Ruby, Don't Bring Your Guns to Town
by ChannelD
(apologies to Mel Tillis for the title)
rated: K+
written for the NFA "Bubba Shot the Jukebox" Challenge, of which the specifications are:
Bubba Shot The Jukebox Challenge
Let's go visit Ruby again!!! Because we know how much fun the gang has in the boondocks!!!
Your challenge is to take the immortal words to the song "Bubba Shot The Jukebox" and convert into an NCIS tale.
Specifics:
Due: August 30, 2007 September 30, 2007
Length: At least 1500 words min to whatever your little fingers care to type max
Character requirements: Ruby must appear in a meaningful way, not just a mention.
Ships: Ducky/OFC – find him someone nice, sane, and NOT a criminal
Rating: doesn't matter as long as story is annotated
Slash: doesn't matter as long as story is annotated
Other requirements: Plot must include the scene from the song somehow, either as part of the main case or as a scene witnessed by the NCIS gang.
LYRICS TO BUBBA SHOT THE JUKEBOX
We were all down at Marge's bar tellin' stories if we had one
Someone fired the old jukebox up - the song, it sure was a sad one
A teardrop rolled down Bubba's nose from the pain the song was inflicting
All at once he jumped to his feet just like somebody kicked him
Bubba shot the jukebox last night
He said it played a sad song, made him cry
Went to his truck and got a .45
He shot the jukebox
Dropped it with one shot
Bubba shot the jukebox last night
Now Bubba ain't ever been accused of being mentally stable
So we did not draw an easy breath 'til he laid that Colt on the table
he hung his head 'til the cops showed up - he dragged him right out of Marge's
They told him, "Don't play dumb with us son, you now damn well what the charge is"
Bubba shot the jukebox last night
He said it played a sad song, made him cry
Went to his truck and got a .45
He shot the jukebox
Dropped it with one shot
Bubba shot the jukebox last night
When the sheriff arrived with his bathrobe on the confrontation was a tense one
He shook his head and said, "Bubba boy, you always was a dense one"
Now reckless discharge of a gun - that's what the officers are claimin'
Bubba hollered out, "reckless, hell! I hit just where I was aimin'"
Bubba shot the jukebox last night
He said it played a sad song, made him cry
Went to his truck and got a .45
He shot the jukebox
Dropped it with one shot
Bubba shot the jukebox last night
Well he could not tell right from wrong through the teardrops in his eyes
Beyond a shadow of a doubt it was a justifiable homicide
- - - - -
Disclaimer: I own nothing of NCIS.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - -
"So, here we are...again," Tony remarked as the team pulled up and stopped where a dirt lane lead off from the center of Edenvale. It wasn't a happy remark. It wasn't an unhappy remark. It was a the-things-this-job-foists-on-us remark.
His teammates understood this well. In their previous encounter with the inhabitants of this small Appalachian town, Gibbs' team had come away with several new truths:
1) Beware of any place that doesn't have 'standard' coffee for sale. It doesn't have to be Starbucks, but the coffee better come from coffee beans.
2) Beware of know-it-all sheriff's deputies: they're probably guilty of something.
3) Don't discount geeky police lab technicians just because they work in a small town.
4) Don't discount small town people, period. They're as smart as anyone else, and you just might make them angry.
"All right, get on it, people," Gibbs ordered, gazing up the lane where the district's two police cars were parked on the weedy shoulder, and onlookers raised eyebrows in unison and clucked over the calamity. "Our dead chief warrant officer is said to be up that lane, in the yard at his aunt's house. DiNozzo, Ziva—on that. Ducky, Palmer—do your thing. McGee—find your police lab tech friend, and—"
"No need, boss," Tim smiled, looking past him, "Ruby's already here."
- - - - -
On the edge of the house's lawn, Ruby Laing stepped out of her much-loved medium gold 1998 Ford Mustang convertible, giving the strong black hood stripe a pat for luck. Everyone knew it was her car; there wasn't another like it around. There was no expectation of rain, so she left the top down. No one would steal anything from her car: not her cassette tapes (dying creatures, though they were), her usual small stash of romance novels (kept tucked under the seat, where people couldn't see 'em and josh her about 'em), nor the other things she kept in the trunk and told no one about. These were her secrets.
