PART ONE (1 of 2)


September 15, 2015

Gibbs stood at his mailbox, separating the important stuff from the junk stuff. A few bills, a letter from USAA, a vehicle trade-in offer, pages of dollar store flyers. Something smaller fell to the concrete. Frowning, Gibbs stooped to pick it up. It was a postcard. Colorful, a painting of a woman at market surrounded by fruit. "Cartagena Magica" it read.

When he flipped it over, he immediately recognized the handwriting. A loopy kind of chicken scratch that seemed to defy an expensive boarding school upbringing.

The message wasn't long. A handful of words.

Gibbs,
How did it feel,
getting away with it?

Yours,
Tony


July 8, 2015

Five a.m.

Zoe was still asleep in the bedroom, naked on disheveled sheets, but Tony hadn't slept since he'd woken inexplicably at quarter to three. He hadn't slept well for the past month. Not at all some nights, and he looked it: dark smudges under his eyes, skin sallow and sagging on his face, posture slumped.

He tried running himself tired at night. Tried taking hot baths to calm frayed nerves. Tried a bunch of other things that were supposed to be "relaxing": Reading. Meditating. Cooking. Sex.

Zoe plied him with the sex, and often, which always used to be fun. But now it was as fun as brushing his teeth or vacuuming. Necessary, but not entirely pleasurable. Like a chore, or a favor.

Getting older, he told himself.

Now when he wanted to unwind, he went to the gun range and shot up paper targets that looked vaguely person-shaped. He could shoot for hours, if he let himself. It was the only thing that seemed to work, watching bullets punch through paper.

He wore nothing but boxer shorts as he filled a coffee mug, quarter hazelnut creamer, three quarters actual coffee. He sat on the couch, TV on but muted. It filled the small room with jumping bright light.

By now, Zoe's place felt familiar. He knew his way around the kitchen and the living room, and most nights he stayed over, he waited until she was awake before leaving for work, if he could. He thought it would be weird dating an old friend, someone he hadn't seen or talked to for years, but they'd picked up where they left off. Joked and teased with easy familiarity. Even their arguments were familiar.

He stared at the wall, stared at the faces broadcasting the early morning news, sipped coffee and thought about going on a run. There wouldn't be anymore sleeping this morning, and besides, he had to leave for work in a couple hours.

Maybe he'd make breakfast for Zoe. Surprise her with French toast or something equally unhealthy—an apology drenched in butter, cinnamon and syrup after he could barely get it up last night in bed.

Again.

He was tired. Distracted. That's what he told Zoe. That was his excuse. And that's what he honestly hoped it was. Most nights now they made do with only lazy kissing. If Zoe was disappointed, she never let it show.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table. He jumped for it; anything for another distraction from the endless rounds through anxiety and paranoia.

"Hi," he answered, recognizing the number.

"Did I wake you?" asked the woman on the other end of the call.

"No," he said, keeping his voice quiet. He sat back on the couch and rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm already up. You okay? What's going on?"

"Can't sleep. You?"

"Same."

"Can I come over?"

"Uh, now's not really a good time."

"I'm already outside your building."

Tony squeezed the bridge of his nose. "I'm not there."

"Oh."

"Yeah." He heard Zoe shifting around on the bed in the other room. "Look, I gotta go."

"You said I could call you whenever," she pressed.

"I know. I did. And you can. You should. Whenever you need to."

"Okay. Talk soon."

Tony disconnected the call and looked up to find Zoe standing half-dressed in the doorway. He smiled and stood up to embrace her.

"Who was that?" she asked, tone conversational.

"Work," he lied as he kissed the side of her mouth. "Which is what I should be getting ready for."

"It's early. Did you sleep at all?"

"Yeah."

She patted his stubbled cheek and headed for the adjoining kitchen. "You look like death warmed up in the microwave."

"Thanks." Tony sipped at his lukewarm coffee as she rooted around for something in the refrigerator. The sweetness of the creamer made his jaw ache.

"You know," she said, "I realize that communication was never your strong suit, Tony, but you know I speak and understand English, right?"

Tony kept sipping. One thing he always liked about Zoe was her snark. That had definitely remained intact over the years.

"And if there's something bothering you, we can talk about it. We need to talk about things." She was making a lot of noise.

"We talk about a lot of things."

"We talk about movies, television shows, guns, how fake the channel 4 news guy's toupee looks, what to have for dinner…"

"Those sound like great things to talk about."

"Where in the—?" Zoe swore at the refrigerator.

"On the counter," Tony answered, then said, "I feel like we've had this discussion before."

"There it is. Thank you. And yes, we have." She soon joined him on the couch, coffee of her own in hand. She looked at his face, as if searching for some kind of clue. "You're just… off. Have been since you got back. Since your boss got shot." Then she shook her head. "I'm just worried."

"Don't worry." He grinned, boyish and charming and toothy. "It'll give you wrinkles."

"Fine." She slapped his leg. "You mailed the Netflix thing, right?"

"Yup," he nodded. "What's next on the list?"

"A Clockwork Orange."

"I probably own that movie," Tony said.

"I love that movie."

It was a weird movie to love, but it was yet another reason their relationship worked.

Zoe leaned into him, kissed him, and he relaxed. With lazy words she said, "Date tonight? Here."

And he said, "okay," as he returned her kiss, hand wandering down her belly, skin hot to the touch. For a moment, maybe he could forget. Maybe he could promise her that everything was all right.


Ellie Bishop tapped a pen against her desk as she chewed on a granola bar. She stared at the empty space, Gibbs' empty desk, across the way, largely untouched since that day about a month ago. Seemed longer, somehow. Time had slowed without the immediate threat of The Boss.

The Boss didn't suffer fools gladly. He demanded. He ordered. He knew what he wanted, and he knew how to go about getting it. He pushed them. Everybody on his team had their place, their use—and they all knew where they fit.

Ellie thought at first she'd chafe against that style of leadership. But soon she'd grown to depend on it. Here, she wasn't just an analyst. Here, she couldn't simply get lost in her own head over some obscure problem or question. Here, she needed to be pushed and challenged and watched.

