PART TWO (1 of 2)

July 16, 2015

As Lewis Wilson drove his truck down the highway, he could picture his little girl beside him - window open, blond hair whirling, brown eyes smiling. Carefree, happy, whole.

They were headed for the movies, the zoo, any number of places. He'd take lots of pictures; Trace kept a scrapbook. Lucy's book.

His little girl was growing up too quickly. Just yesterday, he'd picked her up out of her crib and promised her the world. Today, he'd show it to her.

Face open and innocent — nose and eyes just like her mother's — she asked, "Where are we going?"

Sweat beaded on his forehead, but his hands did not shake.

A gun now sat in his little girl's place.

He parked the truck up against the curb. Then, pulling out his cell phone, he dialed DiNozzo's number.

Said only two words.

"Thank you."

July 8, 2015

A little past six p.m.

He'd stepped out of work, backpack on his shoulder, passed Tim at the snack machine looking forlornly at a package of Nutter Butters. He wasn't going to stop, but Tim grabbed him by the arm.

"Hey Tony," he said, "you got any change?"

Tony dug in his pockets and produced some wrinkled dollar bills and a couple quarters.

"Thanks." Tim smiled. "You leaving?"

"I've got plans."

"Zoe?"

Tony shrugged. "Plans."

"Okay." Tim had given him an odd look, but the pull of the Nutter Butters was too strong. "I'll be here for an hour or so—"

Tony left before he'd finished talking. He promised Lindsey he'd meet her at the cafe out by the park, and he'd brushed her off enough this week.

But work always seemed to come first.

His cell rang in the middle of their conversation, and seeing the number, he put a finger up. "Gotta take this. Sorry."

Lindsey watched from where she sat, sitting with legs crossed on the cafe chair. She was young, dressed in some diner hash slinging uniform, a little stained, and had long honey-brown hair pulled into a messy bun.

Lewis Wilson was talking as soon as Tony picked up, "There is someone. He worked on base under me. A dog handler. I had to write him a bad review. He wasn't happy."

"He wasn't happy," Tony repeated, glancing Lindsey's way briefly, shaking his head in apology. "You're gonna have to be a little more specific."

"More than a little pissed off. Unhinged, really, which only supported my claims in the report. He needed counseling," Lewis explained. "But I never—"

"We'll need his info, to add to our list," Tony said.

"And he was at our home," Lewis said, as if suddenly remembering something crucial. "We had a barbecue last May. I invited some of my crew..."

Tony cradled the cell phone between his cheek and his shoulder, gesturing at Lindsey to throw him a pen. She dug in her purse, chucked one his way.

Lewis seemed far, far away on the other end, musing, remembering. "Then I invited him again. Thought he just needed more direction…"

"Wilson?" Tony prompted, grabbing a napkin, clicking the pen open. "You with me?"

Lewis stayed quiet for a while.

"Hello?"

Finally, he answered, "He played with my dog, Hella." Another pause. Then on repeat: "He played with the damn dog."

Tony got the name out of him: Cary Byrd. Then he assured, "This is good information. I got my best agent on it, okay?"

As soon as the call disconnected, Tony texted the name to McGee with a quick note: "This guy. We need to get him in ASAP." And as a joke: "xoxo."

Lindsey watched him from across the table, slowly turning her glass of iced coffee with her fingers. The patio they sat on was shaded, yet still warm. Tony'd taken off his suit jacket, and she'd joked about taking off her shirt.

Tony laughed nervously told her not to say that, and Lindsey called him a stick in the mud.

"Sorry about that," Tony said, putting the phone down. "Been a day."

"Are you coming to the group tonight? You've skipped a bunch of sessions."

Tony shrugged, watched her, and took a long drink from a bottle of Red Stripe. "Kind of busy."

She frowned. "You know I'm gonna have to find a new support partner if you drop out."

He relented. "I'll try to be there tonight."

Instead, he'd gone to Gibbs' place.

July 9, 2015

McGee stopped him. He'd been right there, right next to Byrd, talking with the forensics guy. He'd looked Tony's way, just in time. In that fraction of a second, he saw what was coming.

The hair trigger.

Things slowed down.

Then they sped up, as McGee reacted, stepping forward without a word, grabbing Tony and holding him in place. Byrd screaming in the background, voice high-pitched and wild: "Keep that psycho away from me!"

Only then did McGee get in Tony's face and yell at him, fingers digging into his flesh. He didn't remember what he'd said.

