Nebraska
DISCLAIMER: Yeah, own nothing except the ideas in the sandbox of my mind. Carry on.
"As it says in the brochure, the house was built in 1916 and has been meticulously renovated throughout. Everything's been done with sensitivity to the period, without being slavish." The woman's bright voice trailed behind her as her heels clicked down the wide plank reclaimed wood floors. A feature she'd made a point of mentioning. More than once.
"The kitchen, for example, showcases this balance between vintage charm and modern convenience with its top-of-the line gourmet appliances seamlessly blending with the antique-washed beadboard cabinetry and brushed nickel fixtures."
She turned to face them, one perfectly manicured hand drifting along the mellow gray-green counter surface. "Soapstone," she mentioned in an offhand manner that really wasn't. "With an enameled iron apron-front sink. All new yet completely in keeping with the overall feel of the house." The other hand gestured in a casual-that-really-wasn't manner at the massive slab of wood sitting atop washed blue cabinets that comprised the center island. "Solid rock maple from a nineteenth century butcher shop that's been lovingly refinished by a local woodworker. Oh, and let me show you the mudroom. The sellers put benches and locker-style cabinets that are absolutely invaluable during our winters and muddy springs."
The woman's voice faded into a wasp-like drone as Liz dutifully fell into step behind Tom. She nodded and smiled at Tom's excited exclamations over the granite flagstone floor—it would be so easy to clean up, wouldn't it?—and the solid wood door with its etched glass insert that led out into the well-groomed back yard.
"From here there's access to a charming brick patio, the yard's got enough room for a playset and the side yard gets wonderful sun in case you're interested in planting a garden. Our grandparents and their parents gardened because they had to—now all you young folks garden to get back to nature and control what you're putting in your bodies. Me—you couldn't pay me enough to dig in the dirt and I've been eating the vegetables from Baker's my whole life with no ill-effects."
Her bright trill of laughter shattered the bubble with which Liz had surrounded herself. Feeling a near-forgotten combination of warmth and chill against her skin, she glanced up to see the sun had emerged and was bathing the brick patio in mellow light—a harbinger of the spring that wasn't too far away. Looking around the yard she could see other signs—buds dotting the trees that in the summer would throw welcome shade across the deep yard, faint green shoots poking through the earth, the angle of the sun signaling the lengthening of the days. The longer she stood there there face turned up to the sun, the more she imagined she could hear children's laughter, smell the greenness of fresh-cut grass blending with the charred scent of hamburgers and hot dogs as they sizzled on a grill, while around her conversation swirled about soccer games and car pools and swim meets and babysitters.
It was all so very Nebraska.
So very… normal.
"So, Mr. Keen, I remember you telling me you're a teacher and Mrs. Keen, I understand you work for the… F.B.I.?"
Liz shot Tom a look that he returned with a guilelessness that once upon a time she might have found charming. "I do," she said evenly and without elaboration.
"Administrative jobs can be so tedious. It's why I'm in real estate myself—no sitting behind a desk all day for me, no ma'am, although I imagine working for the F.B.I., even here in Omaha is a little more exciting than say, filing papers for a banker or a lawyer."
So Tom hadn't completely spilled the beans. Thank God for small favors. Although, come to think of it, he'd probably prefer it if all she did was sit behind a desk all day. Safe. Predictable. Boring.
Ms. Real Estate would probably blanch to the roots of her out-of-a-box auburn red hair if she had any inkling what Liz had seen and done in the last six months. She could just imagine it—
"Why yes, I climbed through an elevator shaft barefoot, shot several terrorists dead, disabled a sophisticated signal dampening system with help from a former NSA analyst, and watched my partner, near-death from a gaping shotgun blast in his thigh, give up the code to a secure facility and allow the man who's currently number two on the Bureau's Most Wanted List to essentially escape in order to save me from having my head blown off. And how was your day?"
"And the neighborhood as a whole, of course, is absolutely charming."
Liz snapped from her reverie to find they'd made their way around the side of the house to the front where they were just in time to see a school bus disgorging a number of kids. Some ran off down the sidewalks in twos and threes while the younger ones were met by their mothers, wrapped in their North Face and Sorels, identical smiles wreathing their placid, well-cared-for faces as they relieved their offspring of backpacks adorned with Hello Kitty and The Avengers. Liz watched as they dispersed with calls to get together for playdates and coffees before disappearing into homes much like the one before which she stood. Four squares and brick Georgians and solid Midwest clapboards, some even with white picket fences surrounding the neatly divided parcels.
So very, very Nebraska.
So very stultifyingly normal.
"Happy Hollow really is incredibly desirable—dubbed 'Omaha's first suburb' by many. To own a house here is truly to own a piece of the American Dream."
Ms. Real Estate paused and leveled a faintly disapproving glance at Liz, as if finding fault with her marked lack of visible enthusiasm.
A heavy weight settled across her shoulders.
"It's exactly what Liz and I have been dreaming of—isn't it, honey?"
