"I really hope that this is the right place," Ziva complained, using gloved hands to sift through the papers on the coffee table in a room that McGee could only describe as 'a parlor'. It had an old-fashioned air about it, from the upright piano in one corner with a pile of sheet music on one end of the shelf to the floral print that was fading on the loveseat in the opposite corner. The curtains were drawn back and had been, Ziva suspected, since the morning of the murder. There was still a lot of dust around, especially in the corners of the room, but clearly some attempt had been made recently to remove a significant quantity of it.

"It is," McGee affirmed. "There's a picture of Petty Officer Johnson." He pointed to a frame on the wall which showed almost a duplicate to the head shot that he'd pulled up earlier on his laptop driving in. "Her parents must have been very proud of her."

"Who's this?" Ziva picked up a smaller photo of a man in Navy whites. He looked to be a contemporary of Johnson, with the same even features that the petty officer had possessed.

McGee didn't have to look twice. "Johnson's brother. He was killed in Afghanistan three years ago. There's no one left; this is a family that has sacrificed a lot for this country."

"And now the family is extinct." Ziva put the thought aside. It wouldn't help the investigation, railing against the unfairness of life. "These papers are six months old. Nothing recent."

"Maybe we should stop over at the post office," McGee suggested. "She probably had her mail stopped while she was at sea."

"McGee, there is no post office."

"There is, but it's probably a town or two over. Some of these small places pool their resources: schools, post offices, even police forces."

"Not this one," Ziva reminded him. "They have their own police. All four of them. Children."

"Ziva, we've only seen the chief of police. The others might have more experience."

"McGee, I do not consider the ability to herd sheep as experience in law enforcement."

McGee opened his mouth to object, and then closed it again. There was no point. Instead, he moved on to a more pertinent topic. "Where was the body found? Do you think they've cleaned it up yet?"

"It's only a crime scene," Ziva grimaced. "After all, they tried to cremate the body before we could get to it."

"True. Jimmy should be out here any time now to pick it up to bring to Ducky." McGee glanced around to see where they should be searching next. "Giving him the evidence for Abby will make Gibbs happy."

"It will keep him off our backs, you mean." Ziva's depiction fit their boss far more accurately. "There. Through the kitchen. That looks like the entrance to the cellar that the reports described." The pair moved toward the site, McGee snapping their own set of pictures to compare with the few that the Starksville police had taken.

There was a lot of blood, and flies had already moved in. Ziva waved her hand in the air to discourage a few of the more aggressive ones. "I could do without this part of the job. When will Gibbs and Tony join us?"

"They should be here before too long." Click. "There's a lot of blood. What do you think happened?" Click.

Ziva squatted to examine the pattern of blood droplets as well as the pooling of dried blood on the top step. She frowned. "McGee, get a picture of this area, on the wall."

Click. McGee obliged her. "What?"

"Do you notice anything odd?"

"Aside from the fact that there's a lot of blood all over everything?"

"Look at the pattern of droplets, McGee. What do you see?"

McGee stared, trying to understand what Ziva was looking at. It dawned on him. "You're right, Ziva. The droplets are all circular, not elongated as if she were moving."

"More than that, McGee. There is no interruption in the pattern of droplets. There was no second person here to get covered in blood spray and protect the wall." She suddenly perked up her head. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"I heard something." She pulled her gun out from her shoulder holster, ignoring the latex gloves that she was wearing.

McGee hadn't heard anything but he knew better than to doubt the Mossad agent. He carefully set down the camera and drew his own weapon, prepared to back her up. They cat-footed it to the window to investigate the sound.

It was not something either agent expected to see. This was the middle of nowhere; a car-jacking was supposed to take place in a city where it was easy to find cars. There was no evidence as to how the trio of men had arrived at this deserted homestead five miles from the nearest dwelling, only what NCIS eyes were telling them: three thieves trying to break into the rental sedan.

Ziva flung open the front door to Johnson's home and aimed her gun. "NCIS! Freeze!"

That was another unexpected item: carjackers didn't usually come ready to fire back. They tended to like to slink off into the dusk to find an easier target.

These didn't follow the rules.

One of them, already on guard, loosed a couple rounds, yelling something incomprehensible to his fellows.

