Title: Within You, Without You ~ Chapter 1: The District Sleeps
Author: paradocs
Pairing: Buffy/Ziva
Summary: Two woman - two killers - try to adjust to new lives. Neither can forget the past, but the future begins to offer possibilities as friendships form.
Rating: 18 for violence and language
Spoilers: All of BtVS; I have used some ideas and characters from Season 8 but I will not be following canon. Up to Season 7 of NCIS around 'Code of Conduct'.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to DPB, CBS, Paramount, et al. No copyright infringement is intended. 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' belongs to Joss Whedon
Primary Characters: Buffy, Ziva, Gibbs, DiNozzo, McGee
Other Pairings: Already taken care of. A few will involve Woman/Woman relationships with characters whose sexual preferences have already been defined: Willow, Kennedy, Satsu.
Everything up to the beginning of Season 8 is Canon; I will be altering the course of events slightly as I progress.
October 20th, 2009, St. Paul's Rock Creek Cemetery, Washington DC
10:31 on a Tuesday night. It had stopped raining a few hours ago but puddles glimmered in the headlights as the car crept down the driveway that led to the home of the caretaker of the Rock Creek Cemetery. He pulled up beside a newer model Ford F-250 and turned off the engine; opened the car door and put his left foot down, with a splash, on the wet tarmac. His right foot followed as he extricated himself from the driver's seat. He took a moment to gather his 30th wind of the last 30 days, closed the car door and approached the small Victorian house on his left. The front door of the building opened and a lean man with sparse silver hair stepped out.
"Evenin'. Somethin' I can do for yeh?"
"Uh, yeah. Are you Mr. Edward Roberts?" The man nodded. McGee reached into the pocket of his trench coat for his wallet. "I'm Special Agent Timothy McGee; we talked on the phone an hour ago?" He stepped up onto the lone step that rose to the door stoop, opened his wallet and showed Mr. Roberts his ID.
"Wasn't expectin' you 'til tomorrow." Mr. Roberts reached inside the house for his coat and closed the door behind him. "Don't matter. Wasn't much on TV anyway. You wanna follow me?" McGee nodded. "Alright then. I'll say the same thing I said on the phone though – this ain't no normal grave robbin'."
"That's why I'm here, Mr. Roberts."
McGee followed Mr. Roberts' truck to the scene and pulled as close to the side of the drive as he could without touching the grass. He grabbed a flashlight and camera from the seat beside him, got out of his car and joined Mr. Roberts who was leaning against his truck, arms crossed over his thin chest.
"There it is – can't figure what dug that hole though. You'd figure if someone were thinkin' to rob the body they'd need to open up the ground enough to get at it, right?"
McGee turned on his flashlight and scanned the ground in front of the headstone. "Yeah, that is strange." He circled the beam of light around the irregular mouth of the narrow vertical tunnel and noticed something else that was strange. "Where's all the dirt?"
Mr. Roberts shrugged. "This is how it looked when I found it."
"Huh. Uh, if I can just take a picture of the bottoms of your boots – just for elimination. I'll need your prints later as well, just in case . . ."
Mr. Roberts nodded. "You do what you gotta; I'd bet my prints are still kickin' around in some dusty file from my years in the Service." He lifted his right boot and held it steady while McGee snapped a picture.
"You were in the service," McGee asked.
"Yeh. Korea. I was there on Pork Chop Hill with Lieutenant Shea. Great man."
McGee nodded. He focused the camera on Mr. Roberts left boot and took a photo. "Thanks. One more question? What-"
"I'm a size ten." Mr. Roberts grinned. "Figured you'd ask me. You alright on your own?"
McGee looked around only now realising now how lonely it was: beneath the dark grey clouds that nearly filled the night sky; amid the stones marking the last resting places of the dead. He shook the macabre thoughts from his head and answered Mr. Roberts' question.
"I'll be ok. Thank you for your help, Mr. Roberts. I should get to work."
Mr. Roberts nodded and opened the door of his truck. "Alright, son, I'll leave yeh to it."
McGee watched the tail lights of the caretaker's truck dwindle into the mist and shivered. He winced, knowing what Tony and Ziva would say about his apprehension. Best not to think about that right now. He gathered a stack of evidence tags and walked the perimeter of the scene.
Mr. Roberts returned ten or fifteen minutes later and pulled up behind McGee's car.
"Thought you might need some light and a little somethin' to warm you up."
Mr. Roberts handed McGee a car cup that he'd filled with strong black coffee and started unloading the first of the three halogen lights from the back of his truck. McGee thanked him gratefully for the coffee but took only a sip before he set the cup down on the hood of his car and went to help the caretaker with the lights. Five minutes later the halogens were set up on their tripods and white light bathed the suspected crime scene.
Mr. Roberts took a few more items from the bed of his truck and laid them on the wet grass beside McGee's car: a spade; a trowel; a folded sheet of plastic; and two buckets. "Thought these might come in handy if you need to dig around." He shrugged. "Though, I'd imagine you'll be wantin' to dig up the casket come morning anyway."
