know cause I came in a half hour before. But I remember taking the bill from him and noticing the hands were wrong on his watch."
"So it was quarter to nine?" Sam turned to Vivian who was nodding.
"That fits," she flipped her book open, "Hamley's is the FAO Schwartz of London."
"Six hour difference," Sam turned back, "Thanks, you've been a big help."
The man nodded and headed for the parking lot. The blonde turned to her partner, "Where to now?"
"British Airways, I guess," Vivian said, "How about you check with security?"
"Okay," Sam noted, "I'll catch up with you later."
"Sister Claire?"
"Yes?"
The middle-aged nun looked up from the wheelchair she was pushing. A young man with a winning smile and sparkling dark eyes was approaching. She saw his badge and nodded, recalling her administrator mentioning him.
"I'm Danny Taylor, I'd like to talk to you about Sister Michael."
"Sure, just walk with me." She pushed the patient down the corridor. "He has therapy now and we're running a bit late."
"Did she seem upset lately? Did she mention any problems?
"She was distracted, I guess would be the right word. Some days she'd be fine, other times I'd find her weeping and distraught. But she'd never say why. She wouldn't talk about it, but I think she must have suffered in Costa Rica, somehow."
"Why's that?" Danny paused to open the door to the occupational therapy room.
"Thank you," the nun nodded, pushing the chair into the large, sunny room. "Here we are, Harry!" she said cheerfully, leaving him by a large table, "Connie will be with you soon, okay?" She took the feeble and weak smile that the elderly stroke patient offered.
"Wow, you need roller skates!" Danny teased, watching the spry nun zipping back down the hall.
"We need more skilled help. We're understaffed. I have two new residents arriving today and have to make sure their charts are ready."
"You were saying how you thought Sister Michael was upset by something in her past?"
"Yes, well, that's just a theory. She's a very private person and very quiet. She's devoted to those residents in her wing. Some of them are in the last stages of Alzheimer's Disease. When she first arrived, she was almost in mourning. The village she was in was often caught in rebel conflicts and I am sure it was distressful. She didn't talk about it much, but once..." She paused to enter a hallway, corrected two orderlies who were goofing off, and then called Dietary to check on a diabetic order. "Sorry."
"That's okay." Danny was impressed at her energy.
"I guess it was about, oh, a month ago maybe. She got a long distance call."
"From where?"
"I assumed it was Costa Rica. We were in her room, discussing ideas to recruit aides and more therapists. The call came through and she had trouble hearing. She had to speak very loudly and finally gave up. She was talking in Spanish."
"Did she say who called her?"
"No, but she was terribly upset and began to weep. She asked me to leave, so I respected her wishes. I asked her about it later and she said she couldn't discuss it."
"There was an incident with a catering company, one of the staff thought she was having an attack of some kind. Did you know about that?"
"No, well, not from her. My room is across the hall from hers, and I was just leaving that night when Sister Catherine stopped to ask her if she was ill. She said no, just that the young man in the room reminded her of someone and it shocked her."
"How about letters or visitors?"
"I can't answer about her mail, that's delivered to the room. She never mentioned receiving anything. Visitors? No..."
"What?" Danny heard the catch in her voice.
"Well, she went to town once a week. There's a library there and she would spend some time researching Alzheimer's. She was gone for most of the day."
"It that unusual?"
"No, but I remember Michelle Hastings, one of our volunteers in the Recreation Department, being surprised when I mentioned Sister being at the library. She works there three days a week, and didn't recall ever seeing her."
"So maybe she was meeting someone in town?"
"Or somewhere else?" Sister Claire frowned, "She'd leave after lunch and return by four or so." She eyed the speaker when her name came over the intercom. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I have to go."
"Thanks so much, Sister Claire, " Danny extended his hand with a card, "Please call me if you think of anything. Anything at all, no clue is too small."
"I'll do that," she took his hand and caught his eye, "Please, find her."
"We'll do our best!"
"Anything yet?"
Vivian Johnson looked up from the British Airways desk in Terminal B in the departures area of Newark International Airport. Her blonde partner had been conferring with the security office to keep them apprised of the situation.
