Chapter 10

Sam paced on the side of the road. "I really think we should call Dean," he said.

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "I don't think so. He's watching my man, and this isn't a big deal."

"It's the car," Sam said, like that meant the entire world rested on the outcome of Gibbs' little fix. Dean kept a good set of tools in the backseat and Gibbs knew a little bit about engines. The world was not coming to an end. "He's going to flip out."

Gibbs had located the problem, but it might prove difficult to solve unless they had the right kind of materials. He stood up, wiping his hands on a clean rag that, from the stains, had clearly done this duty before. He glanced over at his agitated companion and nodded. "Give me your belt," he ordered.

"What?" Sam exclaimed. "Why?"

"She slipped a belt," Gibbs replied. "Unless your brother has a bunch of spare parts stowed somewhere, we'll need something to take its place."

"Why not your belt?" Sam demanded.

"Because yours is the right size," Gibbs said, shrugging. He held his hand out. "This will get us to the next service station where it can be replaced properly." Muttering profanely, Sam removed his belt and handed it over. Gibbs leaned back into the car and affixed it in place. "You ready?"

"Sure, as long as you don't mind someone wearing saggy pants."

Gibbs rolled his eyes, lowered the hood till it was about four inches from closed and then dropped it so that it latched. He wiped the rest of the grease off his hands then went back behind the wheel. He turned her over, and she started. He got out and said, "Come on, kid, let's go."

"I don't know how to drive a car that's using a leather belt in place of a rubber one," Sam protested.

"Then I'll drive her." Grimacing anxiously, Sam climbed in, and Gibbs drove at a sedate pace to the next town where they got the needed part and Sam ducked into a drug store to get a replacement for his ruined belt. Gibbs couldn't fault him for wanting to be tidy, but the kid was a little fussy.

The whole process had eaten up a couple of hours, and it was now going to be after dark when they reached former Deputy Wheeler's place of residence. Even Gibbs' badge might be hard-pressed to get them admitted if it was too late. He'd try, though. He was not waiting a moment longer than he had to.

It was just past eight when they pulled up in the parking lot of the Shady Glen Rest Home. Why rest homes seemed to feel the need to be shady or happy or golden, he didn't know. At the front desk, he spoke to a matronly woman who at first seemed disinclined to agree to allow them entrance. The badge just made her hackles go up. Then the Winchester kid got into the act, and Gibbs suddenly understood why these boys were so successful. He explained that it would be really helpful to their case to talk to Mr. Wheeler, and that they would be careful not to distress or tire him unduly, and that he was sure that Mr. Wheeler would want to be involved since he was a former peace officer. The innocence and boyish charm he exuded would have put DiNozzo to shame. In the end, he cajoled her to take them to Wheeler's room. Fortunately, his roommate was out.

"Mr. Wheeler, these nice men from the FBI are here to see you." Gibbs didn't correct her mistake.

Wheeler looked up. "Fine, fine, what do you boys what?"

The matronly woman left them alone. Gibbs stepped forward. "I have a few questions about the Iris Gottlieb case."

Wheeler shrugged. "It's over and done with, years back," he said.

"It's still marked open."

"Well, that's a bit of a difficulty," Wheeler replied. "Kind of hard to mark it closed when the bastards who did it never got officially caught."

"But it is closed?" Sam asked, glancing at Gibbs.

"Well, all the pricks who did it are dead," Wheeler said. "I made sure of that."

"You . . . what?" Sam said, looking startled.

"I made sure they died," Wheeler stated flatly. "And then I quit the sheriff's department and moved the hell away."

"You knew who did it?" Gibbs asked.

"Everyone knew who'd done it, but nobody was willing to say squat, and there wasn't any proof like there would have been now. They'd have got semen samples and everything nowadays. Back then, you pretty much had to catch a rapist in the act." Gibbs nodded. "So, what's your interest?"

"The evidence, it's gone missing," Gibbs said. "We need to find it."

"You mean Iris's dress and stuff?" Wheeler asked. "I buried it years back. Wasn't having my niece's dress lying around in an evidence box to be pawed over by idiots for years."

"Where did you bury it?"

