CHAPTER NINE

Making


Shock.

Horror.

Scared out of my effing mind.

Glad as hell I was sitting down, even if it was behind the wheel of a ton or so of Detroit steel that I really had no business driving in my state of mind.

The light was red again. Pissed-off drivers were looping around me telling me where to go, how to get there and what to do once I got there.

I grabbed the phone and started to dial 911 with shaking hands. I stopped. No, no—by the time they got there— I redialed the hotel number. "Millennium Hotel, how may I dir—"

"Security," I interrupted. "Head of Security, Jim Rubio, this is an emergency!" Good thing he has the same name as a fish taco shop I like. It all comes down to food with me.

"James Rubio."

"Penthouse West! There's been a shooting! Close down the hotel, call the paramedics—!"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down ma'am. Now who are—"

"I'm Cassandra Talmadge, I was there yesterday when Fran Peterson's room was ransacked, I was just talking to her and I heard her get shot, for god's sake, do something!" I all but screamed.

"You heard her get shot?"

I clenched my fist, my whole body shaking with frustration. "Yes! I'm coming to pick her up, she set down the phone to answer the door, I heard a shot, will you just goddamned do something! She could be dying!" She could be dead, something evil whispered in the back of my mind.

Shut up. Just shut the fuck up.

"I'm putting you on hold. Just a minute."

Classical music filled my ear. I put the phone back on speaker mode, jammed it into the dashboard cradle and floored the van through the once again green light.

I had been smugly glorying in the clear roads for almost half the trip; now, everyone and their cousins were on the road and none of them would— "Get out of my way!" I screamed. Nobody on New Hampshire moved. I could see the top of the Millennium from where I was, frustrating me even further. It was a temptation to abandon the van and run the last blocks.

The music cut off. "Where are you, Miss Talmadge?" At least he sounded serious, now.

"Almost there, I'm almost there—" Traffic was, blessedly, starting to move again. "Is she—"

"Police and paramedics are on their way. The hotel is on lockdown; I'll need to escort you onto the premises." Before I could ask why I rated access (not that I was objecting; I would have stormed the castle anyway) he said, "If Miss Peterson is hurt, I thought it would help her to have you there."

I started to cry. "Thank you. I'm almost there."

"I'll meet you in front." He clicked off.

Ducky. Oh, god, Ducky. "Call Autopsy!" I yelled.

"I'm sorry. I didn't understand. Could you please repeat your request?" The voice recognition chip actually sounded irritated.

Cell phones don't translate hysteria well. "Call. Autopsy," I repeated, forcing my voice to be calm and measured. I took a deep breath, pushing my tears out of existence.

"Call Autopsy?"

"Yes." It's like confirming 'yes, delete this file' four times. Supposedly this makes for safer driving. Not by me.

Be there, please, please, please, be there— "Autopsy, Dr. Mallard."

"Oh, god, Ducky—" I started to cry again. I've turned into a real waterfall this past month. Not my usual; I can't wait for life to get back to normal.

"Cassandra, what's—"

"It's Fran." I couldn't see the road clearly. I wiped angrily at my eyes and took the curve cautiously. I wouldn't help Fran if I wrapped myself around a light pole. "She's been shot."

"WHAT?"

I've never heard him yell like that before. "Oh, Ducky, I was talking to her on the phone, someone came to the door—" I was goddamned weeping. "I heard her get shot!"

"Where are you?"

"About to make the turn into Millennium."

"I'll be right there."

"They've locked—" I was talking to empty air. Oh, what the hell. He has credentials. Nobody's going to stop him. Heaven help them if they try to.

True to his word, the imposing Mr. Rubio was waiting at the curb. When he saw me leap out of the van, he waived 'come hither' to one of the valets who sprang into the driver's seat and smoothly pulled away—good, they hire people who can drive standard.

"All the elevators are on lockdown," Rubio said quietly as soon as I was within earshot. "Only west bay elevators go to Penthouse West, just as only the east bay goes to Penthouse East, south to Penthouse South and so forth. But if you take any of them one floor down, you can access all four bays." I nodded; I'd seen that configuration before. If Fran's shooter—(my hands started to shake again)—had gotten off the floor, she could have hit a total of eight different elevators around the hotel including the two for the west wing. (Yes, she. I just knew it was the same woman. I just knew it.)

"I have two members of my team walking the private access stairs to PHW," he continued, walking me in the front door. He exchanged minute nods with the gentleman in a black suit whose sidearm looked classy and mildly intimidating as opposed to flat-out scary. "They're escorting the staff physician—" Nice to see some things don't change. Hotel doctors still exist—in the high rent hotels, anyway. "—and once they verify it's clear, Dr. Potter can check on Miss Peterson. The EMTs are on the way, but still several minutes out." I flicked the top of my tongue rapidly over the backs of my front teeth, a nervous habit from childhood. "At that point, we'll release the service elevator, clear it, and get you upstairs to be with your friend. You'll have to stay out of the way," he cautioned, even as I burst into tears yet again.

"I will, I will," I vowed.

I tried to stand still, to summon some sort of Zen calm, but it didn't work. I went from folding my hands tightly and rubbing the thumbs against each other (until a rough nail did some nifty damage) to shifting back and forth from foot to foot, slow rocking growing faster and faster. I probably looked like R2D2 having a tizzy fit.

Time slowed to a standstill. Mrs. Islington appeared from nowhere, conferred with Mr. Rubio, gave me a sympathetic smile and disappeared once again. I'll bet nobody screws around on her shift. Ever.

The cops arrived. The EMTs were still en route. (The station that normally handles this area was out on a call. The next closest station that serves as backup was… out on a call. As was the next. It was a crappy day in DC to call 911. I heard one Metro officer say it had routed down six levels. They were probably coming from Maryland.)

But if the paramedics were slow to respond, NCIS was quick. (Understatement. I think they have a transporter in Abby's lab.) Yes, NCIS. Gibbs flashed his tin, coolly said this crime was linked to an ongoing NCIS investigation and nobody batted an eye as he and his team sailed into the hotel. They didn't even question why the Medical Examiner was there when nobody had made mention of a body.

"Penthouse is clear," Rubio announced. "We still have the passenger elevators on lockdown—and some of the guests are… growing impatient." Pitching a bitch, more like it. The Metro officer in charge gave a few terse orders; several officers dispersed while one joined Alpha Cop and trotted off toward the back of the hotel. "Special Agent Gibbs…?"

They stepped a foot or two away, well within my earshot. "My understanding is that you suspect the break-in yesterday—and, by extension, the shooting today—are linked to the attack on your Medical Examiner?"

"That's right." Gibbs is so loquacious.

Rubio glanced toward Ducky. "And you can identify the woman who shot at you Dr.—" You could almost see him flipping through the Post-its in his head. "—Mallard?"

"Yes," Ducky said confidently.

Rubio nodded. "Good. We'll start opening up the elevators one at a time—starting with the west wing. Take them a non-stop route to the lobby, we have staff—" Security, no doubt. "—ready to escort the guests and visitors to one of our conference rooms. We're presenting it that all of them may have information that could assist us."

"Never let a suspect know they're a suspect," Gibbs said. Wonder if he has that cross-stitched on a pillow.

"Exactly." Rubio turned to Ducky. "I'd like you and Agent Gibbs to be in the room. Just… in the background."

