Note: chapters 5 and 6 will not be up until sometime next week at best. I am finally moving at the end of this week and it will be quite a bit of work. Sorry for the delays for this, "My Life" updates and anything else; will be back as soon as I can. AK

CHAPTER FOUR

There was one 'the good news is…' –and only one. Because Palmer and Boorman being shot and Ducky being missing were kept way under the radar, we didn't have ZNN and the others camped on our doorstep.

Which means I wouldn't be arrested for homicide when a newscaster shoved a microphone in my face demanding I share how it felt to have my husband kidnapped by a homicidal maniac.

I should have been in hysterics… but I wasn't.

There was an almost spooky calm around me. The monster had come out of the shadows. It had made its move.

Now what?

NCIS combed through Mary's elegant flophouse like they were looking for a clue the size of a pinhead. Every agent they could spare was there, looking for something, anything.

And finding nothing.

There were some hesitant suggestions that Mary had hit her target, that the protection detail be totally pulled. Gibbs put an end to that, pronto. He had the same feeling I did—Mary Hanlan was in this for a very Biblical revenge. Ducky was undoubtedly alive—but just as she watched her son slit his throat rather than return to prison, she was going to make Ducky watch while his daughter died. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a child for a child.

Not on my watch. Not on Gibbs' watch.

Gibbs was confident enough that Allie and I were Mary's focus that he did downgrade the detail on Mother and Suzy and suggested (insisted) that they decamp to Ev and Lily's along with one agent—just in case. Allie and I would be alone at the house, a tasty target.

Well—not quite alone.

Ziva remained behind when the other agents escorted Mother and Suzy to Kalorama (along with dinner—I sure as hell didn't have an appetite, and the ribs gave them a smooth reason for visiting the girls who were now 'miraculously' out of quarantine). Ziva badgered me into eating macaroni and cheese—she appealed to my guilt. ("When Ducky comes home and finds you weak from hunger and discovers I was on duty—well, I have heard tales of his temper and I have no desire to see it in person.") And it was entertaining watching Allie eat her share; apparently macaroni and cheese is alive and must be killed before being consumed. She would make a fist and pound the bejeezus out of the pasta, flattening it against the plastic plate… then carefully peel it off and aim it toward her mouth. ("Do all children do that? My sister did. I found it… odd at the time. Now I find it amusing." Just… amusing? Really? I'd've never guessed from the way she almost fell off her chair, laughing to the point of tears.)

We made it through the night. Safety in numbers, the three of us stayed in the (locked) master suite. And after bunking with Ziva… I will never bitch about Mother's snoring again.

Morning dawned. No word about Ducky. My nerves were about to fail completely.

"We have to force her hand." Gibbs' voice warbled from the speaker on Ziva's cell phone.

That sounded ominous. "How?" I managed to get out.

Silence. "Sandy…"

Oh, shit. He usually calls me Mrs. Mallard, just as a joke. 'Sandy?' Sandy is bad news.

"I want you to leave the house, like you're going to the shop. I want—" He drew in a breath. "I want you to be a target."

My heart went triple time. I couldn't get out a word.

"We don't have an agent would could convincingly portray you from anything closer than a hundred yards."

"Allie?" I managed to get out. Barely.

"Peanut is going to be one thousand per cent safe," he said, so firmly and confidently that I burst into tears. Ziva slipped an arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. "Abby is bringing something over as we speak."

"Abby? Why Abby? And what is she bringing?"

"She's bringing you… a baby."

Okay, it's official. Leroy Jethro Gibbs has lost his marbles—aggies, puries, shooters and stripes. "What?"

He actually laughed. "A friend of Abby's teaches at a school with a huge dropout rate." (So?) "Teen parents." (You must be joking. Muffy wants the night off from being a mommy and is willing to loan her kid out to be bait for a psychotic murderer? Ye gods and little fishes.) "They have these baby dolls that look, sound, act like the real thing. You don't realize it's a doll until you're right next to it."

Comes the dawn. "So… we replace Allie with this doll…"

"Right. Abby will also have Special Agent Parmenter hiding in the back seat. She'll sneak in the house in case Mary—or someone working with Mary—is watching. She'll stay with Allie, Ziva will make a big production when she leaves with Abby, you park the 'baby' in the van—"

"And become a sitting Mallard."

"Pretty much, yeah."

Allie will be safe. Mother and Suzy are safe. If I play target, Ducky might be found—

Screw that. Ducky will be found. "When will Abby get here?"

"Oh-seven-hundred. That will give you time to put on a show, get to town…"

It was just past six. "Gibbs—" My voice faltered and failed.

"Sandy," he said gently. "We. Will. Get. Him. Back. I swear it."

Intellectually I knew that was something he couldn't promise. The hell with intellect. This is his best friend and my husband. Gibbs will find him… or there will be hell to pay.

Abby arrived in a fleet vehicle, not her usual hearse or hot rod. All I can say is… it did not fit her. At all.

