A/N: If you haven't seen "Sweet Sixteen," this story will completely ruin it for you. :)
Disclaimer:I don't own any television shows. Not one.
"Intrusion"
"Dr. Gillian Foster?"
She rubs her eyes and yawns before nodding.
"What's this about, is something wrong?"
She casts a weary eye over him, taking in his dark suit, dark tie, and crooked expression. He's spoken three words to her, and already she hates the sound of his voice.
"That depends on you, Dr. Foster. Can I come in?"
Can he come in? Can a strange man come into her house in the middle of the night? She turns her head slightly to listen for Alec, and hears him in the bedroom. Awake. If her husband can hear what's going on, maybe it's safe. Still, she has to fight her own judgment in order to give the man permission to come over the threshold. If there's anything she's been learning from her recent studies in human behavior, it was that this was no ordinary late-night intrusion.
This man is going to bring trouble.
Keeping him away would just make that trouble worse.
She hates the sound of his footsteps in her entryway. She hates the cruel scowl on his face. She hates the smell of him, a drugstore cologne that is shockingly similar to an ex-boyfriend's. She tries not to let him see that he's giving her the chills, and instead tightens the blanket around her shoulders and remarks about how he's letting in a draft.
She hopes that Alec is close enough.
He purses his lips and puts his hands in the pockets of his suit coat. The scowl doesn't soften, looking even more sinister in the light shed by the single lamp on the side table. She'd turn on more lights, but that might give him the impression that he's welcome here.
He clears his throat. "Dr. Foster, I'm from the Pentagon."
"I know. What do you do there?"
She wasn't expecting an answer, and the amused grin tells her that she's not going to get one. She lets out a silent sigh.
"Dr. Foster . . . may I call you Gillian?"
"No."
He gives a chuckle that puts another shiver down her spine. "Dr. Foster," he chuckles again, "I have a certain . . . situation, and it's come to my attention that you have the skills necessary to help."
"I'm listening." She untucks her long ponytail from the back of her shirt. Maybe Alec is standing in the doorway with a baseball bat.
"Do you know a Dr. Cal Lightman? British counter-terrorism?"
Her eyes dart to the name embossed on the cover of the book by her lamp.
"I've heard of him."
"You've never met the man?"
She straightens her shoulders. The words she spoke were true, even though they feel like a lie. Even though she feels like she's gotten to know him over the time she's spent pouring over his books, analyzing the cadence of his writing, painting a picture of the man behind the words. But he doesn't need to know that.
"I don't spend my days mingling with spies, if that's what you mean. I'm a psychologist. I'm there to see my clients."
He smiles, his hands still in his pockets, and takes a step closer. She takes a step backward. Instead of coming towards her, he walks to the side table and picks up the book, examining it in a way that seems somehow wrong.
"Well, Dr. Lightman is going to be one of your clients very soon. You're in a unique position, Dr. Foster. You can help this man."
"I like to think that I help all my clients. If the Pentagon feels like they need to send him into my office, then I'll try to help him as much as I can."
She had almost asked his name before reminding herself that she doesn't want to know. She'd compensated by adding a biting sarcasm to her words.
"Dr. Lightman was recently a great help to us in identifying a terrorist, Dr. Foster. He's something of a hero, I think." He opens the cover of the book and fingers the picture of Dr. Lightman on the inside cover. "Unfortunately, the terrorist he identified, a Mr. Jimmy Doyle, wasn't easily eliminated."
An assassination attempt? Why on Earth is he talking to her about an assassination attempt?
"In fact, in an effort to . . . remove this dangerous man from the country, a tragedy occurred." You're not supposed to smile when you say words like that. "It turned out that as one of our agents tried to . . . deport him, his wife and daughter were killed in conjunction with a local robbery."
"Daughter?"
"She was only nine years old."
"What an unfortunate coincidence."
He flashes her another sinister smile as he puts the book back exactly the way he found it, making a show of how meticulous his work is.
"What's truly unfortunate is that Dr. Lightman is now becoming . . . unstable. I've seen it before, you know. The poor man feels responsible for the death of Doyle's wife and daughter. It's making him unfit for the kind of work he does. That's why I'm sending him to you. If Lightman is operating under the delusion that either he or the U. S. government is in any way responsible for this tragedy, then things could get difficult."
"Difficult? For him, or for you?"
She regrets her words the moment they leave her lips. He takes a few hurried steps towards her, until she can feel his foul breath on her face. Behind him, she can see the outline of her husband, in his pajamas with a bat raised above his head, ready to strike. She manages to wave him off without tipping off their guest. The fear is pounding in her brain, and she has to get it out so she can think.
He breathes on her again.
"You know, Lightman has a daughter that's the same age as Doyle's was. And a wife."
She tries to remember what she read about Lightman inside that cover. She doesn't think the biographical blurb mentioned his family.
"I see." She swallows. "Well, like I said, if he finds his way into my office, I'll help him the best that I can."
She doesn't think it's possible for him to get any closer until he does, his breath now making its way down her neck.
"Now you listen to me, you'll do whatever you have to do to keep him quiet, or Doyle won't be the only one to lose his wife and daughter. Do you understand?"
She stiffens. "I told you. I'll do my job."
"And your job is what?"
"To help him. Any way I can, I'll help him. Whatever it takes."
"And if he says too much?"
"I wouldn't be helping him if I got his daughter killed, now would I?"
The words make her sick as they leave her lips. He takes a step back and looks over her, apparently happy with what he sees.
'Well then, Dr. Foster, it seems that Lightman will benefit greatly from your care."
He shoots her another of his sinister smiles as he turns to leave. She doesn't take a breath until she hears the door close after him.
"Honey, are you okay?"
Her knees are shaking, and she needs to sit down.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just give me a minute."
She sits down on her couch, puts her face in her hands, and wonders what just happened, worries about the child of a man she's never met. Nine years old.
Nine years old and no way to tell her father that her life is in danger.
But there are other things to think about. A wife and daughter who are already dead, who will never get their killer put to justice. A few convenient suspects who will be put away for a crime they didn't commit. A lie perpetuated by a government that should be better than it is.
No, those are things she can't change. It breaks her heart, but there is a little girl who's still alive, who still has a mother and a father, and only one person who can make sure it stays that way.
She can't just give him a phone call—they'd know. She can't call his wife—they were probably watching her, too.
There has to be a way to tell him.
She rocks back and forth, her hands kneading her temples, wondering if at this very moment, her office is being bugged. Maybe it's been bugged all along—she's never been naïve enough to act as if her private sessions were ever actually private.
There has to be a way.
If he figures it out, he'll back off; she knows that much. She can tell from the way he words his case studies that he's the type to put his family first. Yes, he'll back off as long as there isn't any absolute proof of a cover-up. And if he really is a body language expert . . .
Maybe she doesn't need words at all. Maybe she just needs to learn how to speak his language.
His whole soul is written on the pages of the books he wrote, and she can find it. She can analyze it and figure out how he thinks. She can know him before he even steps foot in her office. She can even make him think that it's his idea.
Nine years old.
A breath in and out, and she's ready to think up a way of explaining this to Alec without saying too much. She stands up, flushes the fear from her heart, and walks into the bedroom.
END