"See if anyone matches?" Gibbs was still being his usual remote, if mildly charming, self.

"Yes." This time Rubio's glance included me. "Once Metro gives us the go-ahead, we'll get you upstairs to be with your friend."

I nodded dumbly, almost missing Ducky's startled look.

Rubio raised a finger slightly. "One moment." He listened intently to a voice only he could hear. "Let's move this to the Mikado Room. The first elevator is on the way down."

Gibbs glanced at his team standing quietly on the side. A look, an infinitesimal head jerk; apparently he's installed some sort of psychic connection, because McGee, DiNozzo and my favorite no-longer-Israeli-assassin (darn it), Ziva David, quietly went in three different directions. Gibbs followed Rubio, Ducky followed Gibbs, and I kept pace with Ducky. The company was far more pleasant. Jimmy Palmer trailed behind all of us, looking slightly lost.

"Are you all right?" Ducky asked softly.

My nod was more of a nervous twitch. "I'm okay." As okay as you can be hearing someone shot over your phone. I can't imagine how Ducky stood it, watching Lilly get shot.

The first guests were being escorted into the conference room when we arrived. Mom, Dad and two teens intent on re-defining sullen. (Something tells me they wanted to go to Disney, not the Washington Monument.) It was a slam-dunk they weren't involved (though I flashed on True Lies for a moment). The kids actually perked up and wanted to stay when it came out that Rubio was looking for information in relation to a "possible' crime. They looked kinda sad to leave.

The second west wing elevator load was two businessmen down from New York. Heard nothing, saw nothing, worth nothing. Excused from detention.

"Appears Mr. Rubio's theory was correct," Gibbs murmured. "Shooter took the elevator to another floor, switched cars."

I didn't say anything. I knew how long it had taken between the sound of the shot and Rubio getting back to me to say they had the hotel on lockdown. Too long. I was honestly and justifiably worried the shooter had gotten out of the building and was halfway to Ohio.

The next elevator had only one occupant, a slightly over-made up almost middle-aged young woman who looked familiar. She was in Penthouse South; "No I heard nothing… the soundproofing in Millennium is excellent." She giggled and poofed her lips and I suddenly recognized her from the covers of a zillion magazines so many years ago: Magda, the former high fashion model whose new reality show was a cross between America's Next Top Model and Project Runway and a poor copy of both. She got more publicity by bouncing in and out of rehab and getting arrested. Just like—Fran's father. I shuddered slightly. (Though at least he has blockbuster films between stints.) Some people need better pastimes. Of course, if she can afford a hotel like the Millennium, not to mention one of the penthouse suites, she must be doing something right.

"No, no, I was here to visit my family." That's right, she was a local girl, Magda was just a name dreamed up by her manager back in the 70s. She was one of those girls who grew up way too fast, posing in grownup clothes and makeup when she was only eleven. (No, I'm not a stalker. Not even a follower. Half my staff is under 30; if it's on MTV, I know more about it than I ever wanted to.) "And to have lunch with a friend." Wow. She still has friends. Color me impressed.

But she wasn't a suspect. She probably couldn't concentrate long enough to shoot someone (let alone aim straight; her eyes were a trifle unfocused (so much for her latest waltz through rehab)). Rubio thanked her for her assistance, made an appropriately complimentary comment about her show and she went on her way.

"Security does not show anyone even remotely resembling the woman on our BOLO leaving the building." I jumped at least a foot; Ziva has quiet, sneaky entrances and exits down pat.

Gibbs nodded. "Course she could just be holed up in one of the rooms," he said casually. He and Ziva moved toward the second door on our side of the room.

Rubio winced faintly. I'm sure the idea of doing a room-by-room search of the idle rich and sometimes famous was on the top of his list. Not.

Next elevator load was a good-sized crowd—eight people, all strangers to one another, all pissed as hell about the delay. Butcher, baker, candlestick-maker, doctor, lawyer, Indian chief… Maybe not quite that disparate, but close. Nobody heard anything or saw anything; once they realized the delay was caused by a criminal investigation, the mutterings about 'my lawyer' disappeared. There were a couple of, "Here?" comments in aghast tones (yes, honey, crime happens in nice hotels, too); the PR department was going to have fun with this one.

While the next group of undoubtedly unhappy people was being brought to the room, Mr. Rubio came over to where Ducky and I were standing. "The paramedics have arrived," he said quietly. "Dr. Potter says there's only one wound, messy but not life-threatening." I sagged and almost fell down; Ducky's quick arm about my shoulders stopped me. "Her worst injury is actually from a fall; she apparently struck her head on a table, was unconscious when they arrived. They've brought her around, but she has a severe concussion. They're asking that you stay downstairs; it's rather crowded already."

I nodded, quick little jerks. "Fine, fine, I'm good staying here—I'm just glad she's okay. As okay as she can be." Translation, I'm just glad she's not dead.

"If you'd like to go with her to the hospital—"

"Yes!"

"—I'm sure that can be arranged."

Our new group was a twosome. The older woman was about my age, her upswept and carefully arranged hair a gorgeous platinum that immediately reminded me of Maxine. I sighed; damn, I was sorry she had left us. Ducky would have loved to reconnect, I had wanted to meet her—and I'm pretty sure Fran would have rather had her than her inheritance. I thought the younger woman was her daughter but the way she strode toward Mr. Rubio, fall of auburn hair swinging in classic Jan Brady mode, made me reconsider. "What the hell is going on here? I demand to see the manager!"

"I'm very sorry for the inconvenience, ma'am," Rubio said smoothly. A glance our way; a tiny head-shake from Ducky. "There was an incident in one of the rooms, a guest was… injured…"

"So because some asshole falls in the tub, you shut down all of the elevators? Overkill, ya think?"

"I'm sorry to say, it was a shooting—"

"Shooting? What the hell kind of place is this?"

"I assure you, Miss—"

"Timmons."

"Miss Timmons, this is quite out of the ordinary. It appears someone came here with the sole purpose of hunting down this guest."

She knocked it back a peg or two. "So it was like—an assassination? Some political hotshot?"

"I can't say. But were you near Penthouse West?" She shook her head. "Where…?" He looked at her expressively.

"I'm—I'm in 610. South. I'm here for the ASTA conference. There's four of us, my friends are already gone, we—we were going to hit some of the sights before things get started with the meetings and crap and I forgot my cell phone—someone really got shot?" Rubio nodded. The wind fell out of her sails. "Oh, my god."

Gibbs was watching the exchange, face impassive. He 'casually' glanced around the room—one of Rubio's staff was across the room, at the door parallel to Ducky and me; at the other door, across from Gibbs and Ziva, the second security member stood with the other occupant of the elevator, who stared away from us (possibly bored; possibly not wanting to be associated with something so sordid); then a look at the DC cop, Rubio and the younger guest, then Ducky and me almost in the corner… He stared at us for a moment, as though he had forgotten we were there, then leaned over and whispered something to Ziva. An eyebrow flicked up slightly and she nodded. She tapped at her PDA.

"—in contact." I blinked; I had missed Rubio giving farewell permission to the travel agent. (My niece, Sharon, works part time at a travel agency. I know what ASTA means.)

Gibbs was watching the second woman as she was escorted over to the middle of the room where Mr. Rubio had been speaking to people in turn. If you didn't know him, you wouldn't notice; you wouldn't even think he was paying attention. But I've known him well enough over the past year that I can tell the difference between him not paying attention and the front of letting people think he's not paying attention. This was definitely the latter.

