Thank you to my beta, ColdEmber for your patience and your advice
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"So, your last week, huh? How's that feel?" Colby leaned against the bridge railing, enjoying a rare cool moment before the LA summer heat took hold for the day.
"I don't know. Weird, I guess. But nice," Megan looked sideways at the young agent. "I'm looking forward to the academic life. Slowing down a bit. Fewer dead bodies…"
Colby chuckled. "Yeah, 'cause that worked for Charlie, and Amita, and Larry, and…" he cut off, laughing, as Megan aimed a playful kick at his butt. Then he nearly jumped out of his skin as something tugged at the pistol he kept tucked in the small of his back. Turning, looking for the threat, Colby grabbed the gun. It took a confused moment before the ex-soldier's mind registered another, greater shock—the "threat" was a small boy, no more than eight years old and short enough to look the agent square in the belly button. Colby took his hand off the weapon and squatted down to look his "attacker" in the eyes, intending to give the boy a VERY stern talk. In the second it took Colby to catch a breath and attempt to settle his pounding heart, the boy reached around the agent's neck and held on—not choking the man, just hugging him closely as if holding on to a lifeline. Colby's speech about not playing with firearms died on his lips. "Ummm…" was what emerged instead.
A small voice issued from the boy; so quiet that Colby wouldn't have heard it had the boy not whispered directly into his ear. "I think my mommy killed my baby sister."
Colby jerked back, inadvertently lifting the clinging child as he stood. He looked around, his heart racing again, searching for anyone who might be this boy's parent. Megan caught the slightly panicked look in the man's eyes and reached out to steady him. "What's wrong? Who's this?"
"Ummm…" repeated Colby, dumbfounded, still searching the area. No adult was paying any attention whatsoever to either the boy or the agent he'd attached himself to. Colby addressed the child, "What's your name?"
"Dylan."
When no further information seemed to be forthcoming, Megan jumped into the fray. "Dylan what? Where's your mom, honey?"
The boy looked at her sternly. "Dylan Robert Lee Chambers. And mommy's at home," He gave Megan an exasperated look, as if wondering how a grown-up could have possibly missed such an obvious fact.
"Ummm…" Colby was starting to feel like a broken, not to mention somewhat dull, record, "Who's here with you? How old are you Dylan?" He tried to loosen the grip that the boy's arms had around his neck, but quickly gave it up as Dylan clung even tighter. Colby grunted.
"You're here with me," the exasperated voice was back. "And I'm six and three quarters...almost seven."
Megan continued to search the area for some responsible adult despite Dylan's words, unwilling to believe the child was really alone in downtown LA. "You're here alone? Your daddy isn't here? Or a babysitter? Or…"
Now Dylan was angry "NO. I'm not a baby! And I'm not alone. I'm with you…you're FBI policemans right?" a weedling, almost tearful tone entered the boy's voice. "FBI policemans help people? Right?" Dylan wiped his nose on the shoulder of Colby's suit. The agent grimaced.
"So you came to us for help?" Colby's voice was gentle "With your mom and your sister?" Megan gave Colby a confused look. She obviously hadn't heard Dylan's earlier whisper. "This is my partner Megan. Can you tell her what you told me?"
Dylan was truly crying now, the six-year-old's reserves of bravery empty, his eyes red and tears running down his cheeks and onto Colby's tie. Between sniffles he said, almost as quietly as the first time, "My mommy killed her. I think she killed my baby sister," as he spoke, Dylan's voice rose slowly from a whisper to a whine to a wail. "Jessa's dead. I saw her. She killed her." The wail went on and on, the words getting less and less coherent until the only sound emerging from Dylan was sobs. Colby hugged the child to his chest. Megan reached out to stroke the boy's hair.
The two agents looked questioningly at each other over Dylan's head, now buried in Colby's chest, dripping a steady stream of tears onto the once-clean suit. "What do we do now?" mouthed Colby. Megan answered with a worried shrug, still half-heartedly looking for someone, anyone, who might object to two strangers holding their son. Then she cleared her throat. "Dylan?" she asked gently, "Where's home? Where's your house?"
Dylan's head turned just enough that he could peek sideways at the woman smoothing his hair. His arm lifted, pointing vaguely eastward. "One Seven One Eight Malcolm Avenue, Los Angeles, California, apartment 2B." He recited, as if responding to a teacher's question.
"Uh huh," she coaxed, "and do you know your telephone number?" The boy buried his head again, shaking it "no" while again wiping his running nose on Colby's tie. "It's OK." Soothed Megan. "What's your mommy's name?"
The two agents could barely hear the squeaking voice, muffled against Colby's chest. "Mommy." Colby had to smile, just a bit, at that. Of course mommy's name was Mommy. What else would it be? Megan came to a decision. She signaled Colby to precede her into the building. "Well, first things first, I guess. Let's go inside and look up a phone number for 1718 Malcolm Ave, apartment 2B. Call and tell mommy that Dylan's with some policemans."
Colby tried halfheartedly to put the six-year-old down, but ended up carrying the boy into the FBI foyer, through the metal detectors (much to the amusement of the guards stationed there), and onto an elevator. The ride to the seventh floor was quiet; the only sound muffled crying from a small, scared child.