Death and chemical cleaner and something else. Bone dust. Burnt flesh. Gun powder. Blood. Or maybe Tony had only imagined those last ones, because they were stuck in his head, always, waiting for some innocuous trigger.

Autopsy's ventilation hummed overhead, loud only because everything else was silent. He could hear his own breathing, still faster than normal.

They'd told him to sit here on the stainless steel table. Told him to calm down, Ducky's voice quiet, soothing, and Tim asking him to listen, do what he's told.

"I'm fine now," Tony said. "I just lost my cool up there." He moved to get up.

But Ducky pushed him down and gave him a look that encouraged no argument. "Stay."

Tony stayed. He was staying. Sitting here obediently while he watched them talk outside the glass doors, Ducky and McGee, and Vance. Talking about him and the fact that he'd attacked — tried to attack — Cary Byrd.

And if someone asked him now, he wouldn't lie about it. He'd have gladly taken that piss ant to the ground and smashed his face repeatedly against the wall. Again and again and again. It would have felt good. So good.

Vance had his mouth set in a straight line. Briefly, Tony caught his eyes through the glass.

God, he was screwed.

"Get a grip, DiNozzo," he whispered to himself. "What are you doing?"

The doors slid open, and Vance stalked right up to where Tony sat, finger out and pointing. "What the hell were you thinking up there?"

"I wasn't," Tony said. "I admit, I lost my cool."

"You lost your cool," Vance said, voice edging on disbelief. "You lost your cool."

"Won't happen again."

Vance considered him, eyes narrowed. "I should bench you right now."

"It won't happen again," Tony repeated, in assurance. It wouldn't. "But I don't think it's right for that scumbag to get carte blanche."

"He's not. The FBI is aware of the situation. He will be dealt with, upon verification of the evidence."

"And that's gonna be good enough for your friend?"

"Not my decision, DiNozzo."

Tony blew out a breath. He smelled bullshit.

"So it won't happen again," Vance said, a warning. A demand, a command, and something Tony might choose to follow. "You're to stay away from him.

Tony nodded.

Vance added, "You're lucky he's not filing a complaint."

And Tony thought, He's lucky I didn't kill him.

After the director had gone, Tony looked up to find Tim in his place. He said nothing. Tony didn't recognize the expression on Tim's face, nor did Tim give him a hint.

It wasn't exactly fear, but it might have been something like it.

July 10, 2015

Nine p.m.

Tony went home to his apartment after a workday fill with nothing useful—no forensics breakthroughs, a few time-wasting interviews—and found Zoe already there. She must've been waiting for him. She had dinner made, although by this time it looked cold and lonely, sitting there forgotten on the stovetop. They exchanged pleasantries, but it didn't go much further than that. She stood next to the counter drinking a glass of red wine. The bottle sat open nearby, breathing. A nice pinot. Nothing fancy.

"So Tony," Zoe started it off, keeping her tone light as she watched him across the kitchen counter. He was pawing through a stack of mail, days old. "Who's Lindsey?"

"What is this?" Tony asked, not looking up. "An intervention?"

"I don't know what it is," she said. "Answer the question."

Tony gave an honest answer. "An acquaintance."

"That's why she calls and texts you all the time? Times, dates, places?"

"You looked through my phone." It wasn't a question.

"While you were in the shower. Only bringing it up now because things have gotten strange with you."

He smiled at her; it was odd and strained. He'd had jealous, suspicious girlfriends before, but he usually got rid of them before it got too bad. Tony hadn't ever suspected Zoe would be a part of that group. "How'd you know the passcode?"

"Not that hard; it's your birth month and date," she bristled. "Look Tony—"

"I'm not cheating on you, if that's what you're about to say," Tony said.

Of course it couldn't be as banal and cliche as another woman. A few quickies here and there to curb the stress and inevitable slump of a longer-than-two-month relationship. None of that. He should've let Zoe in on this sooner, he knew, but like she always told him, communication wasn't always his strong suit.

"I can't tell if you're lying, or if you're actually telling the truth."

"I'm telling the truth."

Zoe swirled the wine around in the glass. She said, "I'm not checking up on you. I'm worried about you. But every time I bring it up…" She let out a breath and looked at him.

The look of honest concern on her face made him relent. "Some nights… I've been going to a support group, okay? She's been showing up there, too. We talked, and she just sort of… clung. Can't get rid of her, and besides, I don't want to be responsible for the next jump she makes from some bridge."