"Is it—can I sit down? For a sec?" The travel agent was looking a little shaky on her pins.

"Of course." Rubio escorted her to one of the round tables to the side and settled her in a chair. "Would you like some water?"

"No, no, I'm good. Thanks."

Good, my ass. She looked as white as I felt. The second woman from the elevator was waiting with the look only the idle rich can achieve: bored élan with a dash of hoity-toity in the background. Probably some Senator's mistress, I thought evilly. She looked around briefly, her glance barley moving over us. I frowned; there was something just a hair familiar about her. Kind of like Maxine… only not as engaging, I finally decided.

A little color back in her cheeks, the travel agent gave a game smile and stood up. "I think I'm going to let my friends go on without me. Is the bar open yet?" With a small smile of understanding, Rubio nodded and escorted her to the door. The second guest was ushered to the front center of the room.

Rubio come back and joined the remaining guest. "I'm sorry," he said with a gracious smile as he came up.

She didn't answer, merely inclined her head slightly, the queen acknowledging a commoner. She was almost eye-to-eye with Rubio, who was no shorty; she was close to six feet tall. Of course, she was cheating; she had on high heels that could be used as deadly weapons. Not a hair out of place, stylishly dressed, impeccable manicure—she probably wouldn't want to even be near a gun, was probably incapable of firing one. (That is a job for the servants, darling.) She was so plastic she gave me the willies. I shivered slightly.

"Are you all right?" Ducky asked softly.

His voice was barely audible. "Yeah," I murmured absently. "Just… hinky."

He gave me a questioning glance but didn't pursue the conversation.

"—the hotel?" I had missed Rubio's questions to that point.

"No." The woman's voice was pleasant, if cool. "A friend—former colleague—is in town, we're going out for an afternoon of 'retail therapy.'" She waived her hand graciously.

"And the friend?" Rubio continued. He's a little more approachable than Gibbs, but both of them have a talent for lulling you into a sense of security and using anything that falls out of your mouth to their advantage.

Ducky started slightly at the woman's comment; distracted, I missed Ms. Irritatingly Familiar's reply. He casually turned aside, pulled out his cell phone and tapped a message. A moment later, from the corner of my eye, I saw Ziva flick her eyes toward Ducky and tap keys on her PDA. She leaned over and showed the screen to Gibbs.

"So you heard nothing, Miss Stanachovnia?"

"No, nothing," she said, still calm and collected.

"It's an interesting coincidence…"

All eyes turned to Gibbs at his laconic comment.

"Coincidence?" Rubio repeated.

"Mmmh. Yes. Miss Stan-a-chov-ni-a… was staying at…" He checked his notes. "The Park Regency. Her car was stolen and found, abandoned. Here." He was talking as he punched keys on his PDA. (Rumor has it that when McGee got Gibbs up and running (and competent) on his new equipment, he went out and got stinking drunk.)

"How interesting." Rubio looked rather like Gibbs at that moment.

"We thought so." Message sent, Gibbs looked up, his face deceptively bland. "The stolen vehicle was used in an attack on our Medical Examiner, Dr. Mallard." He jerked his head in our direction. Ms. Typical Hitchcock Blonde didn't even glance over.

"Good heavens," Rubio said in shocked tones. Good actor, that man; anybody would think he didn't know all the grisly details.

"Yes," Gibbs said calmly. "A dear family friend was shot." I could hear Ducky's voice in his words. Apparently Gibbs' PDA vibrated; he glanced at the screen and gave a tiny, very satisfied smile. A glance toward Ducky, a flick of an eyebrow; a slowly indrawn breath from my beloved.

"And the young woman who was shot today—someone ransacked her room yesterday," Rubio continued.

"How dreadful," the woman said. She sounded almost bored; I doubted her sincerity.

To my surprise, Ducky walked over toward her. I was curious, but stayed back.

"What a lovely ring," Ducky said politely. She gave him only the briefest acknowledgement. "Have you been married long?"

No answer, but the slight stiffening of her shoulders made me think, "too long."

"It's an interesting thing… if you wear a piece of jewelry long enough, it becomes such a part of you, you don't even realize you have it on," Ducky said musingly. I saw Ziva's hand slip up to her throat, fingering the gold Star of David I never saw her without. "Women, in particular, with regard to their engagement and wedding rings…"

Ziva took the cue and began reading information from her PDA. "Two rings. Wedding set. Either white gold or platinum. Engagement ring, center stone a diamond, pear-shaped, three to four carats; side stones of sapphires, also pear-shaped, wedding band a circlet of alternating diamond and sapphire chips—" She glanced up at Miss Stanachovnia, who was now standing stiffly, looking off to her right—after having shot Ziva an uncomfortable look for a split second. "As worn by the suspect in the shooting of Lillian McAllister. You have an excellent eye, Dr. Mallard," she said formally.

Not a word. Not a noise. Ducky stared at the woman. She just stood there, silent, unmoving, like a statue of a Greek goddess. "Why?" he finally asked.

No answer. She wouldn't even look at him.

"Our forensics specialist just compared notes with Metro PD." Gibbs waggled his PDA. "Prints from the car you rented match several taken from the hotel room that was ransacked. Another… coincidence?"

"Why?" Ducky repeated, more loudly. He took a step forward. "Who—who are you to Francesca that you almost killed two women—"

A split second flash of emotion. Fear. Hatred. Anger. Then the mask went back up.

"Ahhh," he breathed softly. "You didn't realize… you weren't successful." He gave her a grim smile. "Perhaps you panicked? Ran off? But, no—Francesca is still alive."

She looked nervous, twitchy, for just a moment. Then the ice queen was back. The perfect, glacial blonde Hitchcock had used in so many films. Ingrid Bergman. Grace Kelly. Kim Novak. Tippi Hedren.

I literally took a step back. Valerie was a huge fan of Magda's crappy MTV show. She said it was like watching a train wreck in slow motion. Earlier in the year, when we had spent one long night cleaning all of the carpets, I had let her watch/listen to the marathon of the full twelve episodes of the fall mini-season as we worked (anything to get an extra pair of hands for the night); each episode had a sort-of-name/sort-of-has-been guest, all from modeling or fashion, and the premier episode had been a chum from years back—

"Alyce! Over here!" I yelled.

Everyone looked startled. Rubio raised his eyebrows, Gibbs flat-out stared, Ducky jumped a little and even Ziva looked surprised. But I got the reaction I wanted. Miss Stanachovnia's head whipped around, a practiced smile on her face, trained like a Pavlovian dog to listen for the paparazzi to call her name and respond graciously to the bell. The cold, distant mask dropped; the professional mask—the plastic smile engaging the public—went up. Betrayed by decades of photo ops, she blinked, stunned, the mask slipping; then it fell all the way and she glared at me with all the animal hatred human DNA can muster.

Oh, yeah. She was very capable of firing a gun. Fortunately, with poor aim.

"Alyce?" Gibbs questioned.

As I walked toward them, I could see Ducky nodding to himself. Now I know who you are, I could almost hear aloud. "Alyce Novak," I said. She was still giving me a nasty look. "Born Allison Stanachovnia. Alyce Novak was her catwalk name."