Here, she was a field agent who carried a weapon, who served warrants, who investigated real crimes in real time.

"It's weird without Gibbs here," she said out loud.

"I know," McGee agreed, mildly. He'd spent the past hour re-organizing his email inbox... for the third time this week. He'd gone through several documents pertaining to a few recently closed cases, and a fresh lead on a cold case had led them to nothing but more dead ends. In between that, there was the tip line, which typically brought forth nobody but busy-bodies and crazy people—adultery, adultery, adultery. An ex hanging around too often. Midnight liaisons. Domestic disputes. Sexual harassment.

And there was paperwork. Always paperwork.

With Gibbs out on medical leave after the Iraq incident, Tony had taken on the role of acting team lead. Tony and McGee had decided to share the bulk of the paperwork, throwing a few scraps Ellie's way as well. She needed the experience. She was happy for it. The guys laughed at her enthusiasm over filling out an office supply requisition form.

"It's so—" Ellie went on.

"Don't say it," Tony warned from his own desk. He had arrived before them, and he hadn't moved much since eight a.m. He had that smile on his face, a bit painted on and forced. Like he was afraid that if he stopped smiling, somehow something would break, and maybe the earth would stop turning and they'd all fall off. Or something like that. So he thought he ought to keep smiling, just to be safe.

That was Ellie's own creative interpretation. She knew there was a lot she didn't know about Tony. And any further attempts to get to know him were foiled by that same plastic grin. Whenever she complained to McGee about something Tony'd done or said, he always explained, voice conciliatory, "You've got to get to know him…" And she always wanted to snap, "That's the problem!"

Watching Tony now, Ellie played dumb. "Say what? Quiet?"

Tony shot her a look. "Great."

"Aren't you bored?" Ellie asked him. If she was bored, he had to be. They all had to be.

"The boss'll be back soon enough. Then you'll regret ever missing him," Tony deadpanned. He winked at her.

Tony didn't lead like Gibbs. He encouraged close collaboration. He and McGee called the little meetings "campfires" with knowing looks pointed at each other. (Bosom buddies, those two. A shared past.) Ellie didn't mind the campfires. It worked better than shouting across the bullpen. And sometimes it felt better to be talked with than talked at.

But still—Gibbs pushed her. Tony didn't, either because he didn't have the time, didn't know how, or simply didn't want to. He coached her, sure, let her do things, too. But mostly he left her alone.

He even let her sit on the floor with her earbuds in. He didn't seem to care.

She missed Gibbs.

The phone on his empty desk rang.

"See what you've done?" McGee said as Tony leapt up to grab it.

Leaning awkwardly over the desk, Tony answered with enthusiasm, "Gibbs' desk, this is very special acting team lead Anthony Di—" He stopped, smile fading as he listened.

McGee and Ellie exchanged worried looks.

"Yes, sir," Tony finally said, scribbling something on a post-it note. "Got it... I understand." He hung up the phone, thrust the post-it note in McGee's lap, and reached under his own desk for his backpack. "I need you to McGPS that. Quick like a bunny."

McGee looked at the note on which Tony had hastily scribbled an address. He didn't know exactly where it was, but he knew it was somewhere near the harbor. "New case?"

"That was Vance," Tony said, as he attached his holster to his belt.

Ellie seemed confused. "I thought he was on vacation with his kids."

"Back early. He wants us on this case. A bad case. Someone he knows, personally." Tony was already headed for the elevator. "Dead kid."

McGee followed him quickly. Ellie scrambled after them, saying as the door slid closed, "Why'd he call Gibbs' phone?"

"Because technically, he's still the boss," Tony said, before challenging, "But if you don't think we can handle it without him, I suggest you just stay here, Bishop. Otherwise, you can shut up and follow orders. Got it?"

McGee raised his brows at Tony's strong language but didn't move to intervene.

Ellie didn't bark back. She simply nodded and said, "I got it."

The doors opened, revealing the parking garage and beyond that, bright morning sunlight and warm summer air.

"Good," Tony said, trying to relieve the tension that had built up amongst the three of them. "Last one to the truck buys us all lunch."


Nine a.m.

The temperature hovered between early morning cool and noon-time hot. Humid yet still breezy. Pale blue sky, cloudless. Haze gone for now, until the afternoon, when the pollution would rise from the pavement downtown and spread.

The NCIS Medical Examiner's van was already on scene by the time the team arrived. Jimmy Palmer gave them a jaunty wave from where he readied the gurney and gathered a few other sundry items needed to move a body from dumping ground to morgue.

Tony parked the truck on the shoulder of the gravel access road. Several patrol cars also lined the road. A few metro, a couple county, one harbor security. Local police had long been active here, taping off the area, securing the scene, flagging down potential witnesses.

A few late morning joggers, all in tight pants and headbands, had stopped to gawk, and a couple boats headed out for the bay idled slowly, drifting at a speed that matched the lazy breeze. Tony could see Dr. Mallard's stooped form out on the end of the rock jetty; he crouched down over something. A detective gingerly made his way back toward the road, cheap loafers likely no match for slick boulders.

"Tim, can you liaise with these cops?" Tony asked. Then he turned to Ellie, who had the camera already in hand, ready. "Take pictures. Remember what I told you. We need close ups, but we also need perspective. Better to take too many than not enough."

She nodded.

While McGee intercepted the detective, Tony stepped over the small metal fence, more decoration than security, and navigated the boulders to get to Ducky, Ellie following a few feet behind.

The veteran ME had a dark look on his face that didn't quite fit with the beautiful, sunny day on the harbor. "Tony," he greeted simply.

Tony looked down at what Ducky had been crouching over.

The blow flies had gotten here before anybody else. They swarmed wildly in the air above and congregated near the eyes, the nostrils, the mouth.

The child's body, naked and half-wrapped in a sheet, was wedged between two black boulders. Water lapped over her forehead, eyes half open, and blond hair fanned out around it. Tony could already see the dark bruising on her throat. He swallowed hard and rubbed his fingers just below his mouth.

Ellie must have already taken a look, too, because she'd moved away to vomit her morning granola bar into the harbor, camera still clutched closely to her chest.