"Support group for what?" Zoe prodded. "Is that the men's group you were talking about a while ago?"

"No," Tony hedged. "This one's different."

Zoe kept her gaze on him, expecting something.

"For PTSD," Tony said, feeling stupid as soon as it came out of his mouth. "An old friend of mine said it might be helpful, based… on what I've experienced."

"Tony…" Zoe put the glass down. "I'm sorry. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to tell you."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a lot different than I was back when we first met. A lot has changed. I've changed, and not necessarily for the better. I didn't want to freak you out, or scare you away, or x, y, z. The past few years have been… It's been rough."

She shook her head. "I'm different, too, Tony. Neither of us are the same. Of course we've changed. Why would I expect that from you?"

"I don't know. I really don't know."

"Should you be working right now?" She had to ask. And even now, in the comfort of his home, he looked spooked. She thought back to several events, all those sleepless nights, the wild mood-swings, the general state of anxiety that was so unlike Tony, either past or present. Only now did it seem obvious.

For all those nights, she'd been sleeping next to someone she hadn't really known. Someone who'd been—for all intents and purposes—suffering silently in the midst of his own fear.

But Tony scoffed at her. "I'm fine to work. What happened to Gibbs shook me up. But I got cleared."

"Yet you're going to a PTSD support group."

"I don't go very often. Haven't gone in a week or so actually. It doesn't help; it's just a group of fucked up people telling fucked up stories."

"That's the point."

Tony shrugged. "It's not helping."

"And this Lindsey… she goes to it, too."

"Yes. Still doubt me?"

Zoe gave him a weak smile. "No." She reached for him, put her hands on his face and looked at his eyes close enough to tell the green flecks from the brown. They were dull, worn out. "You need to talk to someone."

"I'm talking to you."

"No. A professional."

He shook his head. "Don't worry," Tony said, voice quiet, repeating the refrain he'd often used with her. "It'll give you wrinkles." The playfulness of it seemed like some distant memory.

He kissed her, pressed her back against the refrigerator. "It's this case," he said between breaths, between groping caresses. "Just this case. It'll get better."

Naked in bed, they talked in the dark, lying comfortably close. Zoe's fingers played with the hair on the back of his head.

"You remember the Comstock case?" Tony asked.

Zoe paused her fingers, briefly, then answered, "Yeah, that was the last one you worked. Until you turned tail and ran. Never understood why you did that. You didn't have it that bad, you know."

"You really don't remember more about that case?"

"Sure I do. It totally blew. Guy got off on some bizarre technicality. Pretty bogus. Political."

"That didn't bother you."

Again, her fingers stilled. "That a statement, or a question?"

Tony shrugged a shoulder. "Either."

Zoe considered him for a while. "No. It bothered me a lot, but it was part of the job there. In that department, it happened. Can't tell me it never happened in Baltimore."

"No, it did. Often. Maybe I'd grown tougher."

Zoe stared at the ceiling, at the dark shadow of the motionless ceiling fan.

Tony went on, "Grown blinder. But it never failed to piss me off. After Philly, I had to beg for that Baltimore job."

"Didn't like it there, either?"

"For a while it was fine. Kept me going. Found out my partner was dirty, and well… that always manages to skew things a bit."

"Yeah?"

"Couldn't bring myself to turn him in. Gibbs found me, saw something in me I didn't. And suddenly I had a choice. I could do the 'right thing' or I could go off with Gibbs and forget about it."

"And you went with Gibbs, and you've stayed with him."

"Yeah. I have."

"Do you regret it?"

"Never."

Zoe nudged him, "So what about the Comstock case?"

"I was angry. No justice. All the ends left loose. The guy was still out there. Free. Living like any other person, like you or me. We all knew he killed that boy. Nobody cared."

"We cared, but there was nothing we could do."

Tony stayed quiet. Then, voice barely audible, he said, "I sat parked in front of his house for two hours. Just sat there, with my gun in my lap."

Zoe stiffened, but she didn't interrupt.

"I waited. I don't know what for. Looking back at it now, yeah, it was crazy. Could I have walked in there and shot him myself? Sure. Why not. We're all killers in this profession. You can dress it up however you'd like to."

"That's not true," Zoe argued. "When we kill, it's either you or them or someone else."

"Doesn't matter. Pull that trigger and you're changing the course of someone's life, ending it. I sat there for two hours. But I didn't do it. I had a choice. I could do it, or leave. What's the 'right thing'?"