McGee thanked Mr. Roberts again and picked up the coffee cup. He sipped carefully – black and strong but not bitter – and felt the wonderful heat slide down his throat.
Mr. Roberts waved off the thanks. "Just a little thing, but hope it helps. Things like this shouldn't happen – a man like him deserves respect."
"I agree, Mr. Roberts. And we're going to catch who did this."
Mr. Roberts nodded succinctly. "I believe you, son. Just knock on my door when you're done with the lights and I'll come 'round and pick 'em up."
After the caretaker had gone, McGee sipped his coffee and decided where to begin next; honestly, he was trying to avoid the crime scene sketch. He tried too hard for perfection sometimes, like when he sketched a scene; this led to frustration and much erasing. And with fingers that could barely bend – though the coffee was helping – the process would only be more stressful. Which left him with two options: taking a closer look at the ground for evidence and – he shivered – investigating the hole.
McGee sighed. "Might as well get it over with."
McGee sat in his car with the engine running and the heat on full. He was so cold and not just from the damp chill of the night. The cold he felt was deep in his bones – he'd felt it before, the times he'd managed to dodge a bullet with his name on it; the times that colleagues hadn't.
'Evidence doesn't lie,' he reminded himself. 'But . . . just because the evidence points to one thing doesn't mean there isn't a more logical explanation.'
He had gone over the logic; pieced the evidence together and looked for alternate theories. He was dirty and tired from his efforts. It didn't matter that there was a possibility that this was some kind of elaborate and distasteful prank and Corporal David D. Miller would be discovered . . . somewhere. Either way, he'd called Gibbs and Gibbs had called Tony and Ziva and now all them were on their way and he was going to have to explain, without sounding like he'd subscribed to Abby's theories on the supernatural, what he had found.
He saw the headlights of an approaching vehicle and turned off the engine of his own car; he got out – reluctantly – and slammed the door behind him. He crossed his arms and stared at the violated grave like he was challenging it to tell him the true story. A car door slammed behind him and Gibbs calm, authoritative voice, greeted him; the utterance of human speech sounded strange in McGee's ears after the hour and a half silence that only he had filled with the disharmonic acoustics of his labours. "McGee." Gibbs stopped beside him and held out a coffee cup. "Cold night."
McGee accepted the coffee gratefully and wrapped his chilled fingers around the cup. "Thanks."
Gibbs nodded; he was surveying the scene casually, the partially excavated tunnel in particular. "How long have you been out here?"
McGee reflexively lifted his wrist before he remembered that he had removed his watch before he'd started his examination of the tunnel. "A few hours. I didn't want to call until I was sure this wasn't a hoax and then I guess I got carried away."
Gibbs sipped his coffee and glanced at McGee. "Mmm, sometimes getting carried away isn't such a bad thing. If you get results. Should've called earlier, though; you know better than to process a crime scene alone."
McGee felt his stomach clench and not from the eerie sensation that had been creeping up and down his spine for the last hour and a half. This was definitely anxiety – the same variety he had felt leading investigations in the past; not quite as intense as the anxiety he had felt when he'd been accused of killing a decorated cop. Part of it, he knew, was his fear of disappointing the man standing next to him.
When the first set of headlights flashed against the wet pavement, his anxiety grew a little. Tony was here and no matter how hard McGee had tried over the years to prepare himself against the inevitable barrage of teasing words and ridicule, he had yet to master the Zen like state worthy of a Buddhist monk that would preserve his inner peace.
Ziva, whose car followed Tony's, required of McGee a different kind of mental preparation. While she would not necessarily tease him, he knew that she would be sceptical and quick to dismiss the possibilities, regardless of the facts presented, unless he could convince her of the veracity of the evidence. In some ways, though, he suspected that she might be a little more open to the feasibility of a supernatural explanation than Tony or Gibbs.
As Tony and Ziva exited their cars and approached, he figured the best he could do was to present the evidence as if this were any other mundane case and let them reach their own conclusions before he even suggested a possible alternative.
Tony stopped beside McGee and rubbed his hands. Ziva, dressed in an overcoat, scarf and hat, stopped at the edge of the drive and looked down on the grave.
Tony glanced at the grave and looked at McGee. "So, what's going on?"
"I was in the office and I got a call from Mr. Roberts, the caretaker here. He said that he'd been out walking his dog and he found this," McGee pointed at the grave. "When he told me that it was Corporal Miller's grave I decided to come out and have a look . . ." He continued with his arrival and meeting with the caretaker; his initial examination of the scene and Mr. Roberts' assistance.
Tony shoved his hands in his coat pockets. "Why didn't you call me, McGee? I would've come out and given you a hand."
"Ah-huh. Sure you would've, Tony."
"Ok, I probably wouldn't have. Not that I was having a fun-filled night or anything but it beat freezing in a cemetery."
Gibbs pushed himself away from the car and and approached the crime scene. "You done whining, DiNozzo?"