"No, they're still checking," she replied to Samantha Spade, "How'd you make out?"
"Richie Glenn, twenty-nine, no priors," she noted of the bartender who'd identified the man and child that had been in the bar the afternoon the call went through. "He's been employed here about two years. Security has a copy of the sketch the ACPD faxed over. I gave them copies of Abby's composite," she noted of the missing child. "They're going to hit the shops and customs. See if anything sticks out. I checked the rentals, but they get so many customers, it was hard to pinpoint one guy and kid. And nobody from a foreign country registered, so if he did rent a car, he's using a fake id."
"Maybe he wasn't leaving," Vivian said, casting her eyes woefully at the slow computer.
"What do you mean?" Sam quizzed.
"Well if he did arrive from London, he'd have gone through customs and then gotten a cab or limo or rental. What was he doing in Terminal A? That's domestic flights."
"He was changing planes?" the blond assessed.
"Had to be, unless he was meeting somebody and they didn't show up."
"Which might have made him angry," Spade thought aloud of the clues the bartender had provided.
"David Hughes and Alexa MacKenzie."
Both women looked over the counter when the clerk read off the monitor before pushing the print button.
"Is there an address?" Sam asked.
"The address given was Le Meridien Hotel in London."
"He's not using discount coupons," Vivian noted of the expensive residence.
"He was supposed to take the 8:25 flight to Phoenix last night. He checked in at three thirty, but he never made the flight."
"That answers that riddle," Johnson cited of his presence in the domestic terminal.
"We need to speak with the flight attendants," Sam asked the clerk who nodded and picked up the phone to call her supervisor.
Ten minutes later they were headed to the Hampton Inn, where the crew was staying. While Sam spoke to the hotel in London, Vivian's mind went back in time, to a distraught babysitter in the Bronx Zoo. The sixteen-year-old was taking her charge out for the afternoon. She'd been sprayed with pepper spray in the ladies' room and then tied up. The child was never found and the teen couldn't identify her attacker.
"Vivian, did you hear me?"
"Sorry..."
"Hey, we're gonna nail this bastard," the blonde vowed, getting out of the car.
"I hope so," Johnson sighed, following her partner into the hotel.
Ringing.
He blinked, eyeing the blue carpet in confusion while rolling sideways. A cross hung at an odd angle on the cream colored wall across the room. A clock was ticking. Where the hell was he?
Ringing.
He groaned and rolled over on all fours, wiping the sweat from his face. He swallowed back the sea of nausea rising and closed his eyes to stem the dueling jackhammers inside his head. He eyed the room and the confusion in his aching head slowly went away.
He was in the missing nun's room in Our Lady of Grace. He eyed the closed door and sighed gratefully. Nobody had seen him lying here. A fuzzy recollection of stomach pain and the room flying around came back to him.
"Shit," he coughed, stealing a gaze at his watch. How long had he been out? "Ten minutes... Christ."
Ringing.
He fumbled, still on his knees, leaning over the bed while the room stopped spinning, and finally found his phone.
"Yeah..."
"Martin?" Samantha asked wearing a frown, "You okay? It rang about six times."
"Yeah," he said with a false flush of energy, "I left my jacket across the hall. I didn't hear the first few." He nodded as she updated him on their progress. His throbbing skull took in every other word. He hadn't even known they had a new case. He buzzed out of the fog when a familiar word came through. "Danny?"
"Yeah, you remember him. Tall, cocky, smartmouthed?" Sam teased, then frowned again. Martin hadn't asked a single question or said a word. All she heard was ragged breathing. "Martin? You okay?"
"Yeah, just... got a head... ache... You uh... uh... need Danny?"
"Need?" she laughed, "When pigs fly!" There was no sharp comeback, which was totally not like him. "I left a message on his phone, but in case you see him first, tell him Jack said be back at one."
"Yeah." Martin flipped the phone off and rested his face on the bed.
"Looks like you finally came to your senses. As much as I like homage," Danny teased the kneeling man, "I like alms better." He grinned, "Lots of alms." He tapped the white shirt and frowned, his fingers hitting wet fabric in the middle of the back. "Where's your jacket?"