"You didn't do it, because you're not a killer, Tony. You're a protector. That's your job. You protect."

Tony shook his head. "No. I didn't do it because I didn't have the courage to do it. I ran. You've said it yourself."

"Tony—"

"No, damn it. We should've gotten that boy justice. His family. What about them?"

"It wasn't in your hands."

"It could've been." And then, finally, "It could be."

Zoe looked at the edges of his face in the darkness, and for a long moment, she didn't recognize him. Almost like she'd been dating a stranger, just like Tony had warned earlier. But something gnawed at her: this Tony wasn't right. All this talk about killing and justice and the like. In her own mind, she went back to her prior question: Should you be working? The answer was no. He shouldn't be out there like this.

Cautiously, she put out a hand and ran her fingers through his hair again. "Hey."

Tony lay motionless, head on her leg, staring at the wall. Not even blinking.

She kept touching his head, repeating, "You're not a killer. You were never a killer. You're a protector. And you're going to get help."

Until finally, he turned his face into her thigh. She felt the tears before she saw them.

July 13, 2015

A Monday. Hot again. Damp outside. It rained only enough to make everything smell like earthworms, decay, and wet dog. Then the sun came back out to further bake the landscape.

Instead of showing up at work on time, Tony'd gone on a late morning run. He ran longer and farther and harder than he had in months. His chest ached afterward from breathing so hard. He threw up bile in some old lady's bushes.

When he got home, he glanced at his phone. A text message from McGee.

Where the hell are you? DNA results are in.

He had a strong feeling he wouldn't be surprised.

DiNozzo agreed to meet Wilson in a conference room at NCIS to go over the case's progress, or as it was now, where the case had been meant to end. Tony invited him to sit, but Lewis had refused, so they both stood instead.

"So you have Cary Byrd, right? He's the guy," Lewis started. He had a harried look about him, as if he'd just gotten out of bed and discovered he had somewhere to be. He was halfway put together. The current child-less Lewis clearly couldn't reconcile with the past Lewis—the one who'd actually been alive inside. "You've arrested him? Is he here now?"

Tony hedged the question, beginning instead, "Okay, this is what's going on. Have you talked at all to Vance about it?"

"No," Lewis said, bitterly. "He's keeping me in the dark."

Tony had a distinct feeling that relationship was over. He said, "We had Byrd in for questioning. We got consent for a DNA sample. The results came this morning."

"And?"

"It's a match with the sample we took from Lucy's body," Tony said.

"I knew it!" Lewis exploded, stepping away to pace. "I knew it. Fucking bastard. Knew it as soon as I remembered that barbecue… and the dog…" Lewis stopped and looked at Tony. "So you've got him then."

"Basically."

"Basically? What's that mean?"

Tony rubbed the bridge of his nose, then said, "Look, there's a snag. Cary Byrd is cooperating with the DEA and FBI on another case. He's being charged, but he's not going anywhere, for now."

"He's still out there." Lewis fixed a vacant stare on the wall.

"He's still out there," Tony confirmed. "Under federal supervision."

The vacant stared turned dark as he turned it toward Tony. "And a lot of good that did for Luce."

"Wish I had better news, but my hands are tied." That was a well-trained response, on Tony's part.

Lewis had Tony against the wall before either of them knew what they were doing. Tony's back hit the plaster with a solid thunk. "Then maybe you just weren't good enough," he hissed.

Tony didn't push back. He yielded to the other man's anger, familiar anger, like Gibbs during the heat of a case. Like Gibbs when he knew the law couldn't provide them justice, not this time. The likeness was so striking, especially now that it was directed at him. He said, slowly, looking right into Lewis' betrayed eyes, "Thought the same thing."

Lewis moved away. He crossed the room to stare at the corner, laughing bitterly.

"He's still not being watched between 1200 and 1400," Tony said.

Lewis turned and said, "What're you saying?"

And Tony said, "I'm only here to give you information."

Midnight.

Tony wasn't sleeping; he was drinking, and pacing. Waiting for Zoe to get home

He broke a glass. Cut his finger.

Watched the blood swirl around the sink.

Back when he'd been at Gibbs' place, Emily had given him extra pink bandaids. He wrapped his finger, stared at it.

He sat on the floor to study crumbs left behind by the broom.

A key turned in the lock. The door opened. The kitchen light switched on.