Tony joined him by one of the evidence markers. "Yeah, boss."
Ziva glanced at McGee and offered a rare half smile. "I would have come, McGee."
McGee smiled back. "Thanks, Ziva."
Gibbs nodded at the crime scene. "Well, McGee, tell us what you've got."
"Uh, ok. Let's start with the grave . . ."
She had found a perch in a nearby tree just after she'd seen the headlights of an approaching vehicle. Not the most comfortable place to sit, especially after the Autumn leaves, still clinging desperately to the branches, had showered her with the remnants of the day's rain. She had watched and listened as Agent McGee had processed the crime scene, greatly aided by the lights the cemetery's caretaker and loaned him. When the other agents had arrived – Gibbs, DiNozzo and David – she had grinned and waited for the fun to begin. She didn't think the NCIS agents would find it fun – alarming, disconcerting, maybe even a little horrifying – because she knew what had happened to Corporal Miller; she knew what he had become.
Unfortunately, she hadn't learned of Corporal Miller's transition until tonight and tonight was obviously too late. Which meant that the vampire was out of the bag – or, grave – and NCIS would be a giant leap closer to the truth; Agent McGee was just beginning his run into that leap now.
She followed along as he explained the evidence. She respected his ability to convey the facts without interpretation, even though he was obviously spooked by the possibilities.
Corporal David D. Miller had been attacked and killed on October 14th, 2009. He had been en route from the Cue Bar on U Street to DC9 on 9th Street where he was supposed to meet some friends. This had been verified by Corporal Miller's friends and the bartender who had served him at the Cue Bar. Miller had been found in a parking lot off of 9 ½ St. by two men who were going to their car after a late night at a local accounting firm; his carotid artery had been punctured once and his blood had been drained.
The case was still open.
Corporal Miller had been interred at the Rock Creek Cemetery two days ago. He had been honoured by his brothers and sisters in arms and mourned by his family and friends.
She hadn't suspected that there was more involved beyond the blood loss; hadn't considered that Miller had been turned. Why hadn't he awoken in the morgue? The funeral home? After his damn burial?
Not important now, she supposed. She would find him, destroy the demon and move on – that's what she did. Now, though, she needed to deal with NCIS. Without consciously doing so, Agent McGee was explaining how a vampire rose from his grave: the damage to the lid of the coffin; the disproportionate quantity of dirt on the surface compared to the dimensions of the tunnel the vampire had dug out with his fingers to facilitate his escape – they would find more dirt in the coffin and blood from his hands from where they'd torn as he'd punched through the ceiling of his wooden prison; the deep gouges in the earth made by his fingers as he'd heaved himself up into freedom; the single trail of shoe prints leading away from his grave and into the night where, already, he would sense the human blood he thirsted for.
He was long gone, she knew; she would have sensed his presence.
Agent McGee finished his report and waited for reactions, no doubt expecting scepticism and teasing, as if he had alluded to the possibility that this was what it actually was and not an elaborate hoax or a complex and nasty attempt to murder someone. She figured that, in the morning, they would dig up the coffin and examine it properly. They would test the blood samples and determine that they didn't match the Corporal's. They would find skin samples and, after they did their DNA tests, would determine that the Corporal had been in the coffin. They would go to the mortuary and funeral home and try to find evidence that Corporal Miller's body had been swapped for another – and then they would realize that even if the body had been switched it wouldn't explain the the evidence they had just found because no one could survive being buried in a coffin for that period of time. Paul Simmons, her immediate contact with the Department of Defense – she still got a little hysterical when she thought about working with the US Government – had briefed her on NCIS procedures and the resources available to them. NCIS was going to need them; they were about to have a mystery on their hands.
The agents were loading the evidence into McGee's car. Once loaded, Agent Gibbs told Agent McGee to drop the evidence off at NCIS and go home. And one more thing,
"Hey, McGee – good job."
After McGee had gone, Gibbs and DiNozzo decided to go for a walk to see how far Corporal Miller's trail went. Agent David, who appeared unbothered by being left on her own, started putting up the crime scene tape.
She considered her options for a moment. She could follow the men, just in case, and hope that Agent Gibbs didn't pick up on the tail – and shoot her. But the chances of anything coming up that the two Agents couldn't handle was small and even if they did encounter something of a supernatural nature, she could find them quickly enough.
Approaching Agent David would be tricky: she was very fast, had displayed an uncanny ability to sense possible threats around her, was quite proficient in hand to hand combat and deadly with a gun. But (as McGee had suspected) she seemed more inclined to have an open mind than her team-mates.
"Ah, hell. It's been a boring night, let's have a little fun."
She jumped from the tree and landed with only a little effort, which was quite surprising, really, since her legs and ass were kinda numb. She pulled an apple from the pocket of her sweatshirt and started walking toward the crime scene.