Everyone had secrets, right?
Even those high-falutin' NCIS folks back in Washington. They probably had their secrets stamped classified seven ways to Sunday, just so no one would ever get a chance to know 'em. Not that that nice McGee fella probably had secrets; he was so transparent that Ruby thought she could read his mind through a lead-glass window. And there he was, now, with his people.
Having another murder come to this town wasn't altogether a bad thing.
- - - - -
Ducky examined the body with Palmer's help under the chestnut tree, while Gibbs looked on. In death, the late chief warrant officer was a trough of destruction, practically from neck to knee. "Three gunshot wounds, I make it," he said. "Rather close range, too. Nasty business. Look at the size of these cavitations, Jethro. My guess would be a high-velocity weapon, like an AK-47. Time of death, since you're going to ask that next, appears to be 10 to 12 hours ago."
"So around midnight to 2 a.m.," Gibbs mused. "Wonder what he was doing outside then?"
"I wonder what the killer was doing outside then? Hunting similarly-armed forest animals?"
- - - - -
"Hi, McGee!"
"Oh, hi, Ruby! Nice to see you again." Tim smiled as the 20-something, freckle-faced lab tech smiled back prettily. Ruby was no Abby, not in his heart, at least; but she was nice, sweet, and not given enough credit for the work she did. Too bad she was emotionally tethered to this small town; she could make something of herself in a larger city. But in a way, Ruby was defined by Edenvale: straight-forward, living simply, not missing the urban rush and ruin.
"You're here about poor Goose Foot."
"About who?"
"Goo—I mean, Billy Fullarton. Chief Warrant Officer Fullarton. He grew up here, you know. We've always called him Goose Foot because, well, his feet looked like goose feet. Want to see? I can get his shoes off; I'm sure your Doctor Mallard won't mind."
"Uh, that's okay. Really." If there were webbed feet on the dead man, Tim really didn't want to see them. "Have you done any tests around here, yet?"
"Nope. I just took some pictures, that's all. We didn't want to disturb the scene for you all, like we did last time. I'm still awful sorry about that, McGee."
"Forget it. It turned out okay. Can I see the pictures?"
"Sure. The camera's inside Rosa's house—Rosa's his aunt. He came down to visit her two days ago. She's his closest kin. She's in a terrible state, right now. We can go in the back way and not disturb her."
- - - - -
Neighbors, caring or at least socially pretending so, descended on Rosa's house in singletons and pairs, bearing food: the comfort of life, the sustaining power, the extension of their hearts. There would be time later to pay respects; now was the point of drop-off of dishes easily reheated or best served cold. The community pulled a circle around their grieving member, and even if Rosa didn't see them (a friend received the offerings at the door, letting in only those really close to Rosa), she could feel their love.
Seeing all the food in procession made the young Palmer noticeably hungry, and after the third stomach thundering, Ducky sent him off to feed himself. Ducky hummed while he worked alone, not even aware that he was doing so. Preparing a body for transport required some concentration, though not so much that he couldn't let his mind drift a little.
"Barbry Allen."
The woman's voice startled Ducky, and he stopped. "I beg your pardon?" He was certainly happy to do so; the lady was a vision.
"No, I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to interrupt you. I heard you humming Barbry Allen and I had to stop and listen. It's one of those lovely old ballads that one seldom hears now."
She smiled pleasantly, and Ducky found himself smiling back, liking what he saw. She was around 60 and what his mother would have called comely. Tall, with long blonde frosted hair pinned back by a clasp, wearing jeans and a hand-knit sweater, she was mountain sophistication. She carried a covered casserole dish.
"No, quite all right, Ms…?"
"Macdonald. Peggy Macdonald."
"And I'm Donald Mallard, called…" he always was a little rueful in admitting this to someone he wanted to impress… " 'Ducky'."
A smile that could melt a stone. "I admire people who could stick to a nickname. I was never given one, and I've always regretted that."
"Yes, it is nice having one, in a way," he found himself saying. "Not everyone is kind with it, but most are, and it does make one stand out among all the other Donalds and Janets."