"Chair... hot..."
Danny hissed in frustration and rested both hands on his tense hips. He chuffed out several annoyed breaths, inwardly throttling the other agent. Clearly, whatever flu bug he'd picked up was messing with his equilibrium. He didn't belong in the field, he belonged in bed sucking up fluids and prescriptions.
"Come on," he offered, "I'll drop you home, first. I'll tell Jack you're sick."
"I'm fine."
Martin looked up and sighed, then dragged his aching body from the floor. He managed to sit down without falling and rubbed his eyes.
"I was checking under the bed and Sam called."
"You find the boogeyman under there?" Danny teased, eyeing the tiny bathroom.
"Room's clean," Martin muttered, thinking even death couldn't feel this bad, "Uh, she and Vivian are... uh... at... uh..."
"Newark Airport checking on a cold case, five-year girl from three years ago."
"Yeah," Martin relieved, "Jack wants us back by one."
"Okay, I'm almost done here." Danny picked up the large statue of the Madonna carefully, noting it's fine details. "That's a real beauty. My aunt collects these, has them from all over the world."
"You see a soda machine?"
"Yeah, near that big room that visitors use. Come on, germboy," he picked up the olive jacket and waited for the pale body to rise. He didn't miss how ghastly Martin's color was or that he seemed to be hunched over slightly as if in pain. "You toss your cookies again?"
"No!" Martin snapped, "Not in a nun's toilet."
"Better there than on her rug."
"You get anything from Sister Claire?" Martin inquired, changing the subject.
"I'll fill you in," Danny replied, keeping pace with the queasy body, "Just breathe the other way okay — and keep a couple feet between us." He smiled when the right hand twitched. "Watch it! Remember where you are. Keep it holstered, Amigo!" He chuckled as the scowling face and brows furrowed in annoyance.
Martin eyed the soda machine, and his fumbling hand reached into his pocket.
"Sit!" Danny commanded, steering the cranky body into the lounge. He then gave the damp head a pat, "Down, boy. Good boy."
"Don't be messing with my hair!" Martin growled, tossing the empty water bottle away. He'd chugged almost the whole bottle during his time in the missing nun's room. He'd finished it on their way to the lounge. "Shit..." he whispered, out of hearing range of his partner, who was buying them sodas. His heart began to jackhammer again and his breathing was difficult. His frantic eyes darted around the room and he swallowed hard, trying to stomach his fear.
Windows.
The eyes darted again, noticing the small room had no windows. The air was disappearing rapidly and his face was now covered in sweat. His shaky hands nearly knocked over the napkin dispenser, but he steadied the chrome container. He grabbed a handful of napkins and wiped his face, fighting the urge to vomit hard.
It wasn't working.
"Dan..."
Before he could even get the other syllable out, a strong set of hands was hauling him to his feet. He didn't see the floor or walls, he felt a door open and a hand on his back, shoving him at a stall.
Danny had one bottle of soda in each pocket of his jacket. He waited for the retching to stop and headed for the sink. He ran cold water and got some towels. He didn't say anything, while the ill man washed his face, rinsed his mouth and finally took the towels.
"Fresh air?"
"Yeah," Martin croaked, weaving slightly as he followed Danny outside.
"You gonna pass out?" Danny was worried now, Martin's face was a ghastly shade of white. "Head between your knees, you know the drill." He waited by the bench until, after several moments, the damp head came up. "Here."
"Thanks," the raspy voiced agent replied, taking several small sips of the cold cola, "I'm sorry..."
"For what?" Danny irked. "You didn't heave on the man," he smiled, tapping his chest, "Now that would have made me just a tad annoyed."
"I'll keep that in mind." Martin continued to sip the soda and inhale the cool air. "I'm okay, now. You need to finish up inside."
"Nah, I'm good. I can follow up at the office." He watched the slim man stand, studying him closely.
"You bring that fuckin' bag up and I will heave on you!" Martin warned, slowly making his way to Danny's car. He slid inside, keeping the sealed soda between his legs. He buckled up and laid his aching head against the headrest. He wiped his face with the napkins from his pocket and waited.