Ziva was standing outside the crime scene tape facing the grave stone, hands in the pockets of her coat. McGee had done a good job, not that she had ever doubted his abilities. The difficulty she was having at the moment was with what the evidence suggested: someone had been buried alive. It made no sense. Corporal Miller had been buried Sunday afternoon; at least, his coffin had. Why would someone go to all of the trouble to dig up his coffin and replace the Corporal with someone else who was then reburied? And how could this have been done without detection?
The very idea of being buried alive horrified her – to be so close to freedom and life and know that you would never attain it . . .
Her head turned to the left; someone was approaching: 5'2" or 5'3"; slim; wearing a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up; jeans and boots – all black. A young woman, she guessed, by the walk and the general physique. She was polishing a green apple against her sweatshirt.
Ziva took her hands out of her pockets and pulled her coat to the side, exposing her holstered weapon.
"Stop where you are." The woman stopped. "Why are you here?"
The woman shrugged. "Watching you. I mean 'you' as in 'the team' you, though watching 'you' you is fun too."
Ziva frowned. "You have been watching us?"
"Yep." The woman turned her head and pointed at a tree in the distance. "See that tree? I was up in it. Really not a comfortable place to sit for hours – I think I have numb butt."
Ziva was a little perplexed. She wasn't used to bold honesty and this woman had, without hesitation, admitted to watching her and the others. And then there was the way she spoke – confident and relaxed – as if covertly watching government agents was perfectly normal.
"Why have you been watching us?"
"Well, see, originally I was only watching Agent McGee; I wanted to make sure he didn't get into to trouble. Because that," the woman pointed at the grave, "is trouble in big bold letters."
Ziva's expression darkened; she rested her palm on the butt of her gun and backed up to her left to give herself a better view of the mystery woman. "What do you know about this?"
The woman lifted the apple to her mouth and took a bite; she chewed slowly.
Ziva's eyes narrowed. "Well? If you know something, you need to tell me. Or, if you would prefer, I could take you to NCIS and question you there."
The woman swallowed and grinned. "I'll pass on that, thanks. I can tell you a little, but you guys need to figure out the big picture for yourselves."
"Did you have something to do with this," Ziva demanded.
The woman shook her head. From what little Ziva could see of her face, she looked bitter.
"No. Not directly. Like I said, I can tell you a few things, if you want – up to you, Agent David."
Ziva tensed. "How do you know my name?"
The woman shook her head and smiled drolly. "Been watching you, remember?
"So, about your mystery; Agent McGee did a good job of putting the facts together – 'have a few more facts – and can you cease with the death stare? Really, it's kinda giving me that 'just walked over my own grave' feeling. I mean, come on, you've got the gun and I'm all weapon lite."
Ziva relaxed – a little – and removed her hand from her gun. "Fine. Please – explain."
"Ok. So, after you dig up the coffin, there's probably a few things you're going to find that won't make sense. Number one:" the woman raised her left hand and held up a finger, "the lid of the coffin was broken from the inside. Two: if you find any blood, which you probably will, it won't match Miller's. Three: if you find any skin, which you might, 'cause punching your way through a layer of wood that's buried under 4 ½' of wet dirt takes effort, it will match Miller's and four: if you take some of the blood out into the sun, something funky's gonna happen." She lowered her left hand and raised the apple to her mouth to take another bite.
"How do you know these things," Ziva asked. As she waited for the woman to swallow, she inched forward.
The woman swallowed and wiped the juice from her lips. "Experience. And since Agent Gibbs and DiNozzo will be here in a sec', I really need to run."
Ziva's hand went back to her gun. "I do not think so. I don't believe that you have told me everything you know." Her eyes remained fixed on the woman watching for the tell-tale signs that would indicate movement. "And my boss will have questions, as well."
The woman smirked. "Like I said before, gonna take a pass on that." Her right arm whipped up and the apple she had flew from her hand and arched toward David.
Ziva's first instinct was to ignore the apple – but, it was evidence. There would be finger prints on the skin and DNA from the woman's saliva, clues to the woman's identity. She caught the apple deftly in her left hand and drew her gun with her right –
Too late.
Ziva had no idea how the woman had managed to move so quickly out of sight. She scowled into the night. From somewhere ahead and to the right, the woman's voice called back to her.
"Buona note, bella. And be careful."
Ziva was still muttering curses under her breath when DiNozzo and Gibbs returned.
October 21st, 2009, NCIS
"McGee, did Abby get a print off the apple?"
"Uh, yeah, she did." McGee switched windows on his screen and turned his monitor a few inches as Gibbs stepped behind his desk. "The prints belong to one Buffy Anne Summers, born in Los Angeles, California, on January 19th 1981."
Gibbs stared at the colour head shot on the screen. "That's it?"
"That's all I can get. When I try to get more information, I get," McGee clicked on the link at the bottom of the page and a security warning popped up, "that. It was issued by the Secretary of Defense."
"I can see that, McGee." Frustration tinged Gibbs' words. "Did Ziva look at the photo?"
Ziva, who had just hung up her phone, answered. "Yes. That is definitely the same woman I spoke to last night."
"The woman you let walk away." The bite in Gibbs' voice was still evident.