Now everything stunk like vomit, shit, death and harbor water. A few seagulls flapped around high above, screaming and crying, and mixed with them, the crows. White and black against blue.

"Seems our killer was not entirely familiar with the tidal patterns here, or the fact that the area is heavily traveled by boaters," Ducky was saying. "I'm sure he—or she—expected the body to be washed away by now."

"Or maybe he wanted it to be found. Eventually."

"It's possible," Ducky nodded, squinting up at Tony. "Guilt."

"Notoriety," Tony countered, then he asked, "ID?"

"Yes. The detective I spoke to confirmed this is the missing child of marine—"

"Lewis Wilson," Tony finished. "Director Vance gave us a friendly early morning call. Said this is high priority. Personal friend, I guess."

"Ah," Dr. Mallard nodded. "The highest priority. It's difficult for me to evaluate further here, considering the position of our poor child. I'll have better luck in autopsy."

"Strangled," Tony said. "Abrasions on the wrists."

"Yes. Even from here that is apparent," Ducky spoke slowly, like he had a lingering bad taste in his mouth.

Tony turned to Ellie, who still looked three shades too pale. "You okay taking photos?"

"Yes," she lied, taking an uncoordinated step forward.

He shook his head and reached to take the camera. "I'll take them. You go help McGee."

Ellie frowned. "I can do it. I'm fine."

"You're not fine." Tony took the camera from her anyway, and she didn't exactly resist giving it up to him. "You're human. It's okay."

She looked ashamed.

"It's okay," he repeated. "Really."

Nodding, she headed in the opposite direction, away from the dead little girl covered in blow flies.

Tony got to work, choosing his footing on the boulders carefully as he angled himself and the camera for the best shots of the body. He felt Ducky watching him.

Ducky said, "Maybe the question should be, are you okay?"

Tony, too engrossed in his work to take his eyes from it, answered, "Why wouldn't I be?" He crouched, balancing on the edge. "I'm fucking fantastic. Beautiful day. Blue sky. Great view from here. Great park to run in. All the looky-loos over there have the right idea."

Ducky clucked a tongue at Tony's gallows humor.

"I dated a woman who lived in this neighborhood, right down there," Tony said. "She had a really nice house and huge—" Tony stopped himself, remembering he was in polite company. But not before cupping the air in front of his chest with one hand. "Not cheap, you know? Quality assets."

"Ah." Ducky held onto Tony's arm as he leaned a bit too far and almost lost his balance.

"Not the typical spot to drop your dead bodies. So much traffic." Tony frowned.

Ducky mused, "I suspect we will all be feeling this one."

"Well, you know what they say." Tony studied the pink bandaid on the girl's thumb and the colored marker stains on her hands. The bandaid had started to peel, and the stains had started to fade. "When you stop feeling, it's time to reconsider what you're doing."

After that, Tony stayed quiet, and so did Dr. Mallard. There wouldn't be any random encyclopedic facts, no witty repartee or in-depth recollections this morning. Silence was good enough for now. Good enough for the both of them. A sense of uneasiness settled between them.

"Are you sure you're well?" Ducky asked again.

"Yeah," Tony answered easily, smiling. "Of course."

By the time Jimmy and a few other helpful hands brought the portable gurney out to the body, Tony had made it back to the road, where he stood, staring with a faraway look on his face at the sailboats and yachts tethered in the marina. They were expensive, some of them the million-dollar type of yacht. A rich man's dumping ground? Random? Convenient?

"Tony?" McGee interrupted his thousand-mile stare with a troubled look of his own.

Tony turned his way, then asked, "Metro have anything to share?"

"They ID'd the body," McGee said. "Lucile Wilson. Likely killed elsewhere, then dumped here. Somebody would have heard otherwise. They say this area's popular with early-morning joggers and bicyclists, and there are houses nearby. Metro's been all over the marina asking questions."

Tony nodded. He squinted back toward where he left Ducky. He and Jimmy didn't have an enviable task.

"They had K9 out here earlier," McGee added. "Lost the track at the road."

"Any security cameras in the area?"

"In the marina, yeah, but not over here."

"Where's Bishop?" Tony then asked. His mind was all over the place. He found it hard to focus.

It was the dead kid, maybe. The blow flies swirling in a black cloud.

"Oh," McGee paused, wondering if he ought to cover for her. But then he shook his head. Tony looked more than a bit thrown off himself. There was nothing routine about looking at a dead child tossed out like last night's trash. "She said she needed a moment. She's in the truck. I'm gonna help Ducky and Palmer."

Tony did find Ellie in the truck. Not up front, but in the back, door swung wide open, sitting crosslegged amongst all of the strapped down crates of crime scene supplies. She had her head in her hands, and it looked like she was studying the scuffs on her shoes. She must have heard Tony's footsteps in the gravel, because she looked up and met his eyes.

"Taking a break?" he asked.

"I wanted to reorganize some of this stuff," she replied. "You know, for easier access and all..."

Tony gave her a soft and encouraging smile. Maybe he'd been a bit too rough on her earlier, back at NCIS. He liked Ellie. Liked where her heart was, although sometimes her head was a bit behind. She was smart, yes. Brilliant, even. But field smart? Not so much. Not yet.

Gibbs had done a good job with her, but he hadn't left a blueprint of his training method for Tony. Maybe she'd figure the rest of it out on her own, or maybe McGee'd take her on. Tony didn't have the energy for it right now.

"Wanted to get my mind off..." She frowned. "But that's probably the wrong answer. I should have my mind on this. Should be helping us get to the bottom of this. That child—"

"Yeah, she's dead," Tony interrupted. "She was killed by a bad person, and we're gonna catch that bad person and they're gonna get what they deserve. That's our job. Simple. Not our job to internalize everything, or dwell on how evil all of this is."

Pot, meet kettle. But what Tony found easy these days was lying. Maybe that was something his old self would've believed. No internalizing… No dwelling…

"You were right. I couldn't take those pictures," Ellie admitted.

"Like I said, that's fine. We work as a team. You can't do it? Ask a teammate. Tim, me, Gibbs - if he were here."