"I hope no one's ever called you 'Janet!' " Peggy laughed. "Oh, it's nice to meet a Scot up here. You're like a breath of spring air, and hearing you humming the old song…"
"I wasn't even aware I was doing it. It's one I learned at my mother's knee, I assume."
Peggy hummed, and then began singing:
"In yonders town, where I was born
There lived three fair maids dwelling
I sent for the only one I loved
Her name was Barbry Allen…"
"...Oh, I exaggerate when I say these songs are seldom heard. You can go down a hollow, or out along a pass, and you'll still sometimes hear them; sung while rocking babies or milking cows, or in the fading light when the sun lowers behind the mountains and the work day is done. The songs are handed down from parent or grandparent to child, and generations on, just as they've done here for hundreds of years, since the English and the Scots, principally the Scots, settled in these mountains."
"You sound like you have a wealth of knowledge about the songs, not just a passion."
"You might say that," she said, sitting down on the grass, and smiling when he joined her. "I've loved the old songs, ever since I was two or three and started dancing to them at fiddlers' dance parties. I collected and studied certain types of old ballads for my doctorate, and have continued to do so...amid frenzied stretches of teaching, to put food on my table," she laughed. "I was my own Sir Francis Child, collecting ballads in my little corner of the mountains. What amazes me is how little changed many of the songs are: the songs sung today are fairly mirrors of the ones sung in Scotland three hundred years ago."
"I hadn't known that," he said. "So there really are a lot of Scots in these hills?"
"They came in numbers, and they stayed and stayed. Young people, of course, are now trickling out in search of jobs and wifi connections not available here, but the modern world is seeping in, and I think more people will stay. I got an education and I came back." She pulled a four-leaf clover from the lawn, and offered it to him; he put it in his buttonhole with a flourish. "I love these mountains. I couldn't live anywhere else. They've made me what I am, and I hope I've given something back."
"Do they sing this one here?" he asked, and sang:
"A hungry fox jumped up in a fright
And begged for the moon to give him light
For he had many miles to trot that night—
She joined in.
"—Before he reached his den-o, den-o, den-o
For he had many miles to trot that night
Before he reached his den-o..."
"You're with that Navy investigating team? NCIS, your hat says?"
Back to earth, alas. "Yes, I'm the Chief Medical Examiner. I and my assistant will be tending to the unfortunate Chief Warrant Officer Fullarton...I suppose we'd better get started back to Washington; the drive is not short." A fleet of clouds was sailing in, and the peeking sun drooped onto the mountains, at only 4 o'clock.
"Oh, that's not a good idea. It's going to storm quite soon, and the rains will be ferocious. You don't want to be caught driving in the mountains in these rains. You'd best plan on staying overnight at the motel."
"Hmm. I'd better call our team leader, and see what he says."
- - - - -
"Good point, Duck," said Gibbs, who'd gone down to the police station with Tony and Ziva. "Sheriff Barrett was just saying the same thing. We'll make reservations, and let's plan on eating at Marge's Bar at 6. She does a mean burger, and pork chops, too, I'm told."
He switched off the phone and said to Ziva, "Make us reservations at the hotel for the night."
"Why me?" she grumped. "Is it because it's the woman's lot here to do such things?—Tony, you make the reservations."
"Me?! That's what we have a junior agent for: to be the delegatee. McGee! Front and center!" He mimed dinging a desktop bell.
Ziva snickered. "He's still at Rosa's house, uh, playing lab tech with Ruby. remember?"
"Oh, yeah...Ruby..."
"DiNozzo! Make those reservations, now! If the motel fills up, you'll be the one sleeping out in the rain!"
"Yeah, okay, on it, boss."
Gibbs turned back to the sheriff. "This may be a foolish question, but how many people in this town own guns?...And, from your look, you're probably going to say 'all of them'."
"Not true, Agent Gibbs." The l'-job-c'est-moi sheriff said. "I don't know of anyone under the age of seven who owns a gun. And the seven-to-ten-year-old set are into BB guns, like always. Of course, I'm joshing you. While many people own guns, many others don't, for one reason or another. And some of the ones who do might surprise you. You'll have better luck tracking a bear in a briar than finding this killer, that's for sure."
- - - - -
Peggy helped Ducky lift the gurney with Fullarton's body into the van. She was not spooked by death; like many non-city dwellers, she was more in tune with the natural cycles of life. Then she went to Rosa's front door, he at her side, and handed over her casserole with quiet words of sympathy.