"What would you have me do, shoot her? She was unarmed and she did nothing to threaten me . . . and, she was very quick."
Gibbs looked at her silently for a moment and turned back to McGee. "Keep looking."
Ziva rolled her chair back and stood. "That was Abby on the phone; she would like to see us in the evidence garage."
Ziva, Gibbs and McGee stepped off of the elevator and into the evidence garage. Abby and Tony were staring silently at Corporal Miller's coffin. The evidence Abby had collected was ready to be processed.
Gibbs approached Abby while McGee and Ziva joined Tony.
"Hi, Gibbs," Abby said distractedly.
"Whaddya got for me, Abby?"
"Um . . . Ok. Before I say anything, you have to promise not to lock me up." The look Gibbs gave her was not reassuring. "I'm serious, Gibbs, 'cause this is beyond creepy."
"Just tell me what you've found, Abby."
"Oh-kay. Prepare to be creeped out."
Ziva watched and listened as Abby told the story the evidence had told her. The story of how a dead man had punched through the lid of his coffin, dug through four feet of earth, pulled himself from the ground and walked away.
Just like Buffy Summers had said. She had mentioned something else as well.
"Abby?"
"Ziva?"
"Do you have blood samples?"
Abby went to the steel table the evidence was laid out on and pointed to three sealed jars: one contained a swatch of fabric stained with blood; the other two, wood samples similarly stained.
"Right here. Why?"
Ziva joined her at the table. "Is there more in the coffin?"
Abby was intrigued. "Yep. He must have done a lot of damage to his hands because," she went over to the coffin and pointed inside; Ziva joined her. "See?"
The coffin's lining was spattered with drops of blood, a surprising amount considering most would have smeared on the lid or dropped on Corporal Miller's clothing.
Ziva pointed at the lining where the blood had splattered more densely. "May I cut a piece from the lining? I would like to . . . conduct an experiment."
Abby grinned. "For you, Ziva? Of course." She picked up a utility knife and slid the blade open an inch. "How big a piece would you like?"
Ziva held her hand up, thumb and index finger spread a few inches. "Two inches?"
"Sure." Abby cut a square from the lining and handed it to Ziva. "There ya go. Now what?"
Ziva rolled the cloth swatch up and wrapped her fingers around it. "And now . . . we go outside." She avoided meeting anyone else's eyes because, honestly, she wasn't sure that Summers was entirely sane. "Are you coming?"
Abby, more curious than ever, joined her as she stepped outside; DiNozzo and McGee followed and, after a moment, so did Gibbs.
"Can everyone see my hand?" Ziva looked at each of them to ensure she had their attention. Very much hoping that she wasn't about to be made a fool of, she opened her hand and let the cloth unroll.
For a second, nothing happened; and then, tendrils of smoke swirled up from the cloth. The smoke thickened and Ziva's skin grew hot. The cloth was eroding where the blood had touched it, turning into dust. In a few seconds, only a few tattered pieces of the cloth remained lying on the dust that pooled in Ziva's palm.
"What did you do to it?" Abby sounded like she was accusing Ziva of committing some kind of subterfuge.
Ziva shook her head slowly. "I did nothing, Abby. The woman at the cemetery, Buffy Summers, suggested that I try this; she said that something 'funky' would happen."
Abby looked distressed. "I'll test the material and blood for a chemical that reacts with high levels of UV light." She looked at Gibbs, quietly pleading with him to support her. "Blood doesn't do that, it doesn't just go 'poof' when you expose it to sunlight – right?"
Gibbs answered in a consoling tone, a task in itself considering how frustrated he was. "I don't know, Abby; but if anyone can figure it out, you can. Right now, I really want to get Buffy Summers in interrogation – this whole thing's starting to piss me off."
Ziva set the phone back in the cradle and closed her eyes. The Director had asked to see her, alone. It didn't matter that she was almost an official NCIS agent – she still needed to complete the requirements for her American citizenship – every time Gibbs or the Director, or both, asked to speak to her alone, she felt anxious. It was silly, of course. Her issues had been dealt with: the Damocles, the Horn of Africa, her betrayal, the trust she had betrayed, her father. She didn't think that she had done anything recently that would be cause for a visit to the Director's office.
She pushed her chair back and stood. McGee was on the phone trying to track down any leads on Buffy Anne Summers; he'd been getting more frustrated with each call. Whoever this woman was, it was becoming clear that her personal information had been removed from every government database that McGee had accessed.
The partially eaten apple Summers had left on the hood of the car had yielded DNA and prints. Abby had run the prints and produced a match to a DOD file that offered only a name, date of birth and nationality. Below this vague information was a security warning, which no one at NCIS seem to have clearance for – including the Director.
Ziva waved at McGee to get his attention and said, "I will be in the Director's office."
He looked at her curiously but didn't have a chance to comment before his attention was pulled back to the person with whom he was speaking to on the phone.
Ziva smiled at the Director's assistant as she entered reception. The woman smiled back pleasantly and waved her toward the Director's door. "He's waiting for you, Agent David."