Liz stared up into Tom's gaze, seeing the naked hope and further down, the subtle insistence that yes, this was what they had wanted for so long and she wasn't allowed to go changing the rules on them now. The longer she studied him, however, the more opaque his eyes appeared to grow, the blue and green swirling into a morass that rendered them murky and mysterious, but not in any way she found romantic or wished to explore. Rather, she saw all the secrets and half-truths and the warnings and accusations.
She saw how moving to Nebraska would isolate her from the life she'd been building in D.C. and even the life she'd built in New York.
And for just the merest hint of a split-second she couldn't help but wonder who the target was this time and how long it would take for the body to show up and for them to put the pieces together.
Not as long as last time. Of that she was certain.
Still, though, she smiled and nodded and murmured some inanity that judging by the smiles she received in return, was the right thing to say before turning away to take one final look down the nice, normal, Nebraska street.
Liz stared up at the dark expanse of her bedroom ceiling, shivering as the chilly night air bathed her skin and dried the sweat. It had all been so damned vivid. The house and the yard. The smell of the grass and the heat of the sun and the laughter of the kids as they went on about their solid midwestern lives. She knew damned well no place was perfect; that every place, no matter how idyllic had its dark underbelly. However, she also knew damned well whatever dark underbelly lived in Nebraska, it couldn't even begin to compete with what she'd seen. What she was expected to leave behind.
She turned her head to study the curved line of Tom's back. He'd returned from Nebraska armed with listing brochures and the information that the interview had gone extremely well, they wanted him back for round two, and by the way, he'd made an appointment with a real estate agent.
Left unsaid was the expectation that she'd be accompanying him on his return trip. An expectation she'd yet to find it in her to refute. At some point, she would have to quit giving him false hope. Right now, however, the emotional coward in her was just fervently praying a case would crop up. One that would justifiably prevent her from accompanying him, even though it would further fuel his animosity toward her job.
God knows, if it was up to Tom, they'd go to Nebraska and simply stay. Have their things packed up and shipped. And she'd never set foot in the Post Office again.
She could see his point—honestly, she could. Once upon a time she'd wanted that normal. That piece of the American Dream she'd never had growing up. Maybe one day, she'd want it again. But her life now? Danger and all? She couldn't give it up. There were too many mysteries to solve, too many questions left unanswered, not the least of which involved the man currently sleeping beside her.
She sighed and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. No way was she getting back to sleep—not now. Best to go for a run to clear her head before getting a head start on the rest of her day.
"You're in early."
She glanced up from her computer to find Ressler hovering in the doorway to her office. Of course he'd be in here almost as early as her. The man was clearly part robot as evidenced by his far quicker than normal recovery from a life-threatening wound. He still limped, but the cane had long since gone by the wayside. In all likelihood, not with medical approval—not that he cared.
"Yeah, well… seems like the more depraved the criminal, the more paperwork they generate."
One brow rose slightly. "Bastards."
She smiled slightly at the typically terse retort, underscored with a dry humor she'd come to appreciate. "Tell me about it."
"Well then, I'll let you get back to it."
Attention already back on her screen, she made an unintelligible noise as she rapidly typed. She worked steadily, unconscious of the passage of time other than through a vague awareness of the Post Office coming to life around her. She'd have to wrap this up soon but there was just one more thing she wanted to check—
"Nebraska?"
Startled, she glanced up to find Ressler, standing just behind her and holding two mugs. "Why the hell are you searching homicide files in Nebraska? Has a case come in?" His eyes narrowed. "Or has Reddington made contact again?"
Liz stared up into his suspicious gaze her stomach clenching for a long painful moment before she came to a decision.
"Not exactly." She took the mug he held in his left hand, knowing it would be the one fixed to her preferences, and waved him to the chair beside her desk.
It took less than the time required to settle himself for him to get it. The revealing wince as his muscles tensed, the line bisecting his brows—Liz could easily read all the signs of her partner making the connections and not being especially pleased with what was revealed.
"Your husband was just in Nebraska, wasn't he?"
Hands clutched around the heavy ceramic mug, as if around a lifeline, she nodded.
"You're suspicious."
This time, she lifted a shoulder.
"Have you found anything?"
As she shook her head, he nodded slowly.
"If—" He stressed the word. "If he did anything this trip, given that he knows all that we're aware of, then he's an idiot."
It had occurred to her as well. "Which is why it makes it an even more perfect opportunity, don't you think? Thinking we'd imagine him too smart to do it again in the same manner, so we don't even bother looking?"
Ressler's frown deepend. "We've had surveillance on him—on everyone on the team and their families," he clarified, "since the Garrick raid."
"We had surveillance on Red, too."
"Touché." He grimaced and lifted his mug in toast before setting it on her desk with a decisive thump. "Keen… if you go down this rabbit hole, you may not like what you find."
She sighed and shoved a hand through her hair. "I already feel as if I've drunk and eaten all the things—my life's been upended and made both larger and smaller than I ever imagined it could be." She studied him over the rim of her mug. "At this point, I'm not sure anything could surprise me."
His expression shifted rapidly, a wealth of emotion revealed before his usual impassive mask fell into place. Turning her laptop so he could better read, he muttered, "Famous last words, Keen. Famous last words."