Gibbs looked only slightly puzzled. Ziva translated for him. "Miss Stanachovnia—Miss Novak—was a model." He nodded in comprehension.

"But she has a third name. Mrs.—"

"Mrs. Cameron Carson," Ducky finished.

Gibbs frowned. "The actor?" (Tony should give him a gold star.) Ducky nodded. "Just out of curiosity… why the hell were you trying to kill Fran Peterson?"

That was the cue for the lone cop to speak quietly into the mic on his shirt and come over to join us. "Ma'am—I need to advise you of your rights—"

Alyce was starting to breathe hard. "That—stupid—slut!" she spat.

My mouth actually fell open. Fran? A-a—slut? Oh, please!

"If you answer questions at this time—"

"I have been married for thirty years. Thirty years!"

"—it is strictly voluntary. You are—"

"When I first met him, Cam was the original party animal. Alcohol, drugs, women—"

"—not under arrest—"

"We got together and he had been sleeping with that little tramp, Mary—" She sneered when she said the name. I could feel the tension radiating from Ducky; he wanted to slap her silly.

"—free to leave at any time—"

She whirled on the cop. "Will you shut up!" she snapped. He looked taken aback.

"Was the money that important?"

She gave me a confused look. "What?"

"Fran's grandmother. Maxine Arthur. She left her estate to Fran, isn't that…?" I trailed off.

She shook her head slowly, staring at the floor. "Money." She laughed softly, disdainfully. "Money." Another headshake. "Why would I care about the money?" (Guess she's never tried to make Top Ramen stretch for three meals like some of us.) "I… love… my husband." She said it with such intensity I didn't doubt her for an instant. "Cam is—was—a bit of a screw up. I knew that from the beginning. But… I love him. And I know he has some… damage… from the alcohol. And the drugs."

Damage. As in no longer functional brain cells, I bet.

"But he's funny. And kind. And talented. And good-hearted—"

And rich, I added mentally. "And a louse," is what I said. Alyce glared at me. "Hey. What else would you call a guy who sleeps with two women at one time, gets one of them pregnant and walks off with the second one? And if Mary Carpenter was a tramp for sleeping with him, what does that make you?" I asked sweetly. "Did you encourage him to turn his back on his daughter?"

Gibbs shot me a look and I held my breath, waiting for him to boot my butt out the door. Quite the opposite; his tiny nod apparently meant for me to keep going.

She ignored my dig at her hypocrisy. "He never knew!" She was defending him, yes, but she was also clearly pissed. "Even his mother, that stupid cow, she never told him!"

I briefly considered grabbing a tablecloth from one of the round tables and lassoing Ducky before he tackled her.

"When she died, her lawyer sent a copy of the will and wanted to know if Cam knew where the brat ended up. He was—not available. I signed for the letter."

"Not available. Rehab?" Ducky asked flatly.

"He was… at a spiritual retreat."

"Rehab," I confirmed.

She whirled on me. "He has been in constant pain! On Tempting, My Dear he broke his back!" (I remembered that. Someone else even died and the stunt coordinator was charged with Man 2 or Accidental Homicide or something.) "Three surgeries! And all they'd do after that is throw painkillers at him and when he became addicted they just washed their hands of him!" I actually felt a tiny bit sorry for the guy. "He is finally rid of that monkey on his back and what happens?" She began pacing around like a caged lion whose lunchtime has come and gone. "That idiot John Banes from that stupid band they had comes by for a visit. 'Oh, remember sweet little Mary? Poor little thing is in the nuthouse, I hear.' Well, gee, thanks for that newsflash, John," she said sarcastically. "The therapist at Morgan Bay is really big on making amends for past misdeeds. So after thirty years, Cam starts feeling guilty for dumping her and uses one of his precious day passes not to come home to me, his wife, no siree, he goes out to the booby hatch and what does he see? A thousand pictures of a little girl 'with eyes just like mine,'" she quoted. She looked stunned. Still pissed, but stunned. And hurt. "And now nothing will do but find her and 'make it right.'"

"And how is that wrong?" Gibbs' voice was cold. Interesting that a man with no kids is very sympathetic to them.

She looked at him with an almost horrified expression. "Do you have any idea what will happen?"

Let's see. You get a stepdaughter who is, frankly, a better person than you deserve. She's going to have a bank account that will choke a horse, but CC has an almost equal bankroll. Entertainment Tonight has a lead story for a week or so; same story, different names, this isn't the first surprise child to turn up in Hollywood. And Cameron probably looks better for it. "What? You don't want to share him?" I said sarcastically. "Please. It's not like we're talking a custody battle, here."

"For thirty years I've stood by Cam through thick and thin. We have a perfect marriage."

Oh, please. Now I am going to hurl.

"What will people say when this comes out? It will look like he was cheating on me while we were barely just married!"

Every person in the room stared at her, even the two security officers who were trying to look like they hadn't been listening to every word from every person who had been grilled. Some were shocked. Some were did-I-hear-you-right stunned. Others were repulsed. But nobody showed the cold fury Ducky did.

"You mean to tell me… out of the fear of some wagging tongues… you tried to kill an innocent young woman?" When he gets pissed off, his Scottish brogue starts coming out. Right now he sounded like he'd just walked off the boat from Glasgow.

"You don't understand—"

"You're damned right I don't understand!" Probably to keep from killing her, he stalked from the room.

The DC cop stepped forward. "Mrs. Cameron Carson—" (probably the only name he could remember from the list) "—I am placing you under arrest for the attempted murder—"

She looked at him in confusion. "No."

"—of Francesca Peterson and Lillian McAllister—" He'd been paying attention; good. I didn't want Lily's attack to get pushed aside.

"No!" She tried to step away, but he had her wrists in hand and her arms behind her back in a split second.

"Anything you say—" The clink of the handcuffs locking was sweet music.

"No!" she raged. She twisted and turned to no avail. Her beautifully sculpted hair was tumbling down and she started to look more like the Alyce I remembered with her trademark fall of silvery hair. But instead of the frozen, aloof ice queen of the runway and red carpet, her face was a mask of hatred and fury. It wasn't what we were accustomed to seeing… but it sure matched the glimpse into her heart that we had all seen.

I stood there, numb, almost detached, as the officer marched her out of the room. She was getting louder and more combative as they went; so much for avoiding bad publicity.

A hand gently touched my arm and I jumped: Rubio. I'd forgotten about him for a moment. "Miss Peterson will be downstairs shortly. Just give us a call when you want to leave the hospital; we'll have a car come and pick you up."

Wow. Talk about service above and beyond. Of course, they would have some very ugly stories in the news, through no fault of their own. "Thanks. I appreciate that."

I left the room and found Ducky standing in the lobby. He was staring out the front window expanse, watching Alyce being gently strong-armed into the back seat of a squad car. She was fighting tooth and nail; they were using minimal force, but that could change if she kept fighting. Frankly, I'd just tase the bitch and get it over with. People in the lobby were staring; several were using their cell phone to photograph what was happening.

Film at eleven, I thought maliciously. "Fran is on her way down."

Ducky sighed. "Good." He managed a flicker of a smile. "Looks like she'll be staying longer than she planned, poor dear."

"You're going to tell her all that happened? Or—" (Dear god, please, no.) "—you want me to do it?"