Ziva nodded and went into the office. Director Vance was sitting behind his desk reading something on his monitor. He glanced up when he heard Ziva and turned his chair to face her as she sat across from him. She fidgeted with her hands and finally lay them flat on her thighs.
"Director. You asked to see me?"
"How's McGee coming with information on Summers?"
Ziva shrugged noncommittally. "He has been on the phone for the last hour but I don't think that he is having much success."
Vance nodded slowly. "I'm not surprised. I did the same thing this morning. Every agency I called claimed they didn't have a woman by that name working for them; doesn't mean they don't know who Summers is. Finally called SECNAV," Ziva's eyes widened a fraction. "I expected more of the same; instead I got an invitation to lunch. Just got back."
Ziva's anxiety had eased after it became apparent that she was not the focus of the conversation; now, though, she was curious. "What did he have to say?"
Vance smiled casually. "Not much – not directly anyway. He did mention that Summers is working for the DOD, though not in what capacity. When I asked if he could be more specific, he mentioned that even he had orders."
Ziva frowned. "Then this is above his authority? Who is this woman that she is so well protected?"
"That's what I want you to find out, Agent David."
"But, how? We know nothing."
"Not quite. SECNAV gave me one lead. It seems that Miss Summers likes to have a drink after work." The Director picked up a post it from his desk and held it out to her; Ziva took it, read the name and address written on it and put it in her pocket. "Why don't you stop by, after 10:00, have a drink."
Ziva nodded. "And if I see an opportunity to . . ." She shrugged.
The Director leaned over his desk. "I want to know who this woman is. I don't like being spied on."
The Black and Tan, Washington
Ziva pulled her hair back in a ponytail and tied it. Checked the Smith & Wesson holstered at her side, the knife sheathed behind her left hip. Satisfied that she was as prepared as she could be, she entered the Black and Tan. The interior of the bar was much like any other: polished wood bar with brass railings; cushioned stools with half backs; varnished tables and metal chairs, organized to seat the maximum number of patrons while leaving enough room for the servers to traverse the bar. The bar was on her right; tables filled the floor on her left and continued from the end of the bar to the half wall that separated the seating area from the dance floor.
The couples and and singles dancing to the surprisingly melodious sounds that reached out form the darkness were more mature and conservative than Ziva had expected; the Summers woman had seemed young, someone more likely to patronize a dance club or one of Abby's Goth bars. Those seated, as well, resonated maturity in their poses and their expressions – changing from face to face – as they conversed and drank. Of the eight stools at the bar, three were occupied: the two closest to her by a man and woman who appeared to be having some kind of emotional confrontation, and the stool furthest from her by the woman she had come to find.
Ziva studied her target, rapidly compiling information as she approached her: faded tan; no obvious indication of superior muscle tone, though it was difficult to tell considering the oversized Oxford shirt she wore; short blonde hair with darker and lighter strands mixed in; thin face possibly caused by malnourishment; strong fingers holding a glass half filled with an amber liquid; black trousers, cuffed and loose; black boots, calfskin maybe. Summers dressed well but, like the hoops and studs in her left ear and the two rings on the fingers holding the glass, none of her ensemble was extravagant; it was easily affordable to someone making a half decent wage. The only item that seemed out of place was the battered and scarred leather jacket that hung from the back of her stool.
As Ziva reached to pull out the stool beside Summers, the woman's head turned and her chin rose – suspicion not quite hidden; an unspoken gravity tugging the smile from her lips.
"So, who ratted me out, 'cause I'm pretty sure there's nothing in my file that says I come here."
Ziva met the stare and answered, "An anonymous source." She sat and turned on her seat.
"Anonymous source? Huh." Buffy threw back her drink and set her glass down. "Hey, James!"
A man in his mid 30's – fairly average looking except for his startling sea green eyes – stood up from behind the bar and toed the beer fridge door shut. "Whaddya need, Summers?"
Buffy tapped her empty glass with the ring on her right index finger – heavy; inscribed with tiny designs around three small stones – and nudged her head toward Ziva. "You get a name change recently? 'Cause Agent David says she got a tip from a source that goes by the name: A. Nonymous."
James reached for a bottle on the back bar. "Wasn't me." He uncorked the bottle and poured Buffy a drink. "Maybe one of the CGR? They play games for a living, remember. I can think of two who would love to play with you."
Buffy's face scrunched up. "Mr. Twitch and Stoney Face?" James nodded. "Yeah. I could see it." She picked up her glass. "Thanks. Maybe I'll cab it and leave the bike. It's not like anyone would steal-"
Buffy froze. And then her chin rose. It seemed to Ziva that she was feeling a presence: much like Ziva could; much like most good agents could.
Buffy set her drink back down and stood. She smiled at James. "Well?"
James glanced at the dancers on the dance floor. "Two. One and one."
Buffy's smile became predatory. "'K."
Ziva watched with a curious frown as Buffy Summers turned and walked toward the dance floor, hips already swaying.