"I couldn't even function after I saw... that. I don't understand. This isn't my first dead child. I mean, there was that boy who blew up the bus—"

"Stop being so hard on yourself. This is still new to you, but soon it'll be old news. So, buck up and learn from it."

"And I thought shooting and killing a man would be the hardest part about this job," Ellie said before letting out a dark laugh. She rubbed her face, then looked back at Tony. "Thanks. Just needed to..."

"I get it. We've all been where you are, sitting in the truck and re-organizing stuff."

Ellie didn't look so sure.

"Tim spent a whole week in here once."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Tony nodded sagely, winking.

McGee rounded the back of the truck, saying, "They're all set." When he saw the two of them gazing seriously at each other, he paused.

Tony clapped Tim's shoulder and squeezed it. "Speak of the devil."

"Everything okay?" Tim asked.

Ellie grinned. "Tony was just telling me how you spent a whole week in the truck re-organizing."

Tim gave both of them a sour look. "It was a mess."

"That's what they all say," Tony said as he gave them a fake smile. "Just another day in paradise. So, who's buying lunch?"

None of them felt much like eating lunch, let alone buying it. So Tony pointed the truck back toward the Navy Yard. Tony fiddled with the radio, changing stations every five minutes, before McGee finally switched it off. They sat in silence for the remainder of the ride.


Back in the bullpen, they went over the preliminary evidence and the crime scene photos Tony had taken. Ellie excused herself for a bathroom break afterward. McGee watched her go, and then looked at Tony who seemed suddenly engrossed in a piece of paper he'd found on Gibbs' desk.

"You think she's okay?" Tim asked.

Tony answered, "No." Then asked, "After seeing that, are you okay?"

"No," Tim admitted.

"Good. Wouldn't be right, feeling okay about this," Tony stood up and left.

"Tony—"

"I want you to call Lewis Wilson," Tony said over his shoulder. He wanted to avoid what he knew was coming. Wanted to avoid all of the 'are you okays.' "I want him to know we'll be coming by for a visit. But first, make sure someone's already informed him about his kid."

McGee scrolled through the crime scene photographs for a fifth time. Dead. Dead. Dead. Death from different angles. Flies. Bruises. All of the frames nicely in focus. Perfect.

He picked up the phone.


Abby Sciuto had him in a bone-crushing hug before he'd fully passed through the sliding glass doors. She shouted, "Tony!" which barely managed to pass through the deafening racket of The Twisted Clowns, or whatever the hell she listened to these days.

Tony rocked back to absorb her forward momentum and wrapped his arms around her. When she let him go, still hanging on to his elbows, she leaned forward to kiss his cheek.

Ever since he'd been back, Abby had taken to doing this, greeting him as if she wasn't sure she'd see him again. It made Tony smile, each and every time. And this smile was real, small and genuine and it reached his eyes where it seemed to stick whenever one caught the other's gaze.

They loved each other, really, the kind of quiet, gentle love of close friends.

Tony was saying something, but Abby couldn't hear him over the music. So she turned and put the noise on mute. Then, too loudly, she asked, "What's up?"

"Need to know what you have so far," Tony said, looking over her shoulder at the lab equipment and the computer.

"Not much," she began. "But then I've just received it."

"McGee and I gotta go see the father."

Abby frowned then hugged him again, this time gentler.

"Hey," Tony shrugged her off. "It's just another day, Abs."

She watched him, eyes doubtful, knowing.

"What?" he asked.

She didn't say it. She didn't ask if he was 'okay.' If he was fine, or well, or still sane and in control of his mental and emotional faculties. She was Abby, so she skipped right for the meat of the issue: "People say that, Tony, and then the next day they're completely off their rocker."

"I'm firmly on my rocker, Abby," Tony assured her. His voice had a sharp edge to it that didn't invite further conversation.

"Just saying." She wandered over to her computer. "You know, I wish people would quit just dumping bodies into the bay. People totally swim in that water. I swim in that water."

"Thank you for that astute observation, Erin Brockovitch."

Abby turned on her heel and glared at him. "Like I said, I don't have anything yet. I pulled some DNA from the sample taken from the body." She looked back at the monitor. "I'm running it through CODIS. It's gonna take a bit. Give it time."

"No push?" Tony asked, brows raised.

Abby clucked her tongue. "Look, my lab here has the fastest DNA turn-around in the east. So you, mister, just need to be patient. Science—" she waved her hands around at the lab, "—rushes for no one."

"So I guess we'll have to rely on old-fashioned police-work for now," Tony said, chewing his lip as he watched the computer. "Gut feelings, bad takeout, and heartburn."

Abby hugged him again, just because.

"I'm gonna get bruises from you," Tony said with a small laugh. "What would I tell Zoe?"

"You tell her I came first."

He laughed even louder, and suddenly he felt okay again, like his old self, whoever that was.

Abby punched him in the arm. "Better get on it, DiNozzo."

"Yeah," Tony said, "Guess I should."


Lewis and Tracy Wilson's home was located on a quiet stretch of leafy neighborhood. The homes were all single story ranch style, and the yards were well-maintained. Tony pulled the agency-issued Charger up to the curb in front of a light blue house. Number 295.

The lawn was immaculate and had been perfectly edged. The flower beds had been re-mulched. Pansies in multiple colors were in full-bloom, although they'd started to flag a bit in the heat. A healthy cherry tree also bloomed in the side yard, spent pink petals ringing the grass around it.

"This it?" Tony asked.

McGee looked down at his phone's GPS, then at the mailbox number. "Looks like it. House number 295."

"Man, this guy's yard puts Gibbs' to shame," Tony remarked, putting the car in park and shutting off the engine.

They both stepped out of the car and walked up the front path.

"Look at that," Tony went on, pointing at the edge of the concrete walkway. "Not a single blade of grass out of place."

"Amazing," McGee said with thick sarcasm. "Can we be serious now?"

"If you insist, McGrumps."

"I am not—"

Tony put a hand on his arm.

McGee looked at him, confused. "What?"

"I hate this part."