"Would you like to join us for dinner at, er, Marge's?" he asked her as they turned from the door. "I'd enjoy continuing our conversation, and hearing more about the ballads."
"I'd like that, Ducky," There was that smile again. "Marge will have Happy Hour going around the time we'd reach there, if you want to go down now."
"It would be my pleasure."
It started to sprinkle as they walked, singing:
"Jack went a sailing
With trouble on his mind,
To leave his native country
And his darling dear behind
Sing ree and sing low, so fare ye well, my dear.
"She dressed herself in men's array
And apparel she put on
Unto the field of battle
She marched her men along
Sing ree and sing low, so fare ye well, my dear..."
- - - - -
Ruby tore out of Rosa's house like it was on fire. "Oh, my goodness! Oh, my goodness! I didn't really expect it to rain!!!"
Tim was a more than a few steps behind her, wondering if she had been in Olympics track competition and not told him. "Ruby, it's okay! The rain's just started, and you can have your car's top up in minutes..."
Her work had already started. "You don't understand, McGee. My car is an extension of myself. It's part of who I am."
As if I haven't heard that a hundred times. She's hiding something; probably very personal and insufferably cute. He hid his smile. "See? The top's up, everything's fine."
"No, it's not, McGee. There's trouble coming..."
His phone rang. "Yeah, boss. Marge's Bar for dinner? Okay, I'll see you there in a bit." Putting the phone back, he smiled at her. "Will you join us for dinner? We're meeting at Marge's, in case you didn't get that."
"It is about the only place around where you can get a dinner. I recommend the French dip; it's delish!"
"So, come on, then. What's holding you back?"
"There's trouble coming, I tell you...but I'm prepared..."
- - - - -
At six, Marge's was jumping. Nearly all of the formica-topped tables and booths were full. Two tables had been pushed together to accommodate the six NCISers, Peggy and Ruby. The food was tasty, the beer flowed like a spring creek, and the crowd was cheerful and moderately loud, even over the booming thunder outside.
Gibbs went over to the jukebox, studied the selections, and put a quarter in. Quickly a gentle song filled the air:
"I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom for me and you
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world..."
"People are still making beautiful songs," Peggy said to Ducky, seated next to her. "I can appreciate the new, with the old."
"Not so new! If you add Timothy's age and Ruby's age, that would be about the age of that song."
"Oh, you're too silly, Doctor Mallard," said Ruby. "That song is from 1967. It's about Tony's age."
"Hey!" Tony said, his accusing eyes on Tim, while Ziva guffawed.
Other bar customers chose songs on the eclectic jukebox: rock, swing, western and plenty of bluegrass and country. Even Tony picked a song, "A time-tested classic," he said, grinning.
"I don't understand," Ziva said when his choice played. "Why are earth girls easier? As compared to whom? Venusians? Who does these studies, anyway? And why aren't their papers published in earth journals for comment? Their scientific method leaves a lot to be desired, I think."
While the others howled, Tony kept his cool somehow, and with a pained smile handed her a quarter. "Here. Go find a song you like."
So she did, and surprised them by selecting an off-the-beaten-track sentimental old country ballad; sad enough to make almost anyone who'd had a couple of beers cry buckets; even solid-faced men who you'd think didn't have a drop of water in them.
Gibbs had his eye on a man who sat in the corner of the bar: Bubba MacBain. The sheriff had told Gibbs that, if you asked the townsfolk, Bubba was considered to be only dancing along the edge of Normalcy most of his life. That is, if you had to ask. Most people meeting him didn't have to. But he was said to be a fairly nice fellow, for all of that. Get a little drink in him and he was unpredictable. And tonight he had no handlers.
Tim said something to him, and Gibbs turned his attention back to their table. When he glanced back Bubba's way, the seat was vacant.
The bar's door banged open, whether by wind or by human emotion. There Bubba stood, or swayed, his Colt .45 in a steel grip; hands perfectly in the old classic Weaver position. People screamed and pelted for cover. "45, meet .45!" he yelled. The unarmed jukebox never had a chance.
