Chapter 4
"Boarding call for Float 354 destined for Gibraltar. All rows, all zones, please come to the gate for boarding."
Ziva sighed and shoved the book back into her bag. It was a rare enough thing, being seen carrying a book, but this book in particular could get her in trouble, NIU or not. She had been sure to flash her badge at the check-in just to make sure that she wasn't searched. Now, she flashed it again at the gate staff and was waved on without having to show ID. She was shown to a private section of the float, and thankfully, no other NIU officers or agents were present. She listened to the instructions about leaks, crashes, and other disasters that would be fatal no matter what precautions were taken and then sat back and began reading again. It was a small book, cleverly entitled The Sky's the Limit, but its author had obviously chosen his (or her) words very carefully.
Have you ever wondered where expressions we use every day come from? Think about these for a moment. Really think about them:
In broad daylight
Many moons ago
Not the only pebble on the beach
Have your moment in the sun
Scare the daylights out of someone
The sky is the limit
Cold light of day
On cloud nine
Come rain or come shine
Every cloud has a silver lining
Calm before the storm
White as snow
What are we to do with these phrases when the actual meanings of them cannot be...not in this world? ...and yet, why do they persist within our common language? When was the last time you saw the light of day? When was the last time you saw a cloud or the moon or the sun? Or snow? ...and yet, we still use these phrases. We still have a connection with the surface that is much deeper...even than we are buried in these tombs we call cities.
We have all been buried alive...most of us just don't realize it.
In spite of herself, Ziva shivered at that last sentence. Yes, he had a gift for writing, this Thom. She wondered just how wide his readership was. Certainly, there had been more and more surface cells springing up around the world in the last few years. Most of them were run by fanatics, claustrophobes who couldn't tolerate the walls around them. This man was not one of them. He was too well-educated, too...aware. He had a definite purpose in mind. It was to force the public to see what he saw...and it was an ingenious plan. Not all the groups were run by lunatics. The ones which were not were the ones who thrived. If enough people were thinking this way, the government would be forced to act. There had been enough disasters which had wiped out entire cities that it was hard to proclaim the Descent as the best move mankind had ever made.
This was a dangerous man... No wonder she'd been ordered to kill him.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. McGee."
Gibbs was impressed with how quickly Tim had managed to graft an unconcerned look on his face.
"Can we dispense with the pleasantries, Agent Gibbs? I'm guessing you'll need to know where I was when she...was killed."
"On the stage?"
"Dozens of people can verify that I didn't leave the stage from nine until past midnight."
"Well, she wasn't killed tonight. We discovered her body tonight, Mr. McGee."
"What do you mean?"
"She'd been dead at least a day before we found her."
"A day?" There was a brief shudder. No doubt, he was imagining the crawlers.
"Yes. At least. Possibly more."
"Where was she?"
"At your apartment."
"How did someone get inside my apartment?" Tim asked, genuinely confused. "That building has good security. I have good security. I've been there every night. Usually pretty late but..."
"She wasn't in your apartment."
"You said..."
"I said she was at your apartment. Her body was left outside your door, but she was definitely killed elsewhere."
Tim swallowed. Gibbs noticed the bobbing Adam's apple. Tim was worried, probably grieving...but that had also made him afraid. It was visible in his stance, his eyes. Ducky might be better than Gibbs was at reading people, but Gibbs wasn't too shabby himself. There was an added tension to Tim's body now.
"We think it was sending a message to you."
"To me?"
"Yes. Can you think of any reason why?"
"No. I'm a librarian," Tim said, but Gibbs caught the momentary gleam of tears. "I work at the old book library on the Avenue."
"And you sing in a semi-legal club."
"Along with a few others, yes. I take gigs where I can get them and...well, Angelo can't afford to hire me on full time. You guys hit him pretty hard with taxes."
"We're not the IRS."
"You're the government," Tim shot back immediately. "Aren't you?"
"A part, yes. But I do not have anything to do with Angelo's taxes. ...it's a risk he runs by allowing the music he does."
"Yes, because music is so dangerous, isn't it."
"Do you think that could be why your sister was killed?"
"Because of my music?" Tim's surprise was real. It was subtly expressed but real. ...so that hadn't been what he was thinking of.
"That seems unlikely to you?"
"Yes. The only people I know who would resent my music are people like you. ...so unless you think the government killed my sister to send a message to me, I doubt it was my music that was the reason for it." He saw that as a real possibility, Gibbs noticed...but not the truth.
"Why do you sing the music you do?"
"Because it's good music. It sells."
"No underlying message?"
"Like what?" That was a lie...a good lie, but a lie. Tim knew exactly what message his music was putting out. That's why he chose it.
"Where do you get it?"
"Here and there. None of it is original, if that's what you're wondering. I have no talent in that area. I just sing the songs...and I can produce the original composers if that's a problem."
"No political rants?"
"No. The Surface isn't about ranting. It's about music. Let people take from what I sing what they want to. You can ask anyone there. I don't make political statements. I'm an entertainer, not a politician." The last word was almost sneered.
"How long have you worked at the library?"
"Ever since I finished at MIT. It's the only job I've had. That would be about ten years now."
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Yes. From what I can tell, you're a pretty smart guy. The government, I know, probably would love to have you working for them. They probably expected it of you based on the effort they put into educating you."