McGee paused to consider Tony. "Yeah," he agreed. "So do I. But it's—"

"Part of the job. Right." Tony looked like he'd rather donate a testicle.

Tim could relate as he knocked on the door with an impending feeling of doom, and they both waited patiently as a dog barked inside. The stars and stripes fluttered on a flag pole nearby. Tony straightened his tie, and McGee brushed away some lint on his own sleeve.

The door cracked open revealing a woman with puffy red eyes and greasy-looking hair. "Hello?" she asked with hesitation.

"Tracy Wilson?" McGee asked.

She nodded.

"I'm Special Agent Timothy McGee, and this is Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo—" They both showed their NCIS IDs. The woman looked at them with distant, vacant interest. "We're from NCIS, and we'd like to express our condolences for your loss."

"Yes... Right," Mrs. Wilson replied airily.

"We'd also like," Tony spoke up, "to talk to you about your daughter and the circumstances surrounding her abduction and…" He stopped himself because he thought saying the word "murder" might push the woman over the edge. She already looked like she was peering over it. "…her death," he said instead. "I know it's a bad time, but anything at all you two can share with us will help with the investigation."

"Yes," Mrs. Wilson said again. "Of course." She seemed to be a million miles away, mentally and emotionally.

"Is your husband home?" Tony asked.

"He's putting the dog out back. She's... not fond of strangers," Tracy said as she opened the door wider, inviting them inside. "Please. Come in." She had short blond hair and a tall, reedy figure. Her swaying gait was reminiscent of a cattail caught in a breeze. She pointed vaguely at the living room love-seat. "Feel free to sit down. I'll go get Lew." She wandered down the hall, footsteps quiet, mouse-like.

Soon, Lewis strode into living room, extending a hand immediately towards Tony first, and then McGee. "Tracy said y'all were from NCIS?" he asked, getting straight to the point.

"Yes, sir," Tony replied. "Special Agents McGee and DiNozzo. We shared our condolences with your wife."

Lewis Wilson gave them a blank look. And then, as if just now remembering what had happened, his face grew dark. "Thank you," he murmured. The man, dressed in loose BDUs and a faded USMC t-shirt, looked like he hadn't slept in a year. He had closely cropped brown hair, high and tight, but still long enough that when he ran his hand through the top of it, it looked a bit wild. "Sit, sit," he insisted, waving at the love-seat. "What can I do for? What have you found? I wanna help. It's been torture sitting here at home, since that phone call…"

"Well," Tony started. "First we'd like some information—"

"Of course, of course."

"When was the last time you saw your daughter?"

Lewis nodded, and said, "Yesterday morning, before I left for the base."

"What about your wife?"

"Same. She works at the elementary school. Kids are out for the summer, but the teachers are still workshopping. We had..." Lewis ran a hand over his face, as if he regretted every decision he'd made in the last twenty-four hours. "We had the neighbor girl come over to watch Lucy. She always babysits for us. Never had a problem. Lucy is a smart girl. Good kid. Always.

"We came back around four, Tracy and me. Amanda — that's the neighbor girl. She'd fallen asleep on the couch. She told us Lucy was playing out back with Hella — that's our dog. We couldn't find Lucy anywhere, and Hella was locked up in the shed, barking her head off. Asked Amanda why she hadn't heard the damn dog.

"We called the cops. They came, but... Lucy is eight. She knows better than to go off to a friend's house without letting the sitter know," Lewis shook his head. "Cops said maybe she ran away. I said there's no way… No way in hell…"

"Do you think she would've gone with a stranger?" McGee asked.

"No. Never. And that dog? She hates strangers. She would've taken a bite out'f them."

"Blood on the dog?" McGee said.

"No. I checked her over. Nothing."

McGee nodded, then changed the prior question. "What about someone she knew?"

Lewis stared now at his knee, as if running through all of the possible scenarios. All of the mistakes he'd thought he made. "I don't—" His voice trailed off, before finding itself again. "I don't know. But I do know she didn't run away. We were supposed to go to the movies today. Her birthday is next week. I got up this morning and I made her a piece of peanut butter toast. And for lunch, I made a sandwich for her, just how she likes it. She wasn't here to eat them, but I made them anyway. I keep thinking of all the things I should be doing for Lucy right now. I feel like she'll walk through the back door with that dog, and she'll have dirt on her knees and elbows, and she'll be hungry for another sandwich... None of this is real right now. Y'all gotta understand." The man looked incredibly close to tears right now, and from a back bedroom, the sound of sobbing from Lucy's mother was loud and clear.

"This is what I'd like you to do for us," Tony began, carefully.

"Anything. Anything at all," Lewis nodded.

"We'd like you to put together a list of anybody — I mean, anybody — who you think might've done this to Lucy. I want you to email it to me." Tony leaned over with his NCIS business card. "Send 'em as you think of them. Start with the neighbor girl—"

"Amanda?" Lewis seemed skeptical. "She wouldn't—"

"We need to cast a wide net here," McGee added. "We don't want to overlook any possibilities. Remember, it's probably someone who knows your home and property. Someone your daughter knew and may have trusted. Someone who knew the dog."

"Get with your wife. She may know other people to consider," Tony said before assuring, "We'll do everything we can on our end."

"You'd better," a voice suddenly came from the hallway. Tracy Wilson, face a picture of desolate despair, leaned against the doorway like it was the only thing holding her up. But her eyes — despite the puffy redness brought on from hours of tears — held a special kind of anger. "You find the monster who killed our baby."

"That's our job, ma'am." Tony stood up. "You mind if we take a look around? Out back?"

Lewis looked up from the floor. "Yeah. Yes, sure, of course."

The backyard was as neat as the front yard, with the exception of the yellow spots from all the dog piss. Lewis had locked the dog in the concrete run, which was flanked by the back-end of the property and the wooden shed. The dog, buff-colored and leggy and with a tongue that hung nearly to her chest, paced back and forth, watching the house. As soon as Tony and Tim stepped onto the deck, she began to bark in earnest.

After a couple minutes walking the grid, both of them sweating in the late afternoon heat, Tony saw something in the grass, right next to the unlocked gate. Cigarette butt. Could just be trash. Could be nothing. Tony picked it up with a gloved hand and slid it into a bag.