"Does she do that often?"
James grinned. "What, dance? A few times a night; depends on the music. Depending on how busy it is, we play a little game – I call how many phone numbers she'll get and from which sex. If I get it right, she pays double her tab. If I don't, I pay for her drink. After two months, I'm ahead in the game." James rested his palms on the top of the bar and leaned closer to Ziva. "Speaking of drinks – what can I get you?"
"Red wine, dry," Ziva answered. She removed her jacket and hung it from the back of her stool. "This game you play, I don't understand; she's attractive enough, certainly, but . . ." She lifted her hands to her sides, palm up.
James set a glass of wine in front of Ziva and leaned against the bar. "You know, I don't get it either: she's short, too skinny, has more of a half hour glass figure, her eyes are too big, her nose has that funny flat part and there's the scars." He shrugged. "But, whoever put her together knew what they were doing. Guess that's what they see on the dance floor. 'Course, the way she moves helps."
Ziva tried to penetrate the ring of dancers that had formed around a hidden focal point. "Really?"
"Yeah. It's like she's fighting and fucking in slow motion." Ziva sputtered and reached for her wine. "So, what's your business here, Agent David?"
Ziva's lips curled into a sly half smile. "Are you her boyfriend?"
"No. Nothing like that. She calls me her 'Watcher'. I keep eyes and ears out for information she might need. Officially," he took his wallet out of his back pocket and flipped it open, "I work for the DOD – not for any department that you'll find on record, though I report to Daniel Thorpe, the Director of DARPA."
Ziva read the name on the ID: James Tripp. There was nothing to denote position or rank, just his name. "And who does she work for," she asked, wondering how far James' streak of honesty reached.
"That's what you're here to find out, isn't it?"
Ziva shrugged casually. "That would be nice. I am more concerned by her surveillance of NCIS agents." She finished her wine and tipped the empty glass toward James. "Another, please."
James uncorked the bottle of Pinot Noir and filled Ziva's glass. "She will tell you what you want you want, but not until she's sure of you – and your team. You need to understand something very important about her and her colleagues – they don't like Government agencies and have an even greater distrust of the military. Your boss is a marine and you are Mossad – Kidon, right?"
"I am not Mossad anymore," Ziva stated, scraping the bitterness from her tongue with her teeth.
"Not saying she'll never trust you; as far as I know, Buffy has a lot of respect for you – and your team."
Ziva sipped her wine and calmly set her glass on the bar, her middle and index fingers curled around the stem. "Is there anything else I should know?"
James shrugged. "I would tell you not to follow her anywhere – but I'm sure you have your orders. If you do, stay out of harm's way; she doesn't need to worry about civilians becoming collateral damage."
"I'm quite capable of taking care of myself," Ziva said, with a hint of defiance. A low voice spoke close to her ear.
"Depends on what it is I'm saving your ass from, 'cause that guy, at the end of the bar, can't stop looking at you."
Ziva covered her surprise by lifting her glass to her lips.
Buffy sat down and held up two fingers. "You win."
James grinned. "So, either of them meet your standards?"
"Oh yeah, 'cause my standards are so high. And no. The guy was too young and I probably would've broken something and the woman was definitely hot but," Buffy sighed, "she was wearing a ghost ring. So, as always, I'm going home alone. Right after I decide what to do with Agent David."
James nodded at the two women. "I'll leave you to it. I have PO's to get ready for tomorrow."
Ziva returned the nod and Buffy waved.
Buffy rolled her glass between her fingers for a moment before lifting it to her lips and sipping her scotch. "I should've figured you would try to find me. I thought I'd give you some time to verify what I told you about Corporal Miller; you know, what you would find once you dug up the coffin."
"And now," Ziva asked. "Will you continue to follow us?"
"Yeah, probably. I guess, sooner than later, I'm gonna have to make a decision. I can't always get to your crime scenes as fast as you guys and as long as you keep investigating these missing people, there's a very good chance you're going to, um, get into the kind of trouble that leaves you dead."
Ziva bristled at this. "We aren't children."
Buffy smiled wryly. "Probably a good thing 'cause the things I'm talking about, what Corporal Miller is now, are the nightmares that make children hide under their blankets and pray for morning."
October 22nd, 2009, NCIS
Ziva shook off the weariness of another late night followed by an, unfortunately unavoidable, early morning.
She hadn't stayed very long at the Black and Tan after Summers' warning; long enough to finish her wine. After she'd returned home, however, she'd lain in bed, eyes open, still seeing the image of Summers' eerily bright, haunted hazel eyes. She had tried to rationalize the warning as being an exaggeration of a possibly less dire truth. She had lived with death for most of her adult life. She had felt fear as her mortality had hung by a thread: almost a second too slow; almost taken off her guard: one day the thread would be cut. What did Summers know of these things to warn her that her life and the lives of her team mates – her friends – could be at risk?
The bartender, Mr. Tripp, obviously held Summers in high regard, which, in itself, meant little as she knew nothing about him.