Incomprehensible to McGee, but not to Ziva. She shrieked back at them, something that McGee chose to interpret as "come back here, pond scum, so that I can pound your ears into your skulls."

Not only did the carjackers not follow the rules, they elected not to adhere to Ziva's impolitely phrased requests. Firing repeatedly so that the two NCIS agents were forced to remain safe behind the walls of the Johnson abode, the three retreated to the safety of the trees.

"C'mon!" Ziva yelled. "Get them!" She dashed out into the open, McGee in her wake, dropping behind the sedan for cover. The little compact job that Johnson and Mathis had rented to drive up here was just further on, and Ziva prepared to dash to its meager cover to get closer to the carjackers.

"We should call for back up, Ziva." McGee pulled out his cell.

"No time!" Ziva popped up from behind the compact, firing a shot and running after the three into the woods, already halfway to the tree line.

The roar of a car engine reached their ears and a silver SUV shot out from the bushes.

"After them!" Ziva reversed her course, heading back for the sedan.

McGee was closer. He dove into the driver's seat—gonna let Ziva drive? Are you crazy?—and jammed the key into the ignition. The sedan's powerful V-8 revved into action. Ziva threw herself into the passenger's seat. "Go! Go!"

McGee stomped on the gas, and the sedan leaped forward, bounding over the rutted dirt drive in front of the house.

"Faster! They're getting away!"

"I've got the gas pedal down to the floor, Ziva!"

Ziva lowered her window, sticking her gun out and trying to aim. "Hold the car steady, McGee!"

"On these roads? You've got to be kidding!"

Ziva fired. "Missed!"

"We're lucky you didn't hit our own tire," McGee muttered under his breath. He begged the car for more speed, and the V-8 responded by inching up closer to the silver SUV ahead of them.

Then Ziva screeched, "Look out! They're going to—"

Bang!

The sedan slewed around. McGee fought to keep the car on the dirt road, settled for fishtailing to a stop without hitting the hundred year old oak on the side of the road.

The SUV shot merrily away into the distance. Ziva could swear that she heard the occupants laughing as they fled.

"—shoot," she finished her statement angrily. "Couldn't you dodge?"

"I was a little busy keeping the car on the road, Ziva," McGee returned sourly. He yanked at the door handle, surprised that the frame hadn't collapsed under the stress of the last few moments. He walked around to look at the front tire: flat. He kicked it, hurting his toe in the process and refusing to acknowledge it in the presence of the Israeli agent. "Did you get the license plate?"

"The first two letters were A and N," she told him. "I couldn't see anything more. We didn't get close enough," she added pointedly.

"Sorry." McGee wasn't sure if he meant that or not. No matter; he walked toward the back of the car.

"Where are you going, McGee?"

"To get the spare tire." He sighed. "Wonder where the nearest gas station is?"

Ziva shook her head dolefully. "Not close by."

DiNozzo finished loading the chilled and wrapped corpse into the coroner's wagon. Jimmy Palmer had just arrived from D.C. with instructions to obtain the corpse for immediate transport and, considering the hour and his desire to return to the nation's capital as quickly as possible, had pushed DiNozzo into rapid action. DiNozzo stretched stiffened muscles; the late Petty Officer Johnson had not been a large woman but the wrappings made for a hefty package to manhandle for only two of them. None of the workers at the morgue had offered to assist, and neither had any of the local cops. DiNozzo looked grimly at the coroner's wagon parked outside of Belker's Funeral and Ice Cream Parlor. The large truck was filthy and covered in mud kicked up from the country roads that Dr. Mallard's assistant had traveled over for the last four hours.

Jimmy too stretched weary muscles. He looked up at the sky, admiring the moon shining down on them. "The moon always looks brighter out here, away from the city."

"Yeah, well, the light pollution is everywhere these days," DiNozzo told him. He glanced around. "I see that Ducky was able to avoid the trip."

"Dr. Mallard wasn't able to come himself," Palmer agreed. "Something about his mother, and some Welsh Corgis."

DiNozzo shuddered. He remembered those beasts all too well. He also remembered Ducky's senile mother equally well, and privately thought that Ducky was welcome to her. "I suppose it doesn't matter. The corpse is already three days old, and was just minutes away from being roasted. Now it's on ice."

"As long as the smell doesn't come into the cab, I'm fine with it," Palmer reassured him.