Wheeler studied him. "Why should I tell you?" he asked.

Gibbs gazed at him solemnly, well aware that he lacked any credible reason to request the information that would convince a man who believed he'd already caught and punished the culprits who were responsible for the death of his niece.

"You know," Sam said, "it's odd, but I personally talked to quite a few people in town and nobody mentioned a thing about everyone knowing who did it." Gibbs turned towards him, trying to tell him with his eyes to shut up. "I mean, a couple of the women I spoke to were clearly gossips of long standing, and if everyone involved was long dead, they wouldn't have kept it to themselves." Gibbs glanced towards Wheeler to judge his reaction, to see how pissed he might be getting and was surprised by the thoughtful, vaguely alarmed look on his face. "How did you really find out who did it, Mr. Wheeler?"

Wheeler's eyes and Sam's remained locked for a long moment, and Gibbs wondered what the hell was going on. "You've seen her," the old man said finally, and Gibbs swallowed his surprise.

"I have," Sam said. "Why didn't she kill you?"

"She started to," Wheeler said. "I don't . . . you believe me?" He turned from Sam to Gibbs with wide eyes. Gibbs nodded very slightly. "Then she recognized me and . . ." He shook his head, and Gibbs could see his hands trembling. There went the promise not to disturb him. "She told me who they were, and I promised her they would die. It took nearly two years, but I did it, and then I left town."

"Did you ever go back and tell her the job was done?" Gibbs asked in as mild a tone as he could manage.

Wheeler shook his head. "It was terrifying, and I . . . I tried, but I just couldn't."

"Well, she never stopped killing," Gibbs said. "And she's fixated on one of my men right now." Wheeler's jaw dropped, and it was Sam's turn to glower him to silence.

"We need to know where you buried her things so we can help her rest," Sam said. "You want her to be able to rest, right?"

Wheeler swallowed, giving Gibbs an apprehensive look. "I never thought she'd keep on. She was such a sweet girl."

"Spirits change when they can't rest," Sam said sympathetically. "But if we can give her peace, she'll move on."

"It's all buried in a dress box under the rosebushes in the backyard of my house."

"Here?" Gibbs asked.

"Yeah. I didn't want to leave her there where no one seemed to care. I wanted to take good care of her."

"It's okay, I'm sure she knew that," Sam said soothingly. "Do you still own the house?"

"No, I sold it before I came here," Wheeler said. "You would not believe what I got for it."

"I might," Gibbs said, contemplating what his house had been valued at not too long ago. "What's the address?"

Armed with that information, they went back out into the twilight. It was barely past nine and the sun had only just set beyond the horizon. "Now we just have to hope that the rosebushes are still there," Gibbs said.

"Why wouldn't they be?"

"He sold three years ago. It could be anything from smooth grass to a vegetable garden to a swimming pool by now."

Sam blinked. "Is that why you asked him what part of the yard the roses were in?"

Gibbs nodded. "Good work in there," he said after a minute. He actually expected to get his head bitten off, but the kid surprised him.

"Thanks," Sam said. "You weren't so bad yourself."

In a relatively comfortable mood, they returned to the car and got on the road, headed for what they both hoped would be their last stop.

Dean woke up and blinked confusedly. Usually when he went to sleep without a pillow, it was on a less than comfortable surface. On this occasion, it was an entirely comfortable surface, but he had no idea where he was. Soft, pleasant smelling mattress, completely stripped bare, no blankets, just slightly beyond comfortably cool. Cool.

He sat up sharply. Tony DiNozzo. Iris Gottlieb. Ziva David. He got out of bed and straightened his clothes before heading back out into the living room. Ziva was leaning over the sofa, stroking Tony's damp hair back from his forehead. She had an oddly mixed manner about her, clearly unaware that she was being observed. It was part maternal, part exasperated.

"Hey, anything new?"

She jerked upright, as if embarrassed to be caught in so intimate a position, even though it was entire innocent. "How long have you been there?" she asked.

"I don't know, a second, maybe two. I just woke up."

"Tony is doing better."

"Probably because she hasn't been able to affect him for . . ." He looked at the clock. "Fifteen or so hours. But daylight is fading, so we'd better get ready."