There was no ignition sound.
"Why aren't we moving?" he asked, peeling his eyes open a crack, just as a large blue plastic bag was thrust at him. "I'm not riding with this!"
"Fine!" Danny agreed, "Then you can ride with your head out the window like a good Fitz doggie," Taylor quirked.
"Couldn't you find a bigger one?" Martin groused, eyeing the large bag.
"I'm cautious by nature." Danny turned the engine over, moving out of the drive.
"Yeah," Martin snorted, "that's your middle name, all right."
"Are you being facetious?"
"I'm too queasy to be facetious," Martin moaned, clutching his bag in one hand and his soda in the other.
"You look cute with that bag," Danny tossed over, "it matches your eyes." He watched the struggling agent trying to reply and laughed when Martin couldn't answer, "Hands full?"
"Shut up and drive!" Fitzgerald sassed, his stomach rolling with every turn on the winding drive. As he took small sips, he prayed the horrible malady wouldn't get any worse. He rested his eyes, unaware he couldn't be any further from the truth
Note: the scene that begins with the preface I-278 West... comes with a 'spew' warning. That is, you might not want to have any liquids in your mouth.
While Vivian went over the passenger manifest and took notes, Samantha conducted the interviews. The four attendants of the cabin crew were gathered in the room of senior crewmember Anne Davis.
"Miss Davis, did you recognize this man?" She handed the likeness over and eyed her notes, "He was in first class."
"I was in the back. Brian and Tammy were up front."
"Yes, I remember him, he had a little girl with him," the pretty redhead noted.
"She was sick," the blond male nodded, "She didn't eat... just sipped on tea. Slept almost the whole flight. I remember giving him extra blankets to wrap around her."
"Did he mention being her father?" Vivian asked.
"No, she called him Uncle David," Tammy recalled, "He was rather unpleasant."
"He was a nasty bloke," Brian agreed, "Rude. Snapping off orders without so much as a 'please ' or 'thank you'."
"Did he communicate with the little girl?" the blonde agent pressed.
"No, belted her in..." Tammy thought back, "Poor thing curled right up. He was using his laptop... and had some maps out."
"What kind of maps?" Sam asked.
"It was only a fast glance," she answered, "I was checking on the little girl and noticed them on her leg over the blanket. There seemed to be blue on the one side."
"Water," Vivian said, "Which side?"
"Left, but it was folded. There were some red circles in marker... sorry."
"You've been a big help. Anything else stick out?" Sam asked.
"Well, for being a relative... an uncle to that child, he was a cold bastard." Brian shook his head. "I helped her up, after we docked. She was groggy... He grabbed her and shoved her forward. If she hadn't called him 'Uncle David' I would have alerted the pilot to call ahead."
"I collected their passports, we do a standard count," Tammy said, "She had the same address, a hotel in London."
"Did you talk to her at all?" Vivian asked, and both shook their heads.
"Not really," Brian noted, "Just hello and goodbye. She was really out of it."
"If you remember anything else, please call one of us," Sam handed her card to each of them.
"Wait a minute!" Anne Davis said, "Can I see that again?"
"Sure," Sam handed over the printout of Abby and the drawing of the suspect.
"Kami? Isn't this the guy who almost knocked us down?"
"Yeah," the slim Asian attendant nodded, "What a creep! He was running towards a car. A big black car... expensive... like a Lincoln Town Car. You know the kind some of the limo companies use. "
"He was practically dragging that poor child and we had to duck out of his way, or we'd have knocked her over. I tipped over my luggage pulley," Anne noted, "He didn't even look back."
"Did you see the driver of this black car? Four doors? Plates?" Vivian pressed.
"Four doors, I think. It was a big sedan," Michelle narrowed her eyes, "New York plates, I think... I'm not sure. He got in the back, pushed the kid in first. I didn't see a driver."
"No, sorry," Anne shook her head, "I didn't even see the car, I was picking my luggage up."
"Thanks, we really appreciate it," Vivian nodded, following Samantha out of the room.
"Man, would you look at this traffic!" Danny complained, leaning on the horn, "Let's go, people!" He was attempting to hit the horn again when his wrist was snagged.
