Chapter Ten
In Hell
Tim and Michelle exchange the briefest glance. The spray of blood from the woman's thigh marks the floor in a horrid spill. It isn't the spurting of arterial blood but she needs help quickly. If they lower their Sigs, Gobrowski may kill all three of them. If they don't, the next bullet will spatter the brains of the helpless hostage throughout the free weight room.
"All right," Tim says, eases his grip on his Sig and prays every prayer he can remember. Five feet to his left Michelle slowly lowers her own weapon, bitter reluctance in every move.
The Monkees' television theme provides a gruesome counterpoint to the standoff.
"Drop them."
Neither will simply drop a loaded Sig, too much chance of discharge and no likelihood of hitting the proper target. They crouch slowly, cautious of sudden moves that'll cost the life of the bleeding woman, and place the guns on the carpet, hope for the chance to snatch them back.
"Cell phones, radios, everything on the floor."
"Look, you've won; you've got two valuable Federal Agents. Let her go, let her get some–" The gun shoved into her temple rips a scream even past the strangling arm.
"NOW!"
x
Defeated, Tim takes his cell phone from his pocket and, as he bends to put it beside the gun he glances to his partner, sees Michelle's eyes. She also complies, but her eyes show neither fear nor anything he'd expected. Her eyes are locked on Gobrowski's and she seems focused on something far from the drama.
He knows the witch is measurably psychic - he took the measurements - and whatever she may be doing, focused as she is on Gobrowski, on his eyes, he hopes it'll be enough.
"Radios too," the man demands with another jab of the gun into the terrified woman's head.
"No radio," Tim says, trying to keep Gobrowski's attention on him and away from the focused woman beside him. Whatever she's using, be it telepathy, magic or 'the Force', he needs to give her the time to do it. "I swear, no radio."
"Get in there." Gobrowski doesn't ease his grip about the crying woman's throat. Her wound is beyond her reach, blood pours down her leg from the bullet hole, the metal undoubtedly buried deep in her leg. She's pale, too much of her blood is on the weight room carpet.
x
'There', the agents see, is a large wooden door to a mahogany wood chamber set into a thin alcove in the left rear corner that leads to what's evidently locker rooms and showers. To reach the door they must actually pass Gobrowski, but he moves his hostage and himself away. Michelle moves like an automaton, 99 percent of her focus on the large man.
"Hurry." Another jerk of the gun, another terrified cry punctuates his command.
x
When Tim reaches and pulls open the thick wooden door that nearly blocks the thin alcove a blast of heat slaps him. The control dial set outside reads 85 degrees, but as they enter the wooden chamber he notes there's neither lock nor bolt nor anything else to break the smoothness of door or frame. As a captivity, this will be a brief one.
Gobrowski closes the door, seals them in with the heat, though the Beatles' 'I saw her standing there' follows them into the trap. "Open the door before I'm gone and I'll kill her." Gobrowski's threat is muffled by wood and Rock and Roll.
Tim is ready to shove the door aside as soon as he's sure the weight room is clear.
He turns to Michelle who's already perspiring in the trapped heat, and sees the thermometer on the wall in the chamber's rear reads 88. She shakes her head to his unvoiced question; though they can hear nothing outside their hot 'prison' they're not alone yet.
x
"NO! DON'T!" rips through the wood followed by a loud blast. McGee leaps to the door and bounces off it, slams to the hot wooden floor. He turns over, glares at the lockless barrier. "What the hell?"
"I don't know," Michelle declares, anger rips the obvious from her as she helps him to his feet.
Tim pushes the door, shoves it, turns shoulder to it and slams his body into the unyielding wood, steps back and kicks it hard enough to knock an 'ordinary' door off its hinges. Frustrated, he pounds at the door, turns and kicks backward at it.
He examines the frame, demands in tones hotter than the room "Who the hell put hinges on the outside of this thing?"
When he turns around, the thermometer on the rear wall makes him forget whatever he was about to say to his partner. "Oh damn."
"What?" Michelle turns to look, what she sees removes all need for an answer about their present or their future. The needle points at 93 and it's only partially around the dial.
The thermometer is calibrated to 160.
x
They remove their caps and jackets, throw them to the bench that surrounds them on three sides. "At this temperature," Tim says, opening another button on his shirt, "you're only supposed to use this thing for about ten minutes." Beyoncé's 'Halo' tries to come in with them through the wood, he wishes he could keep it out.
"I think we'll be in here a lot more than ten minutes," Michelle says as she uncuffs and rolls up her blouse sleeves, wishing someone would have mercy and switch off the incentive noise. They're perspiring heavily, shirt and blouse darken in irregular patterns on their bodies. Tim pulls the collar of his shirt away and back quickly, but only fans hot dry air.
"What do you feel?" he asks.