"No. It's my responsibility." He looked absolutely grieved. "If I had just told her everything at the start—"

"—it probably wouldn't have changed anything." He looked at me in surprise. "Face it. Alyce has been wearing her game face for thirty years. Perfect marriage? Oh, get real. She's been acting a part all this time—and, frankly, doing a better job that she ever did when she got screen credit—but she is clearly gaga." Clearly. "Even if you had Fran and CC on a three-way call and it turned into the end of a sappy movie of the week it wouldn't have stopped her."

"Perhaps."

We both saw Fran at the same moment. It was hard to not see her. She was sitting up on a gurney, surrounded by hunky EMTs and cops; they made quite a procession. Some of the cell phone movie producers swung their cameras toward her; I barely resisted the temptation to go over and smack them to the floor and stomp on them. (The phones, not the people. Well, the phones more than the people.)

"Hey, how are you doing?" I said as we hurried up.

"Oh, Sandy. I want to go home." She was near tears, and it wasn't from being shot.

"And you will, my dear. Very soon." Ducky said with a comforting hand pat.

"Now!"

Ducky glanced at the one person not in uniform, who carried an honest-to-god doctor's bag. He shook his head. "Let's get you checked out, eh?" Ducky said with another calming smile. "As soon as you're allowed to leave, Sandy and I will take you straightaway to the airport."

"And I'm coming with you to the hospital," I added.

She looked slightly mollified. Then her eyes widened. "Oh! We missed lunch!" That was the last straw. She burst into tears.

Ducky laughed in commiseration. (He was probably hungry, too.) "Poor little Pierrette," he sympathized. "I'll bring a full picnic basket from the Gypsy."

With a gasp she stopped crying. "Pierrette," she breathed. "Oh… Mom used to call me that sometimes, I never knew why…"

We kept pace with the gurney. "She used to sing to you, old songs from musicals. Maxine did, too. You loved those songs—Evita, The King and I, The Boyfriend..."

She smiled. It was small, but it was a smile. "Oh… yes… Poor little Pierrette… where's your Pierrot?" she sang quietly. She has a very pretty voice. "I remember…"

She was in a much better mood when they loaded her in the paramedic unit. There wasn't enough room for me; the EMTs took down my name and promised nobody at the hospital would stop me from being with Fran.

The media had gotten wind of the shooting but arrived after Fran was gone. Of course, with the people coming forth with their cell phone footage, they'd have photos for the new report even if they were one unidentified woman who had been shot by another unidentified woman. They wouldn't stay anonymous for long.

The news vans did a great job of blocking my exit. I was rapidly moving from irritated to pissed to get the hell out of my way or I'll mow you down. When I was ready to grab somebody's sidearm and fire shots overhead, Mr. Rubio sidled up to us. "I had Jon bring your van around back. Come with me through the kitchen." (I'm sending a letter to Mrs. Islington, to the CEO, to whomever I need to and I'm singing his praises like Yma Sumac.)

"I'll leave as soon as I can. And I will bring a hamper," Ducky promised.

My stomach was growling. "Good. I'm about to chew on my own arm. I'll call you when I know anything." I squeezed his hand.

"Please. Do." He's a bit reserved in public, but I could feel the hug and kiss in his eyes.

Any other time I would have slowed down to drool over the kitchen equipment and savor the scents created by people who actually know what the hell they're doing in the kitchen but not today. I barely managed to keep pace with Mr. Rubio (man, can he move) and then we were out on the loading dock behind the kitchen. The head chef was methodically going over the delivery of seafood, rejecting an occasional candidate; no wonder the food there is so good, she is a picky lady. My van was sitting at the top of the ramp, idling, the car jockey standing by the open door. "Do you know the way?" Rubio asked.

I looked at him in horror. "Oh, shit! Where are they—"

He laughed. I probably just broke the tension for him. "Doc said they're taking her to Howard University."

I nodded rapidly. They have a Level 1 trauma unit. You say the word gunshot, and you end up at Howard. "I can find my way."

I got lost twice.

The paramedic unit was still there, the driver filling out paperwork. Good. At least they didn't get lost.

I hurried in the ER entrance and made a beeline for the front desk. "Fran Peterson?"

"And what is your problem, Miss Peterson?"

"No, no—I'm Cassandra Talmadge. Fran Peterson was just brought in. Gunshot wound?" Just saying the words made me want to throw up. Literally. I popped a peppermint and it settled my stomach—by about 5%. Better than nothing.

She clicked her keyboard. "Are you a relative?"

Honey, the closest thing in this town to a relative just tried to kill her. "Extended family."

"I'm sorry, only—"

"The paramedics took my name down. I'm supposed to be allowed in." I kept my voice even.

"I'm sorry, only—"

"Please. Call." I was using my scary voice, the one Ev calls 'the mom voice.' Very calm. Very level. If you push me, I'll kill you… if you're lucky.

With a sigh, she lifted her phone. "Norma in Triage. Peterson, s-o-n, Francesca. Visitor—" she emphasized the word.
"—named Cassandra—" She broke off. "Oh?" She listened a moment. "Oh. Oh. Okay, thanks." She hung up and pointed to the big double doors at the end of the room. "Down the hall, turn left, first counter." She didn't apologize; I didn't care.

I waited in Fran's room (in actuality, a curtained-off cubicle), thumbing through magazines that were older and duller than the ones I'd read a week ago while waiting for news about Lily. (A plea to the universe: this whole reading old magazines while waiting for news about friends who have been shot is getting old. Especially the 'friends getting shot' part. Thank you for your attention to this matter.) Fortunately, I didn't have long to wait.

The curtain parted, and an orderly wheeled Fran's bed in. She was sitting up, her right arm strapped against her body. Her left foot was moving under the blanket, tapping nervously against an invisible floor. She'd been put in a stylish hospital johnny with tiny blocks of red and blue on a field of beige and PROPERTY OF HUH printed all over in big black letters. (Like someone would steal it?)

I let the orderly anchor the bed and leave before coming over to her. I pinched her tapping toe through the blanket and wiggled her foot. "How're you doing?" I was afraid to give her a hug; I didn't know where she was hurt.

"Great… if they'd let me out of here."

"So… where…?" I trailed off.

She used her left hand to point toward her right chest. "They took x-rays already. They said it's a 'through and through' and that's a good thing. It doesn't hurt much." That surprised me. She grinned crookedly. "Because I am totally ripped."

I laughed. "Good. Enjoy it."

The smile faded a bit. "Do they know who—why—?"

Urk. I sighed. "Yeah. They do. But—Ducky would rather tell you."

She grudgingly accepted that. "Okay…" She sighed. "I just want to go home…"

"That's not going to happen." The young man whipping through the curtain gave us a perky smile. "Dr. Webber," he said, holding out a hand. "Oops!" He moved so that Fran could use her left hand to shake. He gave me a polite look.

"Cassandra Talmadge, family friend," I quickly supplied. This guy looked like he had just started shaving. Maybe. It was like looking at Doogie Howser. He couldn't be that young—could he? (Maybe it was just that I was becoming that old.)

"Please, may she stay?" Fran pleaded.

He shrugged. "Fine by me." He pulled a rolling chair over and straddled it. "You are a very lucky young lady."

"Sez you." Fran giggled and covered her mouth. "Sorry."

Dr. Webber laughed. "Morphine is fun, eh?" She giggled again. "Don't sign any business contracts for the rest of the day," he advised. "Okay. The shot was nice and clean. We're looking at minimal surgery, mostly picking out bits of bone and checking bleeders."