There was brief expression, but this time, Gibbs couldn't define it. It wasn't anger or hatred. It was something else. He went on.
"If not the government, there's a lot of research going on right now...from what I understand. There are plenty of positions. Why a library?"
"I like it there."
"And the singing?"
"I like that, too."
Nowhere to go. Tim didn't want probing into his life. Fine. For now, they could focus on the case at hand.
"What about your sister?"
"What about her?"
"Tell me about her."
"She was attending Carlsbad U. She transferred there from Georgetown Mammoth two years ago."
"Did you get along?"
For the first time, Tim smiled...a smile without sarcasm or the cynicism that Gibbs was beginning to think of as some sort of a shield. His smile, sad as it was, changed his entire countenance and he seemed years younger. He was one of those baby-faced people who always looked younger than he really was. It was his expression that hid it. He seemed...like a real person, not a caricature.
"We're siblings...of course we didn't. We fought all the time. After our family died, we moved in with Ducky...until I went to MIT. Sarah came with me. I raised her myself. Ducky helped and his place was home...but I raised her. We were family, all that was left of it, but that didn't mean that we didn't squabble constantly. She was such a slob." He actually laughed. "But I love her. Loved her. She's my sister and that's all that matters. She wanted to be an English professor, English lit...like Dad. She didn't agree with what I was doing with my life, thought I was wasting my gifts. She and Ducky, both. She said that she wasn't going to sit around watching me screw up everything that I'd been given, everything Mom and Dad had wanted for me. ...but she was coming here...Ducky said to see me perform. He might have been lying, trying to patch things up...not that he really needed to. We would have worked it out eventually. That's what families do."
Gibbs said nothing during Tim's ruminations. It was actually almost nice just to see this man, who was younger than DiNozzo, looking more like someone his age should look. Then, he watched in silent amazement as Tim suddenly remembered where he was...and to whom he was speaking. The cynic returned full force, although he couldn't quite get the biting tone back into his words.
He really is protecting himself, Gibbs realized.
"What else do you want to know, Agent Gibbs? I hadn't spoken to her in weeks. Ducky was the one who told me she was coming to visit."
"That's all for now. Don't leave town. We'll need to keep her for a couple more days."
"I'll get to bury her, though...right?" That was very important to him.
"Yes." Gibbs didn't bother pointing out that, even when they were buried, the bugs got to them eventually. Tim knew that. It was the symbol of the rite that mattered. "We'll release her body to you for burial when we're done. There might be an autopsy."
"Whatever it takes to find them."
"We'll also need access to your apartment."
"Okay."
"You don't mind?"
Tim shrugged. "No. Why would I? The door code is 647. I'm going to be staying with Ducky for a while."
Whatever he was hiding, it wasn't in his apartment, then. "You can go, Mr. McGee."
Tim stood and walked out, Tony and Abby entering in his wake.
"He's a weirdo, Boss," Tony said. "Reminds me of that remake of...Night of the Living Dead."
Thwack!
"Not now, DiNozzo. Please."
"He didn't do it, Gibbs," Abby said. "He's no murderer...especially not of his sister."
"I know."
"Okay, I know why you both are saying that, but does any hard evidence say that he didn't? You know the guys upstairs are going to ask," Tony said.
"His alibi ought to be easy enough to verify once we get the exact time of death...but mostly, it's because of how he reacted."
"Exactly," Gibbs agreed. "He thought she was inside his apartment. He assumed she'd been killed just tonight. ...and there's something he's hiding. I think you're right, Tony, and Sarah McGee was killed to send a message to her brother. ...and I think he knows what the message is and why he got it...but he's not going to tell us."
"Why not?"
"Oh, come on, Abbs. You know how people feel about the NIU."
"Yeah, but..."
"...but he's going to feel it ten-fold. For whatever reason, he trusts us about as far as DiNozzo could throw him."
"Hey!"
"So we're not going to get the reason out of him, even if it could solve the murder. I'll bet he tries to do it himself...which means that he's in danger. We'll need to keep an eye on him."
"He seems a bit claustro, if you ask me," Tony said. "That could get him in a lot of trouble."
"You will not bring that up unless we have sure evidence of it, Tony. You know what will happen if that goes in our report."
Tony nodded. Everyone knew. It was not a charge to be made lightly because the government heads took it very seriously.
"I don't think he is, anyway," Abby said. "He's been through a lot and he reacted without thinking."
Tony shrugged and didn't say any more, but Gibbs knew what he was thinking. Tony's own mother had been a full-fledged claustrophobic. It got so bad that she had ended up trying to climb the walls of Sub York and hadn't been seen since the doctors had taken her away for treatment.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
It was nearly three in the morning when they got back to Ducky's house.
"I'll make up your room, Timothy."
"No need, Ducky. I can do it." Tim walked up the stairs.
"Timothy."
Tim continued to walk, forcing Ducky to follow. Jimmy peeked out of his bedroom but at a glance from Ducky pulled his head back in. Once Tim got into the room that was usually his when he visited, he set down his bag...and stood still.
Ducky gently directed him to the bed and forced him to sit down. Then, he sat down beside him and waited.
"My little sister is dead, Ducky. They killed Sarah. Sarah is dead. Sarah is dead."
Then, finally, the tears came and Tim began to weep. Ducky held him until the tears passed.
It was a long time.