Michelle looks at him as though he's grown a third head. "Hot."
"No," he says, recalling their visit to Colette Zane's home when she'd pinpointed the woman's location through the walls of her building. "I mean outside."
x
Michelle closes her eyes, tries to relax, to forget about the heat and the perspiration that drips down her face, in her blouse and skirt, tickles as it runs down her back, tries to reach out with her awareness, to feel... "There's one person," she points low near the corner of the chamber. "I feel her fear, it washes over everything else."
"She's alive?"
"For now." She stares at the corner. If she could only get out, get to the woman, she might save her as she'd saved Jimmy when he was shot. Perhaps if she concentrated, focused her energies... Kendra can do it from yards away, maybe she can focus her powers enough to help.
"Can you get us out of here?"
She locks eyes with him, distracted, and anger builds with the heat. "Every plan I had involves being on the other side of that door."
"Sorry, I figured maybe you could..." he gestures vaguely at the barrier.
"Go 'abracadabra' and open a door that I can't figure out how he locked?"
"Sorry, I–"
She holds up her hands, mentally backs away from him, her frustration and Linkin Park's 'Somewhere I belong.' "No, Tim, I'm sorry. If I had time and knew how it's locked I could maybe do something," she looks back at the thermometer, really sorry to see it close on 105, "but I can barely think." 'And I can't help that woman who's still alive a couple'a feet away!'
She scrubs at her face and comes away with two wet hands that she wipes on her damp skirt.
She sits on the wooden bench that runs three sides of the room and instantly leaps up, hands to her scorched buttocks and grabs her discarded black jacket, sits on that hot shield. When she looks up at him, Tim has removed his shirt. His wet tee shirt molds to his body. He actually looks good to her with the white material plastered to his torso and so wet already she can look right through it but "That is so not fair," she breathes a scorching sigh, notices they're both breathing faster in the mounting heat.
She pulls at her blouse, yanks the hem free of her skirt's waistband, but it gives no help. She sighs, the explosive breath not helping either as she glances at the thermometer. 110.
"Take it off."
x
For a moment the words hang. Take the thermometer off? Then "Oh no way!"
"Why suffer? You haven't got anything I haven't already seen."
A hot flare of outrage, then the memory. "Oh. Yeah. You too, or not much." When they'd been captured by enemy agents he'd actually managed to retain his pants while she'd been stripped naked and raped while he hung from chains, tortured by all sorts of implements. She can still almost see some of the not altogether healed marks light now on his reddening skin. They hadn't been prominent before, she supposes the shadow wounds will soon look worse.
But as she reluctantly reaches for her blouse buttons, she halts. "But even look like you're thinking about touching and I'll–"
"I remember the omelet."
Yesterday - it seems like a week ago - she'd gripped the testicles of the bartender at Shangra-La who'd thought to use her, telling Tim later that 'you can't make an omelet without squishing some eggs'.
She undoes the buttons of her blouse, peals the wet material off her shoulders and down her arms, uses the discarded material to mop her face and chest, accomplishes little more than to move the moisture about.
x
Tim can't take his eyes from his partner sitting panting on the bench, her pink bra red as it sticks to her skin and the thermometer closes on 115, and he tries to shove from his memory the day when he'd seen her naked. He'd hung from chains from a warehouse ceiling, his torso covered by cuts and burns when she'd broken in, fooled by a doppelganger to become a one-woman rescue party. It hadn't been planned that way, nor had her defeat and gang rape, but the shared tortures of that day had formed an unexpected yet distinct bond between them.
Now he wonders, as he stands looking down at the seated, panting, dripping woman who can't meet his eyes, if they'll die today. Then he considers the possibility a mixed blessing as he becomes aware of the last bars of Coolio's 'Gangsta Place' invading the hot house. "I'll give you a thousand dollars if you'll turn the Muzak off."
She's too hot to spare more than half a laugh. "Way I feel, I'll probably accidentally blow it up." Coolio gives way to Red Hot Chili Peppers' 'Under the bridge.' "On purpose."
x
Tim peals the clinging tee shirt from his body, uses the useless dripping material on his face. It's a little better, the room is 115 but the shirt's only 114.
"Tim?" She leans forward, looking up at him now and he nearly looks further down to where her bra cups gap slightly from her, but with the look in her eyes he doesn't need her words. "I can't feel her anymore."
She looks to the bare wall across the broiling chamber, then to him and he never again wants to see what's in those brown eyes. "She's dead."
xxx
Hollis Mann drives Gibbs, DiNozzo and David to the main gate of Fort Belvoir, Virginia, 20 miles south near Mount Vernon, and when they pause at the Sentry station she displays her ID to the uniformed Sergeant. The NCIS agents display theirs but the man's focus is on his superior.
"We're looking for Second Lieutenant Arnold Gottmann."