"You push that again and I'll break it."
"You're a lousy patient," he tossed back, eyeing the 'slightly green' agent in the passenger seat. "That coke staying down?" The set jaw and pained expression told gave him his reply. "Where's your..."
"If you mention that damn puke bag again, you'll be wearing one," Martin shot back.
He eased his aching head back onto the seat and tried to push the loud sounds of the busy city away. All he wanted was to crash in bed. Whatever flu bug had invaded his system was a doozy. He hadn't told Danny about the passing out in the nun's room. He also didn't mention the severe cramping that was coming in waves. But he couldn't hide the rest, his sweat soaked face and ghastly pallor were a dead giveaway.
"You better call Jack, our exit it coming."
"...about time..."
Danny started to reply, but bit it off. He knew Fitzgerald was suffering and the sooner they got to the office, the better. He looked like shit and probably felt worse. He'd offered to drop the ill man off at home, but was denied 'colorfully'.
"...could give a mule lessons in stubborn..." he murmured.
"You two get a meeting with Falcone?" Jack asked, peering over his spectacles at the two agents sitting at the long table. He'd had a long morning in court and the coffee he was guzzling was burning a hole in his gut.
"He was tied up. We're heading there this afternoon," the blond agent noted of the Atlantic City police captain who was heading up the investigation. "We'll canvas the scene and hit some of Hollis's hangouts." Sam scanned the notes on the corpse.
Before Jack could reply, the phone on the table rang. Samantha pushed the speaker button, but didn't speak. She smirked and watched Vivian roll her dark eyes. Jack sighed in exasperation, took a swallow of his coffee, and leaned closer, listening to the colorful exchange.
"...don't tell me to calm down!" Martin hollered, "You damn near missed the exit!"
"You wanna drive? I'll pull over!"
"I want you to keep your eyes on the road and not up some girl's ass!"
"You're lucky you're not in a cab. We would have been on time if I didn't have to pull over twice so you could puke."
"Yeah, you're right, Danny," Martin huffed, "I got sick just to piss you off."
"No, you should have kept the bag," Taylor huffed, "Mister Tough Guy couldn't carry..."
"Say one more word and I'll christen the front seat."
"Yours, Jack?" Dennis Mahoney, a DEA agent dropping files off for Malone, grinned, "Nice. They ought to take that bit on the road."
"You ladies finished?" Jack inquired, not appreciating the humorous expressions on the two female agents or on the others who'd overheard, smirking in the background. He peered impatiently at the squawk box, now silent.
"Anybody still alive?" Vivian asked dryly, "Did you two kill each other?"
"Where's the phone?" Danny shouted, flipping his turn signal on and watching Martin's eyes darting around the seat, "You better be looking for the phone and not a place to puke."
"Shut up, Danny!" Martin hissed, "Dammit..."
"How could you lose the phone?"
"Oh, I don't know!" Fitzgerald growled, "Could be my life flashing before my eyes made me a bit jumpy."
"I was in control!"
"You had your eyes up her thighs and thanks to divine intervention, we didn't land under that tractor trailer," Martin sent back through clenched teeth.
"Enough!" Jack roared, "Somebody pick up the Goddamn phone!"
"It's under your seat..." Martin started to move and a hand hit his chest.
"No way, Jose!" Danny denied. "That's all I need is Ponch and Jon to ride by and see your head in my lap," he noted of the motorcycle officers that patrolled the area.
"That's not funny!" Jack reprimanded his two giggling agents, "and very unprofessional."
"You're laughing," Samantha challenged.
"It was a twitch," he defended.
"That's weak, Jack," Vivian shook her head.
Meanwhile, Danny pulled over at the corner, fished out the phone and winced, preparing for the blast.
"Hey boss!" he exuded cheerfully.
"So where are you and Costello?" Jack inquired, referencing half of the famous comedy team.
"Just pulled onto FDR, be there in a flash," Danny updated, then turned to see what little color remained on his partner's face drain away and the eyes start to roll. "Martin? Don't you pass out on me. I draw the CPR line at pukebreath."
