Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of NCIS or any of its characters.
CHAPTER ONE
Sarah McGee checked her duffle bag one last time. She had to admit, camping really wasn't her thing but she didn't want to tell Erik no. She definitely liked this guy…a lot…and if he wanted to go camping, then so be it! Besides, they'd be going with Sarah's best friend, Kylie and her boyfriend, Travis. Both Travis and Erik were naval petty officers and like Sarah and Kylie, best friends. Kylie had started dating Travis about a year ago then introduced Sarah to Erik a few months later and the rest, as they say, was history. Now the two couples often did things together and when Travis suggested they go camping, who was she to say no? With a sigh, she zipped up her duffle and straightened. What people do for love!
"Hey, Sarah, you ready?" Sarah turned to see Kylie standing in the doorway, dressed in jeans, sweater and hiking boots. She had no idea that Kylie even owned hiking boots! Normally, Kylie was all designer from head to toe. Even now, thought Sarah as she noted her friend's cute figure and mass of golden curls, Kylie could be modeling camping wear for the fashion conscious.
"Yeah, I'm ready," Sarah replied picking up her duffle and slinging it over her shoulder. "You sure the guys have everything?"
Kylie shrugged. "They claim they're the experts and that we should leave everything up to them. So I guess we'll find out. I just hope they don't expect us to clean fish or gut a deer!"
Sarah shuddered and laughed. "If they do, I'm heading to the closest Holiday Inn!" Laughing, both girls headed down the dormitory stairs to the parking lot where Travis and Erik waited beside Erik's Bronco. The back was jam-packed full of what appeared to be camping gear. Erik opened the back of the vehicle and shoved Sarah's duffle into the small space he'd allotted for her gear.
"Good thing you're a light packer," he grinned slamming the door shut.
"You sure you have everything?" asked Sarah eyeing the pile doubtfully. "I don't see the kitchen sink in there!"
"Ha!" snorted Travis opening the passenger side door. "You'll be thanking us when you don't have to sleep on the cold ground or eat grubs! We believe in camping comfortably!"
The girls exchanged glances then climbed into the back seat and the group was on its way looking forward to a fun, relaxing weekend in the woods.
David Grimes sat attentively in his seat listening to the doctor leading the group counseling session. To all outward appearances, Dave was a model patient, working hard at overcoming his problems. To many of the staff members at the Blue Ridge Mental Health Care facility, he seemed saner than most people in the outside world. He worked hard at being helpful, followed the doctors' instructions, he cooperated willingly in therapy sessions and many felt that after four years of institutional life, Grimes was ready to be released. They could not have been more wrong.
Grimes had been committed to Blue Ridge by the court after assaulting another man with a tire iron during a traffic altercation. Grimes admitted he'd been drinking after a day of financial and emotional setbacks and claimed he just snapped when the other guy's car cut him off. He'd chased the guy down, pulled him out of his car at the next stoplight and hit him with the tire iron. Fortunately, the victim's friends pulled Grimes off the guy before serious damage was done. Later, court appointed doctors had examined Grimes and diagnosed him as a mild paranoid schizophrenic. They recommended he be committed to a psychiatric hospital for treatment.
This, however, was not the first time Grimes had been committed. David Grimes was the son of an Alaskan fisherman and a schizophrenic mother who spent most of her adult life in an institution. As a young man, Grimes began to regularly get into trouble; stealing cars, burglary, minor drug dealing, and so his father, fearing his son was heading down the same road as his mother, committed the teen to institution for a couple of weeks hoping to scare him straight. Grimes was scared. As a teenager, he found the experience confusing and it angered him. But, Grimes was intelligent and observant. He watched what went on between patients and the doctors, noting what behaviors doctors found positive and negative. He stored this away for future reference if needed.
A few years later, Grimes found himself wandering through the dark winter streets of Anchorage, Alaska. He'd been attending school learning computer programming, something he had a talent for but the fall semester had just ended and he was at a loss as to what to do with himself now that finals were over. When a friend called and wanted to know if Grimes wanted to join him and a few old buddies for a night of drinking, Grimes readily agreed. Grimes knew that for him, drinking often led to trouble but he didn't care. School was over and he was ready to celebrate. So, the young men hit one bar after another along 4th Avenue getting more and more drunk as the night wore on. Finally, when the money ran out, they decided to call it a night and Grimes headed off to his squalid apartment near the municipal airport.
It was a cold night and Grimes found himself growing more and more irritated by the fact that he had to walk so far in the frigid, snowy conditions. He began to curse Alaska and his family for making him live in this damned icebox. Why couldn't he have a car? He deserved a car. Others far less worthy had their own cars, so why should he have to walk through the snow freezing to death? It wasn't fair. The longer he walked the angrier he became at the injustice of it all. Stumbling down an alleyway, Grimes spotted a figure huddled behind a dumpster. As he got closer the figure looked up and stared at him with dulled, bleary eyes. It was an old man, greasy gray hair down to his shoulders, wrapped in a filthy sleeping bag. Several empty vodka bottles lay scattered about.
"Hey mister," rasped the man, his voice roughened by years of smoking and alcohol abuse, "Can ya spare some change?" He held out a gnarled shaking hand hoping for some help.
Grimes froze and turned to face the man. The man's grating voice and pathetic appearance suddenly infuriated him. Unable to contain his rage any longer, Grimes launched himself with a snarl against the helpless drunk beating the man senseless first with his fists and then kicking him over and over with his steel toed work boots. How long Grimes beat the man, he couldn't say but eventually his anger spent, he stumbled backwards staring at the bloody corpse, the man's face so brutally crushed it was unrecognizable. For a moment, Grimes was horrified at what he'd done. The man had meant him no harm but then, his anger resurfaced. This sonofabitch was going to cause Grimes nothing but trouble. Damn him for being in this alley! Damn his annoying voice; this was all his fault but Grimes would suffer unjustly because of it.