"One moment, please, Colonel." It's considerably more than a moment, but when the Sergeant returns from the booth he tells them that "There's no record of his leaving the base today."
"Seal the gates; Gottmann doesn't leave."
"Yes, Colonel." He salutes and she drives through the raised barrier.
"Wish I could get that," Gibbs says as the car accelerates.
"You can't have sentries seal the gates of the Navy Yard?"
"Sure I can, but I don't get the salute."
"It's all in the leaf."
x
Fort Belvoir is tremendous and the building that houses the Criminal Investigation Division isn't close, but they're in no hurry. Exit for their prey - who probably doesn't know he's being hunted - is blocked and Mann has already made it exceedingly clear this is a CID operation; that NCIS is only along for a visit and to assist if necessary and requested.
When they pull up before the front entrance of the 75th Military Police Detachment CID building on 3rd Street, three men clad in fatigues bearing official insignia await them. Mann had called ahead so the team is briefed on their mission.
"Where is he?" Mann asks out the open window.
"Duty roster has him in the Armory."
"Figures. Okay, I don't want to spook him so Gibbs, you and your people cover the exits with Compton," she says after a glance at the tag on the man's uniform. "Fletcher, Kane and I will go in and make the arrest."
"Yes, Colonel," Gibbs says with enough irony to his voice to convey his humor, but there's nothing funny about any of this. The armory contains a vast array of weapons and ammunition and the people within are unaware of the drama about to unfold. Poorly played, this can turn into a Columbine-like incident.
xxx
Tim forces himself to stay seated leaning forward on the wooden bench - the last time he'd sat back he'd scorched his bare flesh on the wood - but though he can barely bring himself to raise his head he looks to his partner seated at his left. Michelle lays slumped back against the wooden bench back, sweat flows down her body in rivulets, runs into her now deep pink bra and the waistband of her skirt. She's limp and he wonders how badly he's lost track of time and when she'd lost consciousness without his noticing. He's so dry inside from heavily breathing the arid air he can barely stand it but if she's already passed out...
"Michelle?" he reaches out, his muscles sluggish, and when his fingertip touches her cooking arm she jumps sharply, stops convulsively as though figuratively running into a wall and turns on him, her eyes blazing.
"DAMN IT, WHAT'D YOU DO THAT FOR?"
"Do what?" He can barely form the words.
"Touch me."
He recalls her threat earlier but thought it was hyperbole. There's no point in her killing him now; the room soon will. The thermometer reads 131.
"I was trying to reach Jimmy," she sighs, hot rage exhausted; it's too much effort and she's left only resigned. "I almost made it."
"I'm sorry."
x
She shakes her head, doesn't want to fight. If Jimmy's right in some of the things he's told her when studying his Medical School textbooks, then they don't have much time left.
"Astral projection?" McGee guesses, appears gratified by her nod. "Isn't that dangerous?" She turns to him, apparently surprised by his perception. "I've been reading."
"I'm impressed," she sighs. "Yes, I could - my body could die while I'm..."
"Then what?"
She'd shrug if it weren't too much effort. "Become a ghost, I guess. No one's ever really settled what happens."
"Do you think you got through?"
"Don't know," she sighs. "Jimmy's not sensitive - not that way - but we're close. Very close. Close enough?"
"Try again?"
She wants to, but her head drops. "I can't."
x
She's half surprised to find she still wears her skirt. Tim removed his trousers, shoes and socks before she'd tried to project; he'd almost made it difficult for her to concentrate before she'd reminded herself she doesn't think of him that way.
"What the hell?" she asks with a mental shrug, too hot to use the effort on a real one, grips the waistband and cautiously touches the zipper's small tab. It doesn't burn - too much. "I'll probably live another thirty seconds."
She pushes the zipper down and undoes the clasp, struggles to her feet long enough to let the material drop to puddle about her bare feet. When she sits back down on her jacket and blouse, the effort makes the sweat pour down her body all the faster.
"Nice thong," Tim quips.
She glances down, her eyes flicking for a moment to his darkening blue boxers. The thong's sheer material, now a deep wet pink, leaves everything but her shaved pubes bare. "Never imagined I'd strip in front of a really hot man and he'd be too wiped to take advantage of me."
Tim's smile is equally weak. The air's so arid he's drying up inside and yet must breathe like a bellows or cook. Rihanna's 'Raining Men' doesn't help. "Ironic, isn't it?"
"Make a heck of a scene for one of your books."
"Published posthumously."
She reaches for the bra clasp between her breasts and breaks the seal, pulls the material away and off her body.
"Now you're just being mean," he sighs, eyes on her bare breasts but barely able to move.
She looks at his deep blue boxers, legs pulled high into his lap, waistband lowered as far as he dares; he doesn't have much more covering than she does. "I'll match you to see who goes next."