"Found something?" Tim asked from behind him, speaking loudly to be heard over the incessant barking.

"Maybe." Tony looked toward the dog, frowning. "That a Jethro dog?"

McGee shook his head. "No. That's a Malinois."

The run fence rattled as the dog began jumping up and down against it. She was almost able to reach the top of the chainlink with every upward lunge. "Bad news dog," Tony said.

"Whoever took Lucy definitely knew that dog," Tim agreed.

Tony watched the angry animal jump and bark, jump and bark. "I don't like dogs."

"Doesn't look like she likes you either."

Before leaving, Tony made sure to ask: "Either one of you smoke?" He held up the bag with the solitary cigarette butt.

Both Tracy and Lewis shook their heads, but it was Tracy who added, "The guy who comes regularly to spray for pests… I know he does."

"Josh?" Lewis seemed doubtful. But his fists clenched and unclenched regardless.

"He knows the dog, Lew."

"First one on the list," Tony said, as he and McGee headed out. "Email me."


In the car on the return trip to the Navy Yard, Tim suggested they stop for dinner.

Tony pulled into an Applebee's parking lot and let the car idle. The restaurant looked crowded. A family of three headed for the door, a little girl running ahead of them. She turned, blond pigtails swinging, face grinning…

Pink bandaid, marker stains on her hands. Real or imagined.

The father reached to grab her hand.

Tony shut off the engine. It tick tick ticked as it cooled. Neither of them moved to get out.

"You think Gibbs is gonna come back to work?" Tony suddenly asked, staring out across the lot.

"No," Tim said, truthful.

"What makes you think that?"

Tim shrugged. "Just a feeling. But you know him better than I do."

"No, I don't," Tony denied. "Not really."

Tim sighed, drummed his fingers next to the car's window. "You know you can talk to me, Tony. About anything," he said. "You've been acting strange ever since you got back from Iraq. Everybody's noticed, in case you think we haven't."

"I'm fine, McGee. I'm okay. Just tired, maybe. Stayed up too late marathon watching Orange is the New Black." Tony smiled dismissively. "Well, you wanna go eat?"

Tim kept a doubtful eye on him, but he didn't know what else to say. Tony was stubborn, he knew. They all knew that. And he also had a tough-it-out mentality that was neither healthy nor sustaining. Tim decided to drop it for now; he wasn't spoiling for a fight. "I'm not feeling very hungry after all."

"Good. Neither am I." Tony started the car up again, put it in drive.

They rode the rest of the way in silence.


The morgue doors opened, jarring Dr. Mallard from his thoughts. He knew it wasn't Jimmy Palmer; he'd been sent home to his wife and child hours ago. Nor was it Abigail; she tended to avoid this part of the building at all costs. Too many ghosts, he guessed.

His visitor had to be an agent. Someone here for answers about the girl he'd autopsied earlier today, or at least here for the pieces that could form into answers. That's what homicides were: gory puzzles. Some more difficult than others. Some left unfinished. Others solved, framed and put on the wall.

Without looking to see who it was, Ducky recognized the role he ought to take.

"What do you got, Ducky?" Tony asked.

"Lucile Wilson," Ducky began without preamble, as he'd done time and time again. "Age eight. Primary cause of death was manual strangulation. But as you can see, she has an assortment of contusions all over her body. Inflicted before death, mostly. Some post-mortem, likely caused by the act of dragging her naked body out onto that jetty. See here?"

He gently turned one of the small arms.

"Cigarette burns. And abrasions on the wrists. She was restrained and tormented. Our killer is a rather depraved individual, Jethro—" Ducky caught himself, and he looked back at DiNozzo with genuine chagrin. "I apologize, Anthony. The older I get, the harder it is adjusting to change. Not that I don't enjoy seeing your smiling face down here more often."

Tony stared at the dead kid, at the cigarette burns traveling down toward her wrists. He said, "Don't worry about it."

"I assume you've already spoken with the girl's family?" Ducky asked.

Tony put his fingers to his mouth and began to chew on his nails. "Yeah." He then ran a hand over his face, looked up at the lights and now chewed on his lip.

Ducky spoke gently, "I can feel your anxiety from over here, Tony."

Tony shot him a strong look of warning. Odd. Uncharacteristic. Subtly aggressive. And it set Ducky's nerves on edge. Where what used to be sweet friendliness was now sour, antagonistic bitterness.

He hadn't ever doubted DiNozzo's ability to hoodwink the psychological gatekeepers—those who had the ability to check "yes" or "no" on the fitness for duty survey, and Tony had certainly been put through his paces upon return from his ill-fated Zakho excursion with Gibbs.

Tony had won the fight, evidently, but this didn't exactly look like a victory to Dr. Mallard.

Because Tony was a mess, flailing under the unrelenting pressure. Ducky could see it clearly, what might come. He was a ticking time bomb.

He considered trying again, but then thought better of it. DiNozzo was finding new ways to compensate. He would sort himself out, as he usually did. They all had jobs to do, and nobody would be able to stomach screwing this one up.

Except—

"The case," Tony prompted impatiently, lest either of them forget.

"Right." Ducky put his attention back on the job. "I've sent a sample up for forensic analysis. Abby should have received it hours ago. Like I said, Tony, we're dealing with a very depraved man, and—"

"I got the point. There's a bad guy out there."

Ducky suddenly touched Tony's elbow, his hand grasping bone, muscle, and pure tension. Tony wasn't looking at him; his eyes were locked on the corpse, glued there in sick fascination. "Catch this bastard, Tony," he demanded, voice low in his throat, barbed and serious. "Catch this animal, and lock it up."

"You can count on it." Tony turned away from the dead child and took the stairs.


In the stairwell, surrounded by the echoing clang of the heavy metal door shutting him in, Tony massaged one side of his head while pulling out his cell phone. His thumb nudged it awake, tapping in the passcode. 0719. His birthday. Not exactly top secret stuff; he knew Tim wouldn't approve. Then again, he was fairly sure Tim already knew his passcode.