"Ewww."

"Not as bad as it sounds. You have two broken ribs, a nick on the scapula and a nice break on the clavicle. The last appears to have been from your fall—when you knocked your noggin." He tapped his head. "You're going to need to keep your right arm immobilized for about 6 weeks—"

"But I'm right handed!"

"Next time, tell them to shoot on the left side." Ha-ha-ha. A regular comedian. "We're going to keep you under observation for 24 hours—"

"But—but my plane leaves—"

"Without you. You're not going anywhere for 24 hours. And not on a plane, for sure. You were unconscious when they found you. You've had a nasty concussion. I don't recommend air travel for at least a week."

Fran's brow furrowed and her lower lip actually trembled. "But—"

"Amtrak," I suggested. "It's a four day trip or so. Or you can stay with us for a week and then fly home."

She sighed. "It's not that I don't enjoy your company, but—"

"Cal," I mouthed. She blushed a pretty pink. "So. Any food restrictions today?"

"Probably not. We plan to just use a local—like I said, we're not talking major surgery, here. If we need to go with a general, no food except what we provide. But it probably won't be necessary. I wouldn't recommend anything heavy or spicy, but she should be good by four o'clock or so."

"I'm going to die of starvation before then," Fran vowed.

"Ducky is going to pick up stuff from the Hippy Gypsy," I reminded her. I was starving, too.

Dr. Webber looked up. "Ducky? You don't mean Ducky Mallard, do you?"

"Yes…" I said hesitantly.

"Sweet! I've known him since I was a kid!" (What do you mean since you were a kid?) "He's the reason I went to medical school!" I stared at him, shocked. "Tell him you met up with Angela Webber's son."

"Uh—okay."

"Mom worked in Legal. I met Ducky at the Family Day picnic, wow, eighteen years ago. Hung out with him and his mom most of the day. She's a cool lady."

I couldn't help it. I started to giggle. Hard. "Everyone," I managed to get out. "Everyone." I laughed myself into tears. "Sorry. It's just that everyone knows Ducky!"

"And everyone likes Ducky," Dr. Webber added with a firm look.

Fran sighed. "If you're going to say nice things like that… I'll have to go along with your medical demands."

"Good." He stood up and patted her leg. "We'll have her up in just a bit, she should be out by three, three-thirty."

I held up my phone. "Is this one of the areas—"

"Lobby's okay." He looked at Fran's chart. "And… you'll be in room 1104B, if you want to wait for her," he said looking first at Fran and then at me.

"Thanks."

I waited with her until a different orderly came to whisk her away; it really was just a few minutes. Promising that I'd be waiting upstairs for her, I hurried to the lobby to call Ducky. I gave him a quick rundown, tossing the medical terms around like I knew what I was talking about. I wasn't wrong, apparently, because he didn't correct me or burst out laughing. He sounded relieved at the diagnosis and treatment, and was all for keeping Fran here for a week and letting her fly home. (Yeah, like that was going to happen.) He promised to leave early and pick up late lunch for us—and let Suzy know we might be late getting home.

A quick trip through the gift store for a book (I was NOT going to go through round three of five year old People magazines) and I parked myself in the vinyl covered chair near the window in Fran's room. Two beds; no roomie. Fran was upstairs at 3:02. Her eyes were red; she had toughed it out with just a local, but it hadn't been pleasant. (She admitted that the threat of losing Hippy Gypsy to hospital food if they used a general anesthetic kept her going.) "You don't look too bad, kiddo."

"I'm not that young," she grumbled, trying to get comfortable while using only one hand to shift herself around.

"You are to me," I retorted. "I'm old enough to be your mu-thah."

She looked slightly blank. "Um, okay."

When she didn't laugh, I suddenly remembered her newness to our group and realized I had to explain. "Okay. Years ago, I had a summer employee who was from Bahs-ton. You know—pahk the cah?" She nodded. "Well, Tina had a mouth on her that made me look like an elderly nun." Puzzled look. "Um… Ducky often winces at my language."

"Ah."

"Tina's favorite phrase, which she used as casually as most people would say 'please' or 'thank you' or 'the' or 'of' was—" I had to steel myself. I don't think I've said it five times in my life. "Mother-fucker."

She wrinkled her nose. "I've never liked that."

"Me, either. But she would say it with this strong Bahs-ton accent with the ac-cent on the first syl-lah-ble," I emphasized. "So it ended up, 'Mu-thah fuck-ah,' and it became absolutely hysterical after a while. 'Tina, would you open that shipment?' 'Mu-thah fuck-ah, that's a lot-ta books!' Quite rhythmic. 'Tina, we're ordering pizza for lunch.' 'Mu-thah fuck-ah, cool!' She was working at the shop on 9/11, you can imagine the workout that phrase got."

"Don't make me laugh!" Fran begged, trying not to.

"Sorry." I spread my hands. "Most of my stories are funny. Most of my life is funny. It's like a cheesy sitcom without the commercial breaks."

"Even you and Ducky?" she teased. "So. You never gave me the whole story. You don't work together—how did you meet? He just walked into the store and—bam?"

Oh, what the hell. It would keep her occupied. Besides—she's adopted family from his side. "Okay." I dragged the armchair closer to her bed and climbed back on and crossed my legs. "A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, there lived a young woman who made some spectacularly bad choices in men. In my defense, I've made some good choices, too—but my bad choices were really, really bad." I rattled off a two or three paragraph buildup to my romance with David Sutton. She was hanging on every word, so I gave the 'happening' about ten pages of monologue. She was amused, horrified, fascinated and aghast by turns. She laughed like crazy over my first meeting with Victoria ("I never have asked her what she meant about my knickers and I never will ask.") and was absolutely dewy-eyed over our Grand Romance.

"You guys are so sweet together. I have to admit—I'm still a little sad that Ducky's not my birth father, just because he's so… nice. But I'm glad that he considers me extended family." She picked at the fabric pills on her blanket. "Do you think he'll ever break down and tell me? Who my father is, I mean?"

This wasn't the same as telling her the name… "Yes. He will."

She looked up, surprised. "He will? When?"

"That I don't know." Though I could make a safe bet that it would be this afternoon.

She looked at me shrewdly. "You know who he is."

I sighed. "I figured it out. But Ducky wants to be the one to tell you. And he will."

She nodded. "Fair enough."

"So. Your turn. Tell me about Cal."

She blushed. "There's not much to tell."

"Horse pucky. I'm not going to rat you out to your mom and dad."

She gasped. "Oh! I need to call my dad! He was going to pick me up at LAX!"

The room phone would only allow outgoing local calls. I checked with the ward nurse; it was okay to use cell phones in the room, so I loaned her mine.

Voice mail. "Hi, Dad. It's Fran. I'm okay, don't panic, but I'm in Howard University Hospital, room 1104B. 202-555-2700," she read off the phone. "Call me back, I'll tell you everything. But I'm okay, really, I'm okay. But I won't be flying out tonight. Call me back. Love you lots. Hug Mom," she said, almost as an afterthought. She handed the phone back. "Thanks. I wish I could tell him who and why, not just what."

"You will," I promised.

"You know!" She pounced on it. "Tell me, please!"

"It… has to do with your father," I hedged. "It's better if Ducky tells you. All of it."