When the shots hit it, it lit up as never before in a collision of moving inner parts and projectile; screeching, shattering, singing its last, sad song before it went dark. It would not sing again.
In the confusion, Ruby had slipped out. Now she was back, towing the barrel of...something. She stood in the doorway, and it was hard to see what was behind her in the dark. "BUBBA MACBAIN!" she bellowed. "You put that puny little .45 away. I got me a bigger 45!"
Tony then recognized the structure, and almost peed his pants. It was a 45 mm anti-tank gun, model 1942. It could take out the entire bar building, maybe with one blow, and do it while yawning. Maybe the sheriff better start questioning the under-seven set after all, if the adults were this kooky.
Ruby continued. "Now, I don't own the entire gun yet, I'm buying it piece by piece on eBay, but this is a taste of what it'll look like when it's complete! Want me to stuff a shell in it and lean it your way, Bubba?!"
"Uh, no, Ruby." He flinched, not able to tell just how much of the gun she had already.
"Good answer. Now give the nice NCIS people your gun."
"But I just had to shoot down that song. It made me so sad!"
"You're pathetic," said Tony.
The NCISers collared Bubba of course, and cuffed him. Tony eyed Ruby and her gun barrel. "Talk about overkill," he whispered to Ziva. "Just a touch excessive."
"Well, now I know what to get you for your birthday," she answered.
Sheriff Barrett arrived soon in his bathrobe. "Bubba, Bubba. Now I've got to take you in on reckless discharge of a weapon. And the wife and I were hoping to get to bed early, for once. And you—" he pointed his finger at Ruby "—so this is what you've been carrying secretly in the trunk of your car! We've all been wondering. Did you stop to think, girl, that the completed anti-tank gun weighs over 1300 pounds?! You're not going to be carrying that around in your car trunk!"
"I'll think of something," she said, glaring eyes still on Bubba. "A trailer on a hitch, maybe."
She stared at his hunting vest pockets, and pointed. "Bubba, empty them."
Bubba swayed a little, and looked pleadingly at the sheriff. "Do I gotta? She ain't your deputy."
"Do as she says. I trust her judgment." He then looked at her gun barrel again. "Usually."
Sighing, Bubba reached in and handed the sheriff a fistful of 7.62x39 mm cartridges. "The AK-47's under the seat in my truck, and yes, I killed Goose Foot. He had the nerve to come back and call me by a nickname I outgrew long ago."
Worse than 'Bubba'? Tim wondered.
"What was that, Bubba?" Barrett asked.
"Don't you remember? When I was a rookie deputy? From my early days on the force? You all called me 'Probie'."
"Oh, take him away," Ziva sighed.
- - - - -
Ducky and Peggy were inspecting the remains of the jukebox when Gibbs walked up to them. Peggy exclaimed over the safe recovery of a favorite old record, the Johnstons singing Ye Jacobites by Name. "Jethro," Ducky said in mild complaint, "I hope you're not going to ask me to determine a time of death for the jukebox. We were all witnesses!"
"But I was just going to give you a tool," Gibbs said, and handed over the damaged copy of Major B's The Liver Song.
- - - - -
The next morning, a delightful weather day on the other side of the thunderstorms, Peggy came to see the NCIS team off. Ducky privately hoped that she came to see one person off, in particular. In any event, they'd swapped contact information, and she said she hoped to visit Washington to do ballad research in the near future.
"Come on, Duck! Let's go!" Gibbs called.
"Take care, Ducky," Peggy said, and kissed him on the cheek. He, in turn, threw away caution and kissed her fully on the mouth, causing her eyes to pop, and then close, as she joined in. Then he trotted for the van. Time to go.
He waved to her, from the van, as she shrank in the distance. He kept the song that was ringing in his mind to himself; it would be too hard to explain it all to Palmer.
There once was a troop o' Irish dragoons
Cam marching doon through Fyvie-o
And the captains fall in love wi' a very bonnie lass
And her name it was cad pretty Peggy-o
O come doon the stairs, Pretty Peggy, my dear
Come doon the stairs, Pretty Peggy-o
Come doon the stairs, comb back your yellow hair
Bid a long farewell to your mammy-o...
Maybe there'd be another case that would bring them back to Edenvale. He could only hope.
- The End -