One missed call, from the number that had called early this morning. Was it still the same day?

He called Zoe first. She was still at work, so her phone rang straight to voicemail. "Yeah, hey, it's me. We're gonna have to cancel tonight. I, uh. Something's come up. Work stuff. You know how it is. Ah, so yeah. I'll call you later. Or you can call me." He paused awkwardly. "I love you."

Tony hit end, pocketed the phone.

He rested his head against the wall, soaked up the fake fluorescent lighting, and closed his eyes. It took him a bit to realize how badly his hands were shaking.


Eight p.m. and Gibbs' residential street enjoyed a summertime calm. Nothing but the smell of barbecue, the sounds of barking dogs, laughter and splashes from a backyard pool, and the thwap thwap thwap of a basketball slapping a neighbor's driveway pavement.

Tony needed some calm, and almost on instinct, he'd headed here.

He hadn't heard from the boss in a few days. The silence was disconcerting. Maybe El Jefe needed another good prod, or several. A few more rude prying questions. The DiNozzo Special Treatment.

Thunderclouds had built up to the south. They flashed and rumbled, but stayed where they were. Far off and black. Outside the car, Tony immediately started to sweat. Humidity hung suspended like a wet, warm cloth. He loosened his tie and shrugged out of the dark gray suit jacket. He could already feel the moisture staining his armpits and rolling down his sides.

Tony'd let himself in, closing the front door loudly and draping his jacket on one of the chairs at the kitchen table. The house smelled like baked frozen pizza, wood shavings, and lacquer. A distinctive Jethro Gibbs kind of homey.

He helped himself to a beer and a slice of coagulated and congealed pizza, long gone cold and probably growing bacteria en masse under the oven hood's weak light.

He heard laughter from the basement, and voices, pounding and scraping.

As Tony chewed slowly, he spotted the purple backpack leaned against the table leg. He rested his hip against the cabinets and shoved more pizza into his mouth. He'd eaten breakfast on-the-go and they'd all skipped lunch and dinner. Right now, he was willing to eat the entire remains of the pizza plus the cardboard box it came in.

"Hey DiNozzo!" Gibbs shouted from below. "You here to raid my fridge, or are you gonna come down here and help us?"

Tony finished the first slice, then grabbed another. He plodded obediently down the steps.

The boat looked a little more finished than the last time he saw it, and the newest (and unlikeliest) project — Emily Fornell's soap box derby car — seemed to have taken shape overnight.

"Wow, Boss," Tony spoke with his mouth full as he scanned the cramped basement. "You've kept busy."

Gibbs looked up from where he was chipping away some excess wood. He frowned faintly at Tony. "Yeah." He stood up, gimped over to the work table, grabbed something, and then limped back to the wooden car.

Emily sat cross-legged on the table, drawing on a large white piece of paper. She looked up and said, "Hey."

"Hey yourself, kid." Tony ate the last of the pizza and wiped his hand on his pants. He smiled at her, and leaned over to catch a look at what she was drawing. She pulled it away.

"Everything okay?" Gibbs asked casually, keeping his eyes on his work.

Tony sat on the steps and took a swig of his beer. "Can't complain." He looked briefly at Emily — who was again engrossed in her drawing — and then back at Gibbs. "Just work stuff."

"Don't censor yourselves on my account," Emily deadpanned.

Gibbs nodded and tossed Tony a piece of sandpaper. "Better get sanding then, DiNozzo."

Tony caught the sandpaper, put the beer aside, and crouched down next to the wooden car. "So, Emily, you're really getting in this thing?"

"Yeah," she answered without looking up.

"I hope it has brakes," Tony said.

Gibbs smirked.

"Brakes are a requirement," Emily said.

"And a helmet?" Tony added.

"Yes. That, too." Emily huffed out a put-upon sigh. "Ugh. You two are as bad as my dad."

"Our interests lie in keeping your brain inside your skull," Tony winked at her. "Until you're eighteen. Then you get to do whatever you want."

"Parenthood goes far beyond age eighteen, Tony," Gibbs murmured.

Tony felt Gibbs' eyes on him, but he didn't look his way, choosing only to shrug, continue his sanding, and admit, "What do I know?" His hand slipped and the rough grain bit his finger hard. Tony inspected the small shard of wood planted in his finger meat. "Ouch."

Gibbs grabbed him by the wrist and dragged his hand under the bright light.

"I have bandaids in my backpack," Emily offered brightly, already hopping off the table and heading up the stairs.

"Grab a tweezers, too, will you," Gibbs called after her.

"I can get it out on my own, Boss. Just a splinter."

Gibbs ignored him, choosing rather to turn Tony's finger under the light, inspecting the splinter and determining how best to extract it.

Tony rolled his eyes and watched him, noticing how much he'd let his hair grow out. He had a gray five o'clock shadow well underway on his face. He wore casual clothes. Jeans and a ratty, stained old NIS t-shirt. He didn't appear especially stressed or troubled. If anything, he looked at peace. Which was strange.

He almost opened his mouth to say something, ask something, but then Emily bounded back down the steps with tweezers, alcohol, and a handful of bandaids.

She watched while Gibbs performed minor surgery on Tony's unlucky middle finger. He dumped some alcohol on it, only saying afterward, "This is gonna sting."

Tony squeaked, and puffed out a breath. "Appreciate the warning."

Emily then came at him with a bandaid.

"It doesn't need a bandaid," Tony said, pulling his hand away.

"Don't be such a big baby!" Emily heckled.

Gibbs watched in amusement, shaking his head as he settled back down to work. He warned, "DiNozzo, take the damn bandaid."

Emily took his hand, wrapped his finger, and said, "Better?"

Tony stared at it and maybe he nodded, but he couldn't know, because suddenly his mind was elsewhere.

Pink bandaid.

Marker stains, fading.

Gray skin.

Bruised.

Cigarette burns.

Hands, violent hands, wrapped around a small throat.

Choking, choking…

Pink bandaid.

It had started to peel. It had started to—

He felt a gentle hand on his bicep, and he jerked in surprise, heart skipping wildly. He heard talking, and then his name repeated a couple times.