"Danny, what's going on?" Jack's tone was annoyed as he peered at the speakerphone.
"We're cool!" Taylor shot back while Martin righted himself, leaning closer to the window and sucking in air, "See you in five."
Danny parked the car in the underground lot, then moved to the passenger side, wincing at the horrid pallor of the slumped figure. He opened the door and waited, remaining close by just in case.
"Here," he offered his hand and saw painfully contrite blue eyes look up, "Partners?"
"Seems you're pullin' more than half... not a good split," Martin decided, taking the hand up and steadying himself, "I'm sorry, man... I feel like shit. I didn't mean to bite your head off."
"Yeah you did!" Danny teased, "You lose that vinegar and I'd worry!" He paused at the elevator, eyeing the other man who was truly struggling. "You call a doctor? I think this superbug you got is a beyond over the counter shit."
"Yeah... left a message," Fitzgerald replied, easing his aching body into the elevator. He thought on the cause of the argument on the highway. He glanced sideways at his partner and managed a weak grin. "She did have a nice little ass, though." Martin found a smile as Danny's laughter filled the elevator, seeping out just as the doors closed.
While his teammates were down the hall, going over the notes on both cases, Martin Fitzgerald was hugging the porcelain throne. There wasn't anything left to eject and that made it worse. Dry heaves were painful and he was worn out. He pulled himself together and stood up, taking his shaky legs to the sink.
"You could haunt a house," he muttered, thinking on his partner's assessment. As he ran cold water and splashed his face, he wondered again how he'd gotten so sick, so fast. He sighed and dried his face, realizing nothing would help, and then limped slowly to the door. The new skin forming over the raw scrapes from the night before was throbbing too.
"...would he risk coming back?" Danny tossed to Samantha of the mysterious man with Abby Harrison.
The others looked over as Martin limped towards them. His usually pristine appearance was severely flawed. The designer suit was wrinkled, the tie missing, the collar unbuttoned and the hair at six different angles. His skin was an unattractive greenish-gray and his eyes were clouded.
"Poor baby," Vivian sympathized.
Martin made it to the end chair and sat down hard, resting his head on his folded arms. It was just too hard to keep it upright.
"You eat bad Mexican or something?" Jack frowned, as a muffled voice floated up.
"..or something..."
"My man Harvard's got slam-dunked by the Shaquille O'Neal of the germ world," Danny teased, "Sort of like when Superman got dusted."
"Kryptonite," Martin corrected without looking up.
"I knew that, it was a test," Danny tossed back, rising and moving closer, "You alive in there?"
"My hair hurts..." the miserable agent confessed and heard a soft laugh.
"Give Danny your notes and get the hell out of here," Jack ordered, "Get your ass to a doctor and get some good shit. Get cured, Junior, I need you on this one."
"I'm touched," Martin snapped, shoving his notebook over. He saw Danny take out white plastic gloves from his pocket before picking it up. "Go to Hell!" he rasped, shuffling past the laughter to his desk.
"When we're done, I'll take him home. I want to follow up with the library in town. See if anybody remembers Sister Michael meeting anybody," Danny updated, taking his seat.
"Okay," Jack agreed, "Morgues? Hospitals?"
"Nope," Danny shook his head, "NYPD call? They were checking airports and terminals."
"Check your voicemail!" Jack barked, "and call Hank Davis at the State Department. Maybe he can put a push on getting information from Costa Rica."
Martin rested his throbbing head in his hand and punched out his voicemails. The doctor's office could 'squeeze him in' at noon tomorrow.
"Great..." he grumbled, copying down the other messages. His throat was dry and he eyed the cooler of spring water across the room. It was only about thirty feet, but it looked like thirty miles. He took a deep breath and stood, slowly making his way over the broad expanse of the room.
Unbeknownst to the busy team, they were being observed. A figure shuffled behind a janitor's cart, casting wary eyes at the four agents behind the walls of the conference room. Once the cart moved out of their range, the eyes went to the long figure near the water cooler. A smile played on the lips, as the obviously ailing man sank heavily into a chair, pressing his head to a table. Flicking a gaze around the deserted room, the cart was forgotten.