"Salt bombs," she said, gesturing to two separate piles of like twelve each. "Hot tea in a carafe so we will not have to leave him to fetch more, or at least not as often."

"Let's play charades," said a hoarse voice from the sofa.

"Are you sure you can stay awake that long?" Dean asked.

"I do not like charades," Ziva said. "You always choose things that I know nothing about."

"You know more than you used to," Tony said.

"I still do not want to play charades," Ziva replied.

"It'd be fun," Tony said.

Dean tilted his head. "How exactly are you going to act stuff out?" he asked. "It's not like we're going to let you up, or anything."

Tony's eyes narrowed as he looked at Dean, then he turned to Ziva. "Did you beat up on him?"

"I arrived at your apartment to find the door damaged, and entered only to be attacked by him."

"You attacked her?" Tony asked, turning his accusing glare on Dean.

"All I did was take her gun away."

"You let him take your gun away?"

"I got it back," she replied defensively.

"Glad to hear it," Tony said, giving her a dubious look. "I'd hate to think that our Mossad-trained liaison officer could be permanently disarmed by a hick drifter." He aimed a wink at Dean, or Dean would have protested the slur. Not that he wasn't a hick drifter, but there was nothing wrong with that.

"It wasn't even challenging," she said.

"I bet I could beat you both on accuracy," Dean said.

"That is no real proof of anything," Ziva exclaimed, laughing. "He once shot his own hat." Dean's eyebrows went up, and he stared at Tony.

"Hey!" Tony said. "That's not fair. I wasn't wearing it at the time."

"Why were you shooting at your hat?" Dean asked.

"Long story. Suffice it to say, Ziva wasn't even there, so we don't know how she would have measured up."

"I beg to differ," Ziva said. "We know exactly how I would have measured up . . . to you, at any rate."

"Hey," Tony exclaimed. "My hat was still useful, as you well know, but the PDA was killed."

"But why were you guys shooting at your stuff?"

"Gibbs – training exercise – 'nuff said."

"I didn't know anything about Gibbs and training exercises."

"As I understand it, they were training to shoot a target while the target held a hostage as a shield," Ziva said calmly. She shrugged. "They both missed."

"This McGeek guy?" Dean asked.

"No," Tony said. "That was even before McGee." He scrunched his eyes shut. "I'm hungry. Is there any more of that soup?"

"I'll go heat it up for you," Ziva said, and she got up and left the room hurriedly.

Their moods had shifted dramatically for reasons Dean couldn't identify. "Tony, is something wrong?"

Tony grimaced. "The PDA-killer was Kate . . . she was my partner before Ziva," he said. "She's dead."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to bring up bad memories." He glanced towards the kitchen uneasily. "Was it on the job?" he asked hesitantly, not sure he should pry.

Tony nodded. "She was about a foot away from me," he said with an odd little twist of his head. Dean got an irresistible impression of blowback.

"Was Ziva there?"

"No, her connection is a little more remote," Tony said, and Dean got a feeling that he was being somewhat evasive.

"The man who killed her was my half-brother," Ziva announced, returning with a steaming bowl of soup. "But that story sounds like a soap opera if told truthfully, so we will leave it at that."

"My life story reads like a horror novel," Dean said, shrugging. "At least soap operas are mainstream."

"He watches Dr. Sexy," Tony said confidingly.

Ziva smiled. "That man is sexy, and it is fun to watch, despite its complete disregard for reality."

Dean nodded. "Cowboy boots," he said knowingly.

"You are right. They make his image."

Tony clapped his hands over his face. "My God. Trapped with two fans of that inane show!"

"It is no more inane that those movies you are forever quoting," Ziva retorted.

The temperature abruptly dropped again, and they all fell silent. Tony's breathing developed a hitch, and his eyes were fixed on something over Dean's shoulder. He turned, grabbing up one of Ziva's salt bombs by the twisted top and threw it at the ghost. It broke apart as it passed through her and she vanished, but the damage was done. Tony started coughing again. Dean rocked Tony upright and started pounding on his back. He met Ziva's worried eyes and wished he had any idea where Gibbs and Sam were in their hunt.