Fuming, he continued to stagger home to his own apartment another mile down the road where he collapsed on the sofa in a drunken stupor. Later that day, the body was discovered by a man taking out trash to the dumpster. The police were called and first following Grimes' bloody footprints then using a tracking dog, they quickly located him and arrested him for murder. He was tried for first degree murder but found not guilty by reason of insanity and sentenced to the Alaska Psychological Institute until which time the doctors deemed him no longer a threat to himself or society.
Remembering how things worked when he'd been committed previously, Grimes carefully studied his new environment, noting what the doctors wanted to hear, learning how to behave to convince them he was improving, and so on. Over the six years he was there, many of the staff claimed him to be their favorite patient and were excited to see his ongoing recovery. Not all the doctors, however, were so convinced. One of the psychiatrists that worked with Grimes, Dr. Jacob Rabinowitz, felt that Grimes was manipulating those around him and was in fact, still very dangerous. Time and time again he strenuously expressed his objections to releasing Grimes from the institution. As long as the Grimes was in a structured environment and took his drugs, he did well but Rabinowitz knew all too well that for many inmates, once they were released back onto the streets it wasn't long before old habits returned.
For several years, his arguments were successful but finally, at the end of his sixth year, Grimes was pronounced cured and released from custody. Within a few months, he had disappeared from Alaska and moved to the Lower 48. As Rabinowitz had feared, Grimes started drinking again and using other drugs. He quit taking his medication and it wasn't long before he killed again. This time, he was wasn't caught.
Over the years, he kept on the move. He killed a number of people across the country, but usually other drifters or unidentified homeless people whose disappearance caused little stir. It wasn't until he attacked the man in Virginia that he had finally been picked up. In a way, it had been a relief to be recommitted to another institution. The familiar routine was almost like a vacation for him. He didn't have to worry about a thing. All his necessities were provided for as long as he wanted and he could just relax. He knew how to play the game now and when he was ready to leave, he knew just what he would have to do to convince the doctors he was cured.
It was three years before Grimes began to feel the itch to be on the move. Until then, he had been content to stay at the facility but now he grew weary of the regimented routine and yearned to hit the bars and have some fun. So, he decided it was time to be "cured". His delusions and hallucinations gradually "disappeared"; instead of being angry and argumentative all the time he allowed himself to become more mellow and cooperative. The staff and other patients began to enjoy having him around and the doctors were pleased to finally see some progress. Grimes was fully aware his so-called recovery couldn't happen overnight so he was patient. He would take a few steps forward and then regress allowing the process to appear to occur gradually over the course of a year. Finally, at the end of his fourth year the doctors decided it was time to allow Grimes more freedom and began to give him day passes from the hospital. First it was just for a couple of hours a day but eventually progressed to twelve hours allowing Grimes to get a job as a computer programmer. He was a model patient and the doctors felt sure he would be fully released within the year. Grimes couldn't have been more pleased. Now, he was looking forward to a full weekend pass. Three days of complete freedom and he couldn't wait.
As usual, Grimes rode the small hospital van to the downtown drop off spot. It was near the local bus terminal so he could catch a bus to anywhere in town. Grimes gave a cheery wave as the hospital van drove away then with a smile he turned and began to walk. After walking several blocks, he came to a small motorcycle repair shop. It was tucked away down a small side street and although it could be hard to find, it was one of the best repair shops in town. Grimes opened a side door leading into the garage area where two men were examining a vintage Harley Davidson.
"Hey Dave!" greeted one the men, an older, grizzled looking guy covered with tattoos. His companion was a younger looking version of the first. Buck Grierson had been restoring and repairing motorcycles for 30 years, and knew his business better than almost anyone in the state. His son, Matt, was following in his father's footsteps.
"Hey," replied Grimes approaching them as he eyed the dilapidated motorcycle. "Waddaya got here?"
Buck stood up wiping grease from his hands. "A 1955 Harley Davidson WLA Flathead 45," he replied happily. "I had one of these when I was a kid. Just picked it up for next to nuthin'. Needs a lot of work, but that's fine by me." He turned to Grimes. "You gonna be able to work some this weekend? I got a coupla new bikes in that need work if you're free."
Grimes rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "Yeah, I should be able to put in some hours this weekend. No problem."
Buck nodded. "Great. Just write your hours in the book." He then turned his attention back to his latest acquisition.
Grimes watched the two men for a few minutes longer then headed to the door at the back of the garage to parking area. Slipping through, he found himself in a covered area where an assortment of new and vintage motorcycles was stored but he was only interested in one. Near the door was a bike draped in a black vinyl drop cloth. Pulling it off he smiled as his baby, a 1947 Indian Chief motorcycle in gleaming red with yellow accents came into view. When Grimes had first found the bike, it had been barely recognizable as a motorcycle but he had to have it. It had been sitting in an old garage for the past fifty years and the guy, a collector of vintage bikes, let Grimes have it for next to nothing, happy to finally get rid of it. When Grimes took it to Buck's to see what they could do, he found the cost of restoring it was far more than he could afford but he was able to work out a deal where he could work for Buck while doing the restoration himself. It turned out to be the perfect solution. Grimes had a talent for motorcycle repair and found restoring them was equally rewarding. Buck also let Grimes camp out in a spare room in the back of the garage on the few times Grimes had been allowed out overnight. It was an arrangement that worked out for both of them.
Grimes re-covered the motorcycle then returned to the garage. He'd put in some hours today and tonight go out and party.