Zoe saw the broken glass, blood on the counter, and she found him on the floor. Sitting, head cocked and looking at nothing.

"It's only a little cut," Tony slurred, drunk. "Only a little cut."

July 16, 2015

Cary Byrd rented a row house in an area that hovered somewhere just below gentrification. The nearest available parking was three blocks away, even with Tony circling around twice. On the corner of the next block, a young man was obviously hustling some kind of illegal substance. He was there one moment, then gone the next. But a two-bit dime bag dealer wasn't really on their agenda.

Lewis Wilson had called DiNozzo fifty minutes earlier, saying only two words: Thank you.

It had taken Tony ten minutes alone to convince McGee to come with him, to watch his six and be a second pair of eyes. "Just a hunch I have…" Tony'd said.

And Tim had given him that same look he'd had on his face back in autopsy, after Tony tried to get a piece of Byrd. He'd known it was a Bad Idea, but he said, "I don't think you should go alone."

So here they were, Tim having visions that his own career would be ending this afternoon, for sure. Because following Tony was definitely a Bad Idea. He knew what happened between Tony and Cary Byrd hadn't been a fluke, a one time event, an isolated occurrence — it was just another piece that fit into a greater pattern of behavior. A dangerous pattern.

Tony hopped up the three steps to the front door, while McGee stayed on street level, watching the surroundings. Tony knocked, loudly. No answer. He knocked again.

McGee stepped up to the window, barred in decorative wrought iron. The curtain was parted an inch, but that was enough. Dread filled him as he said, "Tony, we got blood..."

"C'mere," Tony urged, as the both of them grabbed for their weapons, holding them down toward the ground, fingers off the trigger. Tony reached for the door knob; McGee kept an eye on the street. An old man smoking a cigar sat on a stoop across the street and watched, knit cap on his head and no expression on his face.

The door was unlocked. It swung inward, banging against the wall, as Tony shoved it open and began to clear the room. Tim followed, calling out, "Federal agents!"

In the middle of the living room, Byrd lay spread eagle on the carpet wearing nothing but a bathrobe and his own blood, leaving him fully exposed. McGee took the steps two at a time to clear the upper floor, while Tony quickly checked the rest of the lower level: the master bedroom, the bathroom, the closets. Nothing. Nobody. He went to the kitchen. It was surprisingly tidy, clear of clutter. Nothing on the counter except three empty casings.

McGee came back downstairs, having also found nothing, nobody. Just Cary Byrd's dead half-naked body, two bullets in the chest, and another shot to the head. Pieces from the back of his skull now decorated the couch against the far wall. Blood everywhere. Dead gray eyes stared up at the slowly spinning ceiling fan. Mouth open in silent surprise.

Very, very dead, but McGee found himself kneeling and checking his pulse anyway. Still warm. But still very, very dead.

"Tim, it's clear," Tony came up behind McGee suddenly, causing him to flinch.

"Somebody shot him," Tim observed.

"That, I can see," Tony re-holstered his weapon while scanning the carpet. "Policed his brass," he said, feeling the weight of the shells in his pocket.

"Too much of a coincidence… Tony do you think—?"

"No," Tony immediately denied.

"Wilson called you. I saw. Then you wanted to come out here. And now, the guy's dead. How do you know it's not him?" Tim demanded, feeling the suspicion and the multitude of coincidences gnawing at him

"Gut feeling."

"Well, I don't think—"

"I'm not gonna argue with you McGee. I'm lead here; I make the decisions. We'll follow protocol, bring Wilson in for questioning. Standard stuff. Got it?"

Tim stared at Tony.

"Now let's hurry the fuck up. FBI detail's gonna be back soon."

Tim kept staring at him. "How did you know they wouldn't be here?"

"I don't know," Tony lied. He'd known. Gibbs' Rule No. 35: Always watch the watchers. "Do I look like a damn psychic?"

"Why did you want me here?" Tim asked. "What's going on?"

"What would they think if they came here and only found me?"

Tim shook his head, still confused.

"I trust you," Tony said. "That's why you're here. Because I know I can trust you."

"How will I know what to do or say if you don't clue me in?"

"I'll handle it. And don't look at me like that," Tony snapped, referring to the apprehensive expression on Tim's face. It was the same kind of look he'd give a crazy guy with a loaded weapon, and a close relative of the look he'd given him twice earlier.

Because right now Tony sort of was the crazy guy with a loaded weapon.

Tim nodded, and he did what he was told.