Even when she's quiet, Abby attracts attention. This morning she was hunting for attention. "Sandeeeeee!" she squealed, clomping up to the door. She was carrying a giant teddy bear with… fangs? "It's a sehlat," she laughed. I looked blank. "Star Trek? Vulcan teddy bear?"

"Oh!" I should have known that. I grew up watching the show. My brain is clearly overloaded.

"Timmy saw this online and said Allie just HAD to have this—" She stood by the door, dancing the bear for my amusement and approval—and distraction of others. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Christine Parmenter slip from the back door Abby had left open and creep past the retaining wall to the kitchen door, where Ziva was waiting to let her in.

"Let me get that door," I said, hurrying to the car. Abby kept up an inane line of chatter until we were inside the house and the door was shut.

Allie caught sight of the sehlat (almost as tall as Mommy) and screeched in glee. Abby took a few minutes to introduce them, then pulled open her you-could-stuff-a-body-in-it purse.

Oooh, bad description. From the bag she removed a doll that was so lifelike it scared me. I mean, I knew it wasn't real, but—damn!

Abby ran upstairs and came back with one of Allie's playsuits, bootie shoes and, ha, a diaper. "Long sleeves and legs, the more the doll is covered the more real it looks," she said, dressing it.

"A diaper?" I snorted. "Carrying things a bit far?"

She gave me a smirk. "Nope." She pulled out a key fob and pressed a button—and the doll began to wriggle and make noises. "Once the teacher turns it on, it runs 24/7 for two weeks. The kids can't turn it off, only the teacher can. I'll let you have the remote so you don't have to take care of two kids at night."

I stared at the fob with on and off buttons. "Wow. Wish real kids came with this."

Abby sat the baby down on the carpet near Allie, who abandoned the sehlat and crawled over to investigate her new playmate. The doll had light strawberry curls, just like Allie. It was truly unnerving. Allie was fascinated with the baby, even when it started to cry. Abby had a bottle of water at hand and stuck it in the doll's mouth. "You have three minutes to start feeding it—they figure in real life, you'd have to warm a bottle or fix the food. Longer than three minutes and it won't shut up for an hour."

"Now, that's just like the real ones," I said drily.

"And the computer chip tracks how long it took Mommy or Daddy to feed the baby, change the baby—that's why I got a diaper, it actually pees—if they got frustrated and shook the baby—"

"Wow."

"Convinces a lot of teeny boppers they are not ready for parenthood. Teen pregnancy dropped fifteen per cent the first year."

"I don't doubt it."

Christine had been at the house several times during the past couple of weeks, knew where everything was, Allie's routine—and Allie liked her. (It helps that she's Auntie Chris to about twenty nieces and nephews.) Allie and I showed Ziva and Abby to the door and they made a big show of saying farewell; Chris and I went over some detailed instructions from Gibbs and McGee, Chris took Allie upstairs… and I got ready to leave.

I must have stood at the kitchen door for five minutes, literally shaking, scared to step outside.

What if Mary pegs this as a scam?

What if Mary is planning a remote revenge? Shoot us, torture Ducky by playing the video over and over?

What if we're wrong? What if Mary doesn't give a rat's ass about mental anguish? What if Ducky is dead and we're next, all she wants is the streets to run red with the blood of revenge?

What if Mary isn't even watching?

I took a deep breath and let it out. I grabbed my purse and Allie's bag—and sucked in another deep breath. I took hold of the doorknob, glaring at my shaking hand. Get with the program, I snapped mentally. This is the performance of your life.

And Ducky's.

I smacked the garage door remote, walked out the door and plastered a smile on my face. "Marezy dotes and dozey dotes and little lamzey divey," I sang to the squirming "baby" in my arms. "A kiddley divey too, wooden you? Now. Do you know what that silly thing really means? They're talking about animals and what they like to eat," I said brightly, heading for the van. "Mares eat oats and does eat oats," I enunciated. "And little lambs eat ivy. A kid'll eat ivy too, wouldn't you? " I propped the "baby" on my hip and opened the side door to the van. "And that's just silly. People don't eat ivy, do they?" I fussed with getting the doll into the car seat; it was just as squirmy as the real thing. "What do people eat? Oh, all sorts of things…"

The mechanical baby makes noises—crying, screeching, cooing, babbling. But it doesn't respond to your verbal stimuli. Oh, well; sometimes Mother doesn't, either. I finished buckling the robobaby into Allie's car seat (Wouldn't it be a hoot to get stopped by a cop today of all days? He or she could eat out for a month on the story. "Wait till I tell you what I saw on a traffic stop Thursday…"), threw myself behind the wheel and backed out.

The drive in was without incident.

Valerie arrived just before 9:00 and came running in the back door. "Your van! You're here! Everything's fixed! Sandy! Where's my baby?" She tore into my office before I could stop her.

I barely got in the door just in time to avert disaster. Valerie was frozen in place, staring at the playpen in the corner. "Sandy…?" she whispered, looking like she was going to pitch a grade B horror flick scream any second.

I grabbed her arm and gave her a condensed version of what had happened. Her eyes grew wider and wider.