The target was at hand, Fitzgerald's desk. The hands moved swiftly, taking a small picture from the crowded shelf. After it was dropped into the baggy uniform pocket, the hand snaked downwards into his gym bag, latching onto the navy F.B.I. jacket. Shoving his booty into the bottom of the cart, the figure stole out of the room.
Safely on the other side of the glass doors, the body paused and scanned the room again, as the twisted mind traveled back in time. It was a crisp, cool morning in late September. A day that changed everything. As the anger rose inside, like a river of lava, the sands of time shifted....
Jack Malone paused in the doorway of the large office. It was just past six a.m. and the last person he had expected to see at his desk was Martin Fitzgerald. The team's newest addition had blundered badly during his first case. The rookie had made a grave error in judgment by not phoning in his location and requesting backup while pursuing a missing woman, Maggie Cartwright. Instead, he pursued the suspect, her coworker, himself, in an effort to prove his worth.
'Hot Dog,' Jack thought crossly, shaking his dark head.
Fitzgerald had been criticized for being a 'lightweight,' having no prior experience on a team or on the street. Also, being Victor Fitzgerald's son was not without its scars. But, when the vacancy had opened up, it had been Fitzgerald who stood out among the applicants. His outstanding achievements and profile at Quantico notwithstanding, he'd aced the interview. Outspoken on the border of cocky, the bold young man oozed self-confidence. But, most of all, during the interview, Jack got that feeling in his gut. He'd learned long ago to trust his instincts and they told him this kid was the final piece he needed.
Sighing, he hoped his instincts weren't off track. Although his savvy and smarts had yielded important clues, the hot dog in him had nearly got him killed. Moreover, it placed the hostage's life in peril. He'd ended up with a concussion after the suspect had used his head for a baseball.
Jack sighed and moved inside the doorway. He'd gotten an update from Danny, around midnight. It was a minor concussion, but the doctor felt that the injured agent shouldn't be left alone for twenty-four hours. Danny was going to stay with him, waking him every two hours to check on his mental state. Eyeing Taylor's empty desk, he wondered just how Martin had managed to escape the street-smart agent.
He moved closer and noticed the pinched features, not missing the pain in the dulled blue eyes. His own veteran's eyes knew that the pain was more than physical. But he wouldn't tread lightly. Martin Fitzgerald had promise. He was smart, very smart, and his record at Quantico was outstanding. He could multitask with ease and didn't crack under pressure. What he didn't have was the benefit of teamwork, of sharing and learning to trust someone to watch your back. That was something he intended to 'impress' the young man with at this meeting. Even if it took kicking his ass all over the office to accomplish that. He wouldn't tolerate a screwup like the one the night before again. The victim could have been killed. It had been a reckless act and a selfish one.
"My office, hotshot, now!" he barked, skirting past the injured man and not looking back.
While the two men hashed over the events of the night before, neither noticed the shell-shocked visitor in the corner. They didn't see the haunted eyes that raked over Martin's form and then his desk. They didn't see the agony on the features as they hovered over the desk. They didn't see a hand snatch out and grab a mug. They missed the shell-shocked body stumbling from the room, clutching that mug, which bore the pretender's name and class at the academy. The numb figure was already on the street when the rookie returned, angry and red-faced after being chastised up one side and down the other. The visitor missed the irate blue eyes skirting the desk, looking for that mug.
It was the first ripple in the Tidal wave that would follow, several months later. A maelstrom that would suck every member of Jack Malone's team into its deadly vortex. The jagged teeth of the beast wouldn't leave any of them untouched.
At the heart of the destructive storm's path was one man, who needed to pay with his life for what had been done.
Prelude | Page 1 | Page 2 | Page 3 | Page 4 | Page 5 | Page 6 | Page 7 | Page 8 | Page 9 | Page 10 | Page 11 | Page 12 | Page 13 | Page 14 | Page 15 | Page 16 | Page 17 | Page 18 | Page 19 | Page 20 | Page 21 | Page 22 | Page 23 | Page 24 | Page 25 | Page 26 | Page 27 | Page 28 | Page 29 | Page 30 | Page 31
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