He reaches for the material gathered at his hip but, at a thought of Siobhan, he can't do it, even if it could release enough trapped heat to grant him ten extra seconds. "You win."
"I don't wanna win."
x
Michelle forces herself to sit up; she won't go out like a limp doll. She pushes her hands up her face, they come away dripping and the air's still so hot she's breathing like a bellows while dehydrating in the dry heat. "Tim, can I tell you something?" she whispers, barely has the strength to speak aloud.
To turn his head to her is a struggle, but he manages to sit forward to meet her as far. "You're not going to get morbid, are you?" he gasps.
"If I get morbid I'll cry and I don't have any tears." She leans closer and though his gaze flickers to her breasts he breaks contact as fast as he can, locks with her eyes as she confesses "I envy you and Siobhan. You two are so happy."
"You and Jimmy are happy," he sighs, trying not to give in to sleep. It's not real sleep; it's unconsciousness and death.
But if there's anything he's sure of in his last minutes, it's that Jimmy and Michelle love each other as much as he loves Shav. They'd gotten married at whirlwind speed and if there'd ever been a hint that they're not happy he's completely missed it.
x
"No," she sighs, apparently barely able to breathe well enough to whisper "we're not... That is, we're not communicating. And you two have a bond we don't. I'm Episcopalian like you, he's Roman. I'm Wiccan, he's... not. He doesn't want - we don't share that. And we've never sorted out church, we compromised. We... we alternate."
She says it as though that could be a sin. Well, maybe she feels that not sorting it out after all these months might be, but he doesn't interrupt to say there's time because there isn't any more time.
"He's got problems, I've got problems. He killed someone and isn't getting better, I was gang raped and I can't talk about it to him..." she glances down and blushes, "and I'm sitting here 99 percent naked with my partner and I've been asked by your wife to start 'Couples Therapy' with her and I've been trying to get out of it and now they're going to find our bodies and Jimmy will never know how I really feel and..."
"How do you feel?" He has to force the words out through dry throat and mouth in a scorching sigh.
x
"I love him," she sighs, but has to keep gasping for hot air, her chest heaving too distractingly for him. "I mean I really, really love him. I love him so much and so deeply I've never learned the words to say how much I love him."
Tim reaches for his discarded trousers at his right side but it's so difficult. The material feels normal, but it only means his body is the same temperature as the pants are. A glance at the thermometer shows that's 141 degrees. He fights sluggish muscles, finds the folding knife, pulls it out and turns, holds the scalding metal out to her. "Rule nine."
She shakes her head. "I've got my own," she breathes. "I'm a good NCIS agent." She bends over, reaches for her fallen skirt and the leather holder on her waistband belt but the touch of his scalding hand on her bare back stops her and she looks back.
"You are a great NCIS agent."
She purses her lips in a silent kiss and slowly bends again, hears Tim work on the seat in the space between them. Snagging the material, she works cautiously and feels the room spin about. She sits up as quickly as she dares, pulls the knife from its holder but the room won't stop spinning. Dizzy, sick, she scoots a few inches further from him, burns her bottom on this new piece of scorching wood. She supports herself on her extended left arm and starts to cut into the seat.
x
Though it's his idea, Tim feels lost. If this is his last note to Shav, what does he say? How? I love you? He says that so often, but does he ever say it enough - or well enough? He ignores Michelle's cuts, tries to find the words. Gemcity's the wordsmith and he's gone. Probably dead already.
It seems to take forever to slowly scratch the words into the varnished wood.
Shav, I love you forever. I'll be waiting in Heav
"Tim?" Michelle gasps and he looks up. Her bare back's to him but it heaves with her heavy breaths, her voice tiny. "I'm... I can't... The room's... I... I feel like I'm... going to..." Before he can move her arm gives way, she falls forward, topples off the bench and crashes to the wooden floor on her back. Her arms flop weakly, one out to her side, the other above her head.
"Michelle?"
She doesn't move.
x
He forces himself up, half off the bench and the room flips about in sickening gyrations. He fights it but his slick hand slips on the wood and he falls off the bench, hard upon his knees beside the woman. He barely balances himself, reaches his fingers to the pulse point below her right ear and nearly burns himself on her. The room spins and flops about but he can barely find a pulse; it's weak and fast and he...
The room flips upside down and he topples forward, falls atop her scorching body, burns himself on her flesh.
A tiny piece of his mind screams that he can't cover her, worst thing possible but also, the way he's laying, it'd look like he's...
He gets his hands to the scalding wood floor on either side of her and pushes, gets about a quarter inch off her before he gives out and collapses upon her again. He shoves, almost eases some weight of his near naked body off hers. Panting, his body seared by hers, he shoves harder, exhausts the last of his strength and the room...