"Oh, man…" She sighed and fell back on the pillows. "This doesn't happen in real life. This is the crap that happens in a bad movie of the week."

"Yeah, but you need to add an incurable disease." As if on cue, the tweaked muscle in my stomach twisted—hard. I tried not to hunch over and sucked air through my teeth.

"Are you okay?" Fran's eyes were wide.

"Pulled muscle," I said through gritted teeth.

"Looks more like appendicitis from over here."

"Nah. Parted company back in high school. Ruined Christmas vacation, too. I just moved a shitload of boxes a couple of weeks ago and still paying the price." I concentrated on breathing through the spasm. I was adapting to this being a constant in my life; great.

"Two weeks? You'd better see a doctor."

"That's Ducky's chant, too. I will, I will. Next week." It was starting to ease up. "So. Cal. All the dope. Now."

"Well…" She ducked her head and smiled. You could tell she wanted to have a girl-chat and didn't have many opportunities. "I've known him since I started at Sing." The blush started to creep back. "He's a master model maker as well as one of the best specialty makeup men in the business. He learned it from his dad who learned it from John Chambers—you know, the guy who did the original Planet of the Apes movies? He's a—a hands-on guy—" Deeper blush. (Hands-on. Snicker.) "He's the owner of the company. He doesn't do CAD—computer aided design," she translated. "But he's hired some of the best in the business. He's thirty-seven… a little taller than I am… dark blonde hair, kinda long, these gorgeous green eyes…" She was getting giggly.

"How long have you been dating?"

She looked like she was going to object and gave up. "Um… five years." Fire engine red, now.

"So. You're dating… not just dating." No answer. "I told you, I won't spill the beans."

"We've been dating for five years." She barely suppressed a smile. "We've been… dating… for two."

"And Daddy figures you're going to wear white on your wedding day?" Shy smile and half-nod. "Hey. Liz Taylor wore white for every wedding. Hello?"

She laughed and looked up at the knock at the door. "Ducky!" she cried in delight when it opened.

"Oh, my dear, dear girl! I'm so glad to see you so chipper!" He placed the hamper—an actual wicker basket that Gypsy loans out—on the dresser, hurried over and gave Fran a peck on the cheek. "How are you feeling?"

"Well, it wasn't fun being awake during the poke-and-prod, but I didn't want to risk losing out on lunch."

"Especially not after losing out on going out for lunch," I added. "Hint, hint."

"Hint taken." He broke open the basket. "We have… curried tuna salad on walnut bread… roast beef and jack cheese on sourdough—the bread has bits of sun dried tomatoes and rosemary, a wonderful combination… Mandarin orange chicken salad that's just delicious…" He laughed when she made a little "ooh!" and perked up like Underfoot lighting on a bird on the patio. "It's yours," he said gallantly. "Dear?"

"I'm good with tuna." I know the beef-n-cheese is his favorite, and their tuna is mine.

He handed out plates and utensils and food, and used the rolling bed tray to put out containers of fruit salad, cucumber salad, potato salad, cole slaw and Maui onion hummus and a huge bag of veggie chips. (He knows my weaknesses and regularly gives in to them. What a sweetie.) Like everything else they make, the side dishes were homemade (even the veggie chips). Jugs of iced tea and lemonade completed the meal.

"Did you get dessert?"

He looked at me over the top of his glasses. "Wait and see."

We munched and sipped, chattering about everything under the sun. Well, everything except the big topic at hand. Ducky got a kick over Dr. Webber ("Little Ricky Webber!") being Fran's doctor and agreed that Fran should avoid air travel for a while. "Don't look at it as punishment. Look at a train trip as an adventure."

"I just don't like taking so long."

He cocked his head. "I'm sure Cal would rather you take a little longer and arrive safe and well."

She turned redder than she ever had before and became very interesting in the empty salad bowl. Yeah, that's my Ducky. Knows all, sees all, tells some.

And he did bring dessert, three slabs of four-layer carrot cake. "Walnuts, pineapple, raisins—and two pounds of carrots in a batch. It's at least marginally good for you, if you ignore the cream cheese frosting."

"I hated carrot cake until I ate theirs," I confirmed.

Fran took a tentative bite. "Oh, that's good," she confirmed. "Really good."

"Next time, we shall eat at the restaurant. The ambiance is quite charming."

"Well, it looks like I'm stuck here for at least a day," she sighed. "At least there's something to look forward to."

The phone made a soft b-r-r-r-p. Fran hesitantly lifted the receiver. "Hello?" She brightened a bit. "Dad, hi!"

Ducky caught her eye. "We'll give you some privacy," he said softly, rising.

"Dad, hang on—" She covered the receiver. "No, no, please stay. It will keep us from having to repeat things." She went back to the phone. "Dad? Hang on, this is a speaker phone—" She fumbled with the buttons.

"—damn speaker phones, I hate them—"

"Dad, you're on broadcast," she teased.

"Oh. Sorry."

Mr. Peterson had a deep, rumbly voice. It fit his picture to a 't.' "Dad, I have a couple of friends here. Sandy Talmadge—"

"Hi!" I chirped.

"And Dr. Donald Mallard. Most everyone calls him Ducky."

There had been a small gasp at Ducky's name. "Oh. Hello," he said cautiously.

"I know the truth, Dad," she said gently. "Well, part of it, anyway."

"That can come later. Why are you in the hospital?"

Fran looked at us and bit her lip. "Mr. Peterson, this is Dr. Mallard. Francesca—was shot."

Stunned silence. "What?"

"She was shot. Earlier today. By Alyce Carson."

Mr. Peterson's, "Oh, Christ," had a healthy dose of guilt in it. If I had only told her the truth…

Fran looked at me, baffled. "Why would—"

I held a finger to my lips. "It will come," I whispered. We both turned to look at Ducky.

"I think the time has come for the whole story to come out," he said gently.

A heavy sigh from the speaker. "I think you're right, Dr. Mallard."

..… It was a long hour. …..

At the end of it all, Fran looked like she'd been run over by a truck. It was a lot to take in.

"I'm sorry, Baby," Mr. Peterson said, over and over. And he did sound genuinely grieved. "Your mother thought she was doing the right thing, that she was protecting you."

"Yeah…" Fran looked so forlorn. She was struggling not to cry.

Even Hardhearted Hannah has some maternal feelings. I climbed onto the bed and put a careful arm around her. She leaned over and rested her head on my shoulder. She didn't make a sound, but big tears dripped onto my shirt.

"Why didn't Maxine—my grandmother—"

"Your mother wanted your life to be as quiet and normal as possible. Maxine was willing to keep the secret. Mary loved Maxie like crazy. And vice versa. Maxie was sure he knew—turns out, I guess, he didn't. For her it was the last straw, she wouldn't even say his name after he moved out. But your mom kept Max in her life very willingly. Maxine had a stroke, not long before your mother…" He sighed. "I used to wonder if that didn't have something to do with it."

Ducky and I exchanged a glance. So there had been an emotional trauma as the catalyst for Mary's withdrawal. Nobody knew where to look.

"It look Maxine a real long time to recover. By the time she had her memories sort of in order, able to walk and talk… you were a grownup," he said simply.

"And now she's gone." Fran's voice was barely audible, even to me.

"Baby… once it hits the news about Alyce, you—it's all coming out, I'm sure." Fran shrugged and made a small noise of pain. "You okay? You—"

"I just moved wrong. I'm okay."