"You going to be okay driving back tonight? It's what, three hours away?"

"Closer to four," Palmer said, "and yes, it's perfectly fine. I can use the overtime." He automatically glanced upward again. Then he slid a sly look toward the sign over the building where the corpse had been stored and almost cremated and couldn't help the grin at the juxtaposition of the two businesses that Mr. Belker engaged in. "I'd better get going. The weather predictions are for a big blow."

"Jimmy, that won't happen until at least late tomorrow." DiNozzo too had listened to the weather reports and the sky was currently clear; well, mostly clear. "You're borrowing trouble."

"Can't be too careful. You know what some of these roads are like outside of the city." Jimmy hoisted himself into the cab of the NCIS truck. He leaned out of the window, turning the key in the ignition, and pointed at the sign over the funeral home. "Enjoy your ice cream."

Tired. Disgruntled. Entirely not happy over the whole situation. DiNozzo listened to Gibbs's half of the telephone conversation, watching Gibbs get more and more annoyed at the lack of cell service. The clouds starting to roll in were playing havoc with the signal, and Gibbs didn't even have the option whacking any of those clouds on their heads. Lucky clouds…

"Yes, sir. We left after the seminar was over, sometime around eleven." Pause to listen. There was someone on the other end discussing something that Gibbs and company had or hadn't done recently, and DiNozzo was still trying to figure out what. At shortly before midnight, it had to be important according to somebody. "What? Say again, sir?" Another pause. "No, sir. I was with my team from approximately seven, at breakfast, until we left Philly." His glance roved over the three NCIS agents who were watching every taut line in their boss's body. "A couple of breaks. Not long enough for what you're suggesting." Last pause. "Yes, sir. I'll have them write up statements, get McGee to forward them to you via email. I think you can rule us out for the moment, sir." With a dose of sarcasm that didn't quite manage to get covered over. "Sir, you need to know that two of my people had an attempted car-jacking—" Gibbs broke off. "Sir? Are you there?" He hung up with an expression of disgust, glaring at the bars in the screen that told him that the signal strength didn't come up to expectations.

"Boss?" DiNozzo was the one to venture the question. Ziva and McGee also had their eyebrows lifted.

Gibbs didn't have to ask what his team wanted to know. "There was a murder, DiNozzo. They found a body, tortured to death, at the Philly hotel where the sexual harassment seminar was held."

"That's going a little far for sexual harassment, even with those biddies conducting it," was DiNozzo's take on the matter. "Just listening to them was torture enough."

"They think we've involved?" That was Ziva.

"They're questioning everyone," Gibbs clarified. "The Philadelphia M.E. is putting the actual time of death around noon, but the body could have been dumped and left for dead before that. Anybody see anything suspicious at that hotel?"

Three shrugs, three shaken heads.

"You think there might be a connection between the trio that tried to steal the rental, and the dead body, boss?" McGee asked.

"Since I don't have any more information than you do, McGee, what makes you think I have an answer?" Gibbs glared at his agent. "Cells aren't working well up in these mountains, and we don't have secure communications back to Washington or Philly. McGee, can you run some sort of line or something, so that I can get through to Ducky and Abby? The Philly case can take care of itself, but I need results from our Forensics. We've got our own case to work on."

"Can do, boss."

"Good. Get on it."

McGee looked stricken. "Uh…boss?"

"What?"

"It's, uh, eleven o'clock at night."

"Your point, McGee?"

"I, uh, the stores are closed and I, uh, I'm going to need some supplies, stuff to hardwire my laptop to—"

"All right," Gibbs grumbled, interrupting so that he didn't have to listen to techno-babble. "First thing in the morning." His next focus was the rental sedan. "Anything in there that three carjackers would want? Three carjackers speaking Arabic in the middle of a grove of West Virginian trees?"

"We have already looked, Gibbs," Ziva told him. "The sedan is clean, except for where Tony tossed his gum wrappers."

"Hey! I cleaned up after myself!"

"Liar." Ziva turned back to Gibbs. "Chief Fielding has obtained housing for us for the night, at a hotel five miles up the road, next to the funeral parlor. He recommends that we procure dinner at the produce store before proceeding there. His opinion of the restaurant affixed to the hotel was not complimentary."

Gibbs held in the sigh. "Then that's what we'll do."