Sleep had not come easily and when it had, her dreams had been troubled.
She slumped in her chair and sipped her coffee. She had just finished relating the events of her evening at the Black and Tan to Director Vance and Gibbs. They were seated in the Director's office. Both men sipped their coffee and considered Ziva's information. Finally, Gibbs turned to look at her.
"What's your impression of her?"
"She's an ignigma."
"Enigma," Vance offered.
"Yes. What I saw was a disguise. Her clothing, for example: she dresses well but the style was simple and the colours were uniform and what she wears hides her sexuality." She took a large gulp of her coffee, hoping the caffeine would clear her head. "Which seems odd, considering the bet she had with Mr. Tripp."
"What was the bet," Gibbs asked.
Ziva explained the game Summers and Tripp played. "For a woman who hides her sexuality, it does seem strange that she would dance in a way that would attract so much attention."
Gibbs looked at her questioningly. "Oh-kay. Think you could explain?"
Ziva shrugged. "I didn't see her, but Mr. Tripp said that Summers dances 'like she's fighting and fucking in slow motion'. Pardon my language. When she returned to the bar, though, she was . . . self critical? And it seemed like the attention she had received was less welcome than she was pretending." She finished her coffee and shifted in her chair restlessly. She wanted to be moving, doing something. The quicker she finished, the quicker she could continue her investigation of Buffy Summers. "I did not detect any weapons on her, but she could easily have had one or two concealed in her jacket. She move like she's had some training, though, and I did notice scars on her hands that I suspect she received from striking an opponent." Ziva had a few of those; so did Gibbs. She'd never looked at Director Vance's hands long enough to see if he had them as well. "One last thing." Ziva lowered her eyes, still feeling a little embarrassed by her slip. "Summers managed to approach me, close enough that she could whisper in my ear; I did not detect her until she spoke. That does not happen often."
Gibbs was a little surprised by this; then again, sometimes circumstances and environment precluded the ability to sense someone approaching. He and Vance shared a brief look. Vance leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
"Is there anything else, Agent David?"
"I do not believe that she is a threat – to us – though she warned me to be careful as she wouldn't always be able to meet us at the scenes of our investigations at the same time as us and there may be threats."
Vance nodded. "Alright. You mentioned that you put a tracker on her motorcycle – follow her for today, maybe she'll lead us to some answers better than her name and birth date."
Ziva nodded.
"Take DiNozzo," Gibbs added. "Maybe she's not a threat, but until I have proof telling me otherwise – I don't plan on trusting her."
On the I 495
"Any ideas on where she's going now," Tony asked, sounding a little bored. "She's already done the coffee shop, bakery, bank and market – and what have we learned? Nada. Zip. Zilch. A big fat-"
"Tony, enough!" Ziva zipped past the car ahead of them and pulled back into the express lane. Wherever Summers was going, she was going there fast. Not that they could lose her, the tracker on her bike guaranteed that, but Ziva didn't want to fall too far behind in case Summers parked somewhere and continued on foot or, worse, continued in another vehicle.
She glanced at Tony and offered a little reassurance. "We have found something about Summers – where she lives and where she banks. McGee is accessing that information now."
Tony stared out the window and smiled slowly. "When did you become the rational part of this partnership?"
"I have always been rational, Tony. You have just been too irrational to notice." Ziva waited for the retort; when none came, she glanced at Tony and frowned. "What? No witty response?"
Tony shook his head. "Nope. Disappointed?"
It was Ziva's turn to withhold her response. She checked the laptop's display again; the red circle, indicating Summers, was still moving along the I 495, half a mile ahead of them.
"So, what's she like," Tony asked.
"Who?"
"Madonna," Tony dead-panned. "Summers – you know, the woman we're tailing?"
"Oh. Sorry. I haven't had much sleep."
Tony turned his head and studied her profile. "Still having the dreams?" She nodded. "Ask the doctor for something to help you sleep."
"No. Drugs would make me sleep too well. I do not like having my awareness dulled."
"Uh, Ziva, I hate to break it to you but, what do you think not sleeping is doing to your awareness? Think about it."
Ziva's jaw tightened, she really didn't like it when Tony was right. She checked the display again and frowned.
"She's getting off the 495. It looks like she's taking the I 66." She turned her eyes back to the road. "Where does that go?"
Tony looked at the map on the display. "Manassas? She's going to Manassas?" He sounded incredulous. "Why?"
Ziva pulled into the right lane. "I do not know. I guess we'll find out, won't we?"
"Why the hell is she going to an airport?"
"I don't know, Tony. Perhaps she's taking flying lessons."
They were following a black tarmac drive past a long row of metal hangars. According to the display on the laptop, Summers had stopped at the south west end of the last hanger; Ziva turned into the drive and slowed. They could see Summer's bike and Summers, carrying something in each hand; she was approaching the hangar calmly.
Tony glanced at Ziva. "Well? How do you want to do this?"
"I brought a video camera. Let's see what Summers is up to."