"No! You're not! You're not 'okay!' You've been shot, if I had—" He broke off with a small sob.

"Woulda, coulda, shoulda," I sighed.

"I never thought—"

"Why would anyone think what did happen would happen?" Ducky asked reasonably.

"I was so sure that Mary was right…"

"Parents do what they think is best. Last I heard, they don't issue a step by step guide," Ducky said.

That got a small laugh. "That's for damn sure."

"Dad, how's—how's Mom?" Fran asked hesitantly, sitting up and wiping at her eyes with the neckline of her hospital gown.

A long moment of silence and a small sigh. "The same. Ever since Carson and—" He broke off. "Oh, my god."

"Alyce was undoubtedly the other visitor." Ducky had clearly reached the same conclusion earlier. "She wore a dark wig here; why not a red one when visiting Mary?"

Fran was trembling with fury. "What did she do? What did she say?" She was breathing hard and fast, her unfettered left hand clenching and unclenching.

Ducky reached over and placed a gentle hand on her arm, silently willing her to calm down.

"Oh, Pix…" Fran gave a small smile at what was probably a childhood nickname. "I know she won't respond, not the way we wish she would—but the way she's protecting those pictures of you, maybe on some level she'll hear you?"

"Yes. Please, Dad, yes, could you call me from—"

"I'm already there. Here, I mean. That's why I didn't hear when you called. I was upstairs with your mom. I'm out in the back garden, wait—" We heard a couple of minutes of background noise, rusting and scuffling, warbles of voices moving in and out of range, then:

"Marielle…" There was a gentleness in his voice that brought tears to my eyes. "Marielle, I have a great surprise. Fran called, she's on the phone, she's in—"

DON'T! I almost screamed.

"Washington, Washington, D.C. And she met up with an old friend of yours, Donald Mallard—"

It was Ducky's turn for a slightly panicked look.

"—here, I'll hold the phone for you…"

Another bit of rustling, then the sound of soft breathing, tiny almost-gasps as though she had been crying and was trying to stop.

I laid my hand over Fran's; just like yesterday (only yesterday, OMG) she laced our fingers together and held on tightly. "Hey, Mom. I've missed you so much. Have you ever been to Washington? We should all come back in the spring for the cherry blossoms…"

Silence. Just soft breaths.

"I'm here with a couple of friends. Cassandra, Cassandra Talmadge—she owns a bookstore. She's become a really good friend. You'll like her, Mom. And—and Ducky. Donald Mallard. I know why you put his name on my birth certificate, and it's okay, really, it's okay—" She looked from Ducky to me and back; oh, crap, did I say the wrong thing?

Silence. Not even the soft, ragged breathing.

Ducky leaned forward. "Hello, Marielle. I do so wish this were in person, not over the miles of telephone wires. I've thought of you often over the years, missed you so very much. I'm so glad Francesca found me. You have quite a wonderful little girl! Well, not so little now. But—"

He broke off. All three of us sat up, looking at one another for confirmation.

Did you hear something?
I thought I did.
What did you hear?
I'm not sure.
I thought it was—

We heard it again. Just a ghost of a sound, a remnant from years ago from a voice not used in decades, a faint wisp:

"Pierrette…?"

Fran gasped. "Mommy?" He eyes were flooded with tears.

A slow, shaky breath over the speaker. "Poor little… Pierrette…" Tiny, quavering notes.

She drifted off into silence. "Where's your Pierrot?" Ducky finished.

We couldn't hear her words clearly. But I knew the lyrics as well as the others: "Why are you all alone?"

"Oh, Mommy, I've missed you so much!" Fran was crying, tears pouring down her face like a waterfall. But she was smiling, grinning; happy tears. Very happy tears.

Scrabbling noises. "She's asleep, Pix." You could hear stunned wonder in Mr. Peterson's voice. "She just curled up on the floor like a kitten and went right to sleep. I haven't seen her like this since…" He cleared his throat. "Well, um… I should let you get some rest, Baby. When will you be home?"

"I—I don't know." I reached past her and dragged a box of tissues to her lap. She grabbed a fistful and scrubbed at her face, giving me a grateful look. "The doctor doesn't want me to fly, so I'm taking the train. I can call you when I know the date and time."

"I'll call you in the morning, Baby. Love you."

"Love you, too."

"Dr. Mallard?"

"Ducky," he corrected out of habit.

"Thank you for—for taking care of my little girl." Fran gave a small laugh.

"It was my pleasure. And my honor. As I said to Marielle—" He gave Fran one of his patented make-the-world-better Ducky smiles. "You've reared quite a young lady. You should be very proud of your daughter."

Cameron Carson is just a matter of DNA. Dad—Dad was the guy on the phone. "Thank you—Ducky. I think she's pretty okay, too."

"Damned with faint praise." Fran blew her nose.

"Wish you'd reconsider moving out. The house will be empty."

"Maybe… maybe Mom will come back home?"

It was a lot to hope for. But hearing a few words after 20 years of silence was one miracle. Why not hope for two?

"That would be wonderful. I've never stopped hoping."

"Neither have I."

They parted company reluctantly. Fran had a thoughtful, reflective look on her face. "Penny for your thoughts?" I said.

"Show me the penny," she shot back. She was perking up admirably.

I laughed and dug in my pocket. "Here." I put a nickel on the try. "Five thoughts."

"I was just thinking… Alyce was trying to hurt me—"

Kill you, you mean.

"But—maybe she helped me. Us. Whatever she did or said, she scared Mom so much that she came back from her dark place. A little."

"Hearing your voice, realizing you were safe—it was the push she needed." Ducky sat back in his chair, ankle resting on the opposite knee.

"You, too. You weren't angry with her. I'm sure that has lurked in the back of her mind all these years. Hearing that you forgave her—helped."

"Thank you. I appreciate that thought." After a moment he bestirred himself and began to gather the remnants of our late lunch. "These would make a nice snack later…" He indicated the veggie chips and the hummus and the lemonade; there wasn't a scrap of anything else left.

"You don't want to take it?" she offered politely.

"We aren't going to be held hostage in the hospital. With hospital food," I pointed out.

"In that case…"

"Hang on." I grabbed the empty cole slaw container and ducked into the bathroom. A quick wash in water, a trip to the ice machine down the way and— "Voila. Quick and dirty icebox." I nestled the hummus container into the crushed ice. "That way it won't get funky."

"Thank you. You guys are so sweet." We got clumsy one-armed hugs.

"I'll give you a call tomorrow." I mimed holding a receiver to my ear. "You want me to snag your luggage? Bring you fresh clothes tomorrow?"

"I will love you forever," she said fervently. "Please. Yes."

"Will do."

Ducky took my hand in his and the basket in his other and we headed for the door. "I'll walk you to your car, dear." My ever-chivalrous Ducky.

"Hey! When are you two getting married?"

Ducky and I exchanged a glance. "No date yet. But we're going to want you there."

She looked delighted at my words and Ducky's eyes told me I couldn't have said anything more perfect. "I would love to!"

"I expect to see your young man in attendance as well," Ducky said mock-sternly.

Fran managed to not blush for once and even pulled forth a slightly sly smile. "Of course. Maybe it will give him some ideas."

Ducky chuckled and opened the door. "He's a fool if it doesn't."


-9-