Jack wearily lowered his bag to the floor and himself to the red leather seat of the swivel stool at the counter. He glanced around the restaurant, making sure it was as empty as it had looked from outside. Three o'clock on a Friday afternoon must be the dead zone in this town.
The late afternoon light played off the chrome and Formica, creating a soft, nostalgic glow. You didn't see many diners like this anymore. It reminded him of the lunch counter his Mom used to take him to at the five and dime department store when he was a kid. Back before Wal-Mart had cornered the discount market. He'd always ordered the same thing: a grilled cheese sandwich and a chocolate shake. The shake was served in a tall cone-shaped glass that didn't quite hold everything in the metal mixing cup. Sometimes his Mom would let him drink that too, if Graem wasn't there to claim leftovers. Sometimes he'd offer it to her with the magnanimity of a five year old sharing his only riches.
This place was a replica, an ironic nod to the past for the hipsters of the northwest coast, but they'd gotten it right. Except for the television over the counter. That didn't ring true, somehow.
The waitress, a petite young woman with curly brown hair, must have noticed his reaction, because she moved to change the channel.
"Sorry. I can set it to sports if you like."
A photo of L.A. flashed on screen as her hand reached for the button and Jack stopped her.
"No, leave it." He hadn't seen any news in the past two days, and it would be good for him to know how the aftermath was playing out.
The woman shrugged apologetically. "I was just watching Oprah. She had a psychologist talking about how to deal with your emotions after something like a terrorist attack." She shook her head sadly. "Friends of mine lost people. How do you get over something like that?"
"I honestly don't know."
"Get you something?"
"Just a coffee, thanks."
She turned away as a pretty reporter with big hair finished her story and handed the broadcast back to the announcer. Another photo flashed and Jack froze. It was a file photo of Tony in handcuffs, being led to jail after his trial.
"Thanks Jenny," said the announcer. "As more details come out about Wednesday's attacks, a surprising revelation: Tony Almeida, former Special Agent in Charge of CTU, was back at work on Wednesday. Agent Almeida had been jailed for treason after the attack on the Chandler Plaza Hotel a few years ago. Yet sources close to CTU say Almeida played a key role in catching the man behind the attacks, Habib Marwan. Sources say Almedia was at the agency on a provisional basis only, and has now returned to the private sector."
The image of that car exploding was etched permanently on Jack's brain. Was it evidence of their connection that he hadn't believed it? At some level, had he felt that Tony wasn't dead, couldn't be dead – or had it just been wishful thinking? Maybe both, possibly neither. The truth was, there hadn't been time to think about Tony. Jack had just seen his only lead literally vanish in a puff of smoke and flame. Or had he?
Still, the relief he'd felt at learning Tony was still alive was undeniable. In his line of work, Jack didn't make many friends, and he kept even fewer. Silently, Jack wished him well. He owed Tony his life, many times over. Jack hoped Tony and Michelle would be better at getting out of this life than he had. They deserved that much, and more.
The waitress set the coffee down in front of Jack and he took a sip as the announcer continued.
"CTU Los Angeles suffered heavy casualties during the attacks, including another former agent who was working as a Special Advisor to Secretary of Defense James Heller."
Dammit. Jack set his mug down and said, probably too quickly, "Maybe I will have a look at a menu."
"Sure." The waitress turned away from the TV just as Jack's own photo flashed on the screen. Jack knew he should change the channel, but that risked calling her attention to the TV again.
"…Secretary Heller issued a statement praising former Agent Jack Bauer for his patriotism and outstanding record of service to his country. Heller extended his condolences to Bauer's family."
Condolences to his family. Jack didn't want to think about what that meant just yet. The thought of Kim grieving for him was more than he could bear right now, but this was the only way to protect her. He hoped she would forgive him, someday.
He needed to focus on the more immediate implications of his fifteen minutes of fame. Jack chanced a look at himself in the mirror above the coffee pot. A quick drug-store dye job in a service station washroom had turned his hair dark brown and a three-day growth of stubble masked his chin. The dirt from last night's box car still clung to his clothes. The combined effect gave his reflection a patina of scruffiness that bore little resemblance to the image of the clean-cut blonde man in suit and tie that had accompanied the story. He needed to forget what it was like to be that man.
Maybe he should try to get across the border until the excitement died down. He chided himself for not considering that his death would make the news, but of course Heller wouldn't know that his gesture of respect could be putting Jack's life in jeopardy. In a way, that extra danger was a good thing. It meant Heller hadn't a clue Jack was still alive.
Jack reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, pretending to check his cash while he reviewed the information on the Montana driver's licence Chloe had made for him. John McDougall. There hadn't been much time to establish a back story. Ranch hand, day labourer, weekend militia - the latter to explain Jack's familiarity with weapons. Not that he would need that now, but this way he wouldn't have to remember to hide it. Jack would have to fill in the details for himself. They'd agreed he should cycle through a few different aliases before settling in to the one he would use long-term.
He snorted softly. It was an opportunity to create a whole new life.
Jack put his wallet away and ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and a chocolate shake.