"What? What is it?" Tony finally asked, catching himself looking right into Gibbs' eyes, which were dulled by booze or pain meds or both. He hadn't noticed that before.

Gibbs' face was close. Weirdly close. And he looked confused. "The hell's the matter with you?" Gibbs asked him.

Tony moved robotically; he pulled away. Regained some space. Forced himself back into a mold of normalcy. "Distracted. That's all. Work stuff."

"Work stuff," Gibbs repeated. He didn't pry, but he kept a wary eye on Tony.

"Where'd Emily go?" Tony asked.

"Told her to head upstairs," Gibbs said. "You zoned out for a while, just staring at your hands. What's that about?"

"Nothing." Tony completely changed the subject. "So when are you thinking of coming back to work?"

Gibbs gave him a doubtful look. 'Nothing' isn't what he had in mind. He shrugged, "If I come back, it won't be for another few weeks."

"When," Tony corrected. "When you come back."

"I got shot, DiNozzo. I'm not ready."

"You're never 'not ready'."

"Different this time. And look at yourself," Gibbs challenged. "Were you ready?"

"What's that mean? I didn't get shot."

"I'm talking about the panic attack you just had in my basement."

"You're exaggerating. It's just stress. We all feel it. Getting used to being team lead again…"

Gibbs hummed. "Right." He didn't push the subject. Some donkeys couldn't be led to water, let alone be forced to drink it.

They settled into silence. They heard Emily moving around upstairs. She turned on the television.

"So when will you 'be ready'?" Tony cocked his head. "Boss, you gotta believe that we miss your cheery presence." He smiled, although it looked wounded, in a way.

"I'm sure you do," Gibbs avoided the question, and Tony's fake smiley aesthetics. "You're doing fine as team lead, Tony. If that's your problem."

"I know that, Boss, but it's not the same."

"Yeah, well, get used to it."

"What does that mean?" Tony pressed. "You're not coming back?"

Gibbs threw his head back in irritation at Tony's persistent, one-track line of questioning. "DiNozzo—"

"Uncle Gibbs!" Emily called from the top of the stairs. "Dad's here!"

Welcoming the distraction, Gibbs yelled in reply, "Tomorrow! Six pm! I'll pick you up!"

Loud footsteps and then the front door opening and slamming shut.

There was a rumble of thunder, closer than anything before. Maybe the storm was finally on its way.

"You guys must really be into this soap box derby thing," Tony said, touching the raw wood. It still needed a lot of work.

Gibbs got up stiffly and hobbled over to the table. He shrugged. "Emily is. She needs to get her mind off... things."

"That's nice of you to get involved."

Again, Gibbs simply hummed. More silence. Tony basked in it. Maybe things could straighten back to normal. Maybe—

"You got a reason to be here?" Gibbs finally asked impatiently.

Tony got the hint that the silence meant drastically different things to them. "Just came to check in on you, I guess."

"And badger me about coming back to work."

"That's not—"

"Bullshit, Tony." He pointed a knowing finger at Tony's face. "I know you, bub. You're checking in, making sure I didn't eat my gun or drink myself blind."

Tony couldn't deny Gibbs' claims, so he said, "Is that so wrong of me? I mean, maybe this comes as a surprise to you, but people care. They care about you. People worry." Tony looked away, then muttered, "I worry."

Now that Fornell's kid was gone, Gibbs poured himself a large helping of bourbon. Tony's eyes followed him. "That's not me anymore," Gibbs said. "I've made my peace. You should, too."

"Should you be drinking?" Tony asked. "Aren't you still taking your meds?"

"Gee, DiNozzo, are you my physician now?" Gibbs picked up his hand planer and moved toward the boat.

Tony didn't take the bait, even though he knew Gibbs wanted him to, if only to derail the uncomfortable conversation. If Gibbs was disappointed by Tony's discretion, he didn't show it. He simply began ignoring him.

"You never talk about it," Tony prodded, referring to Zakho, Iraq and child suicide bombers, Luke Harris — just a kid, brainwashed and programmed to kill. Gibbs thought he could save him, protect him. It was a naive notion.

Gibbs always did have a soft spot for children.

Gibbs would have been all over this Lucy Wilson case. He certainly wouldn't be sitting here shooting the breeze with an old coworker, looking for friendship and maybe some absolution. He'd be at NCIS, working tirelessly. No sleep. No food. Just obsession to keep him going. Maybe he would have already—in only a day—found the killer, gotten the family justice.

Maybe he'd've already found the animal and shot him dead.

Gibbs was like that. Man of action.

And Tony… What the hell was Tony doing? Too fucked up and jittery to get through a day in peace. Can't sleep. Can't fuck his girlfriend. Can't get along with McGee or Ducky or Ellie. Can't do the job he promised everybody he could do.

Just limping along, screwing stuff up, having panic attacks at the sight of bandaids. He was sloppy seconds, compared to Gibbs. Right? That's what everybody was thinking. Right?

Tony repeated, "You never talk about it."

"I talk about it," Gibbs countered. "Just not with you."

"And why not? I was there." He wanted to add: I saw him shoot you, and then I shot him. Five times. Maybe six. Or more. The memory isn't all there. But he didn't. Of course Gibbs knew the basics, knew that Tony'd been forced to shoot and kill Luke Harris. But details… That would bother Gibbs, he knew, to know the intimate details. How many times Tony pulled the trigger, how much lead he'd pumped into a fifteen-year-old brainwashed weapon. What it looked like, what it smelt like, what it felt like.

"I know you were there."

"We should talk about it." I killed that kid, and I was glad I did. You couldn't even recognize him after I was done with him.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"But what if I do?" Because I really think I'm going nuts over here.

"Then find someone else!" Gibbs roared, the anger rearing up suddenly. Then he repeated, "I don't want to talk about it." He drained his glass, setting it down hard on the table. The plane scraped furiously against the wood, until it was all Gibbs could hear, his back to DiNozzo.

After a few minutes, when Gibbs' muscles began to burn and the still healing wound in his torso began to smart, he stopped. But when he turned around to pour himself another drink, Tony was gone.