"Don't pull an Aunt Jemima on me." Store code for 'don't flip like a pancake.' I held onto her forearms and gave her a little shake. "Everything needs to look normal. This is our only chance to find Ducky." I was trying not to think about Ducky, where he was, what might be happening. If I thought about him… I was going to lose it completely. If I didn't think about him… I might be able to help him.

She nodded, still transfixed by the "baby." "If this weren't so scary… it would be… neat," she blurted out.

"Yeah." Maybe when it's all over, I can sell it to Law and Order.

We put a sign on the office door, "cranky baby, do not disturb" to keep any customers out, and took the employees aside one at a time as they arrived. They had known my absence was due to a fruitcake from an old case of Ducky's putting in an appearance; hearing what had happened yesterday (my god, it was only yesterday), there were serious questions if NCIS needed deputies.

Time inched by.

To keep up the pretense, I stayed in the office most of the time doing paperwork and internet price research while taking care of the "cranky baby."

By late afternoon, I was the cranky baby. I was never good at playing with dolls as a child. My Barbie never had a fashion show or went shopping with Midge; no, she pretended to be Nellie Bly or Mata Hari or Susan B. Anthony. (No wonder I thought I could get away with my Nancy Drew shenanigans a year and a half ago.) I never got into the feeding-burping-pushing a stroller show until I had a real one of my own. (Babysitting was a job, not a desire.) This doll was becoming tedious as well as a little creepy.

The fact that I had heard nothing from Gibbs made it worse. I'm sure he was operating under the "no news, no need to call" theory, but it was driving me crazy. I finally broke down about 4:00 and called.

He was pissed—but not at me for calling. He was pissed at the total lack of information and results. "Nobody can disappear that completely," he growled.

I wasn't stupid enough to say "Ted Kaczynski." And I knew that, yes, people can go totally off-grid. And I knew that Gibbs knew that.

I also knew that if it were anyone but Ducky, he'd be able to say that fact.

"We're going through the mother's house. Again. Mary's ex and other freak son are being very cooperative—"

Leroy Jethro Gibbs on the warpath? I'll bet they're cooperative.

"That Marquis de Sade playground in Adelphi has been shut down since oh-five—"

"The what? Where?"

"The funeral home. Where Ducky was held?"

"Holy shit!" I blurted out. "I know that place! I didn't connect the name, I thought it was spelled differently, I—" Oh, my effing god, I had attended funerals and memorials there over the years. I wanted to throw up.

"It's empty. They had all sorts of hiding places, couldn't find a damned thing."

It took sheer willpower not to burst into screaming, sobbing, hysterical tears. "Gibbs—"

"Sandy, we will find him."

Before or after I have a nervous breakdown?

(Before or after I become a widow?)

"Go home," he said, not unkindly. "Go home, hug your little girl, tell her funny stories about her daddy—"

I was half-propped against the wall; my head slammed back with my gasping sob. Tears flew everywhere, but they weren't caused by the lightning bolt of pain in my skull. I don't want to tell her stories about him. I want him to tell stories about himself.

I know it makes Gibbs uncomfortable as hell when people cry. But I couldn't stop it. And he didn't try.

"Sorry," I finally gulped.

"I know," he said quietly. "I know." He's not always what he claims to be, a heartless bastard. Not today, anyway.

I don't remember saying our good-byes, but the handset was turned off, I was sitting behind my desk staring at Pyewacket who was sitting a few feet from the playpen, watching the baby who looked kind of like Allie but clearly wasn't, and I found myself avoiding the photograph on my desk: Ducky, dozing in his favorite chair, Allie in a baby sling, snuggled against his chest, sound asleep. When would she see her daddy again? Would she see her daddy again?

Oh, god.

I have to get out of here.

I told Valerie I was going home; fortunately she didn't try to hug me, or I would have fallen apart completely. I started to head for the back door; she squeaked, "Sandy!" very softly and looked meaningfully toward my office.

Oh, shit. It would have looked really good to leave my "baby" behind. Think someone might notice?

I collected the doll and Allie's bag, grabbed my purse and tried to pull myself together. Gotta play the part…

"Hope Miss Grumpy Face feels better!" Geoff called. (Talk about playing a part…!)

"That's two of us!" I called back. The doll was in "light fussy" mode, wriggling and squirming and making truly obnoxious noises. No wonder the teen pregnancy rate dropped.

Ziva would have the night shift again after working all day; fortunately, she's just as deadly asleep as she is awake (snoring notwithstanding). Plus she would give me all the dope on what had happened.

I shut the side door, climbed in and sat there, staring at the wall, engine idling. Ducky… Ducky, where are you?I squeezed my eyes shut, clutching the steering wheel in a death grip. Letting out a sharp, frustrated breath, I slammed the van into reverse and hit the gas, regretting it when I hit the speed bump full force. "Baby" let out a screech they probably heard clear back to the Navy Yard and I flinched; when they pull the microchip, I'm pretty sure I flunked the class.