Chapter Ten: Requiem in Cadence

Requiem: A dirge, hymn, or
musical service for the
repose of the dead.
Cadence: A sequence of chords
that brings an end to a phrase,
either in the middle or
the end of a composition.

September 13, 2009

It had been a long night fraught with fitful sleep. He finally gave up at one, wandering downstairs to pull a well-read mystery from the shelf. But after reading the same paragraph four times with no comprehension, he gave up and tossed it aside. An attempt at playing chess on the computer was fruitless; if it had been given a voice, the damned thing would have laughed at him. He didn't always win (though 3 out of 4 wasn't a bad ratio), but he did give the machine a run for its money when he lost. This time, he was bested in three minutes. Shameful.

Obviously his mind couldn't concentrate on anything complex. There were too many mental files scattered about. Sighing, he turned on the television, turning the sound down low; it was a frequent companion since his mother had gone into Cambridge Care. He didn't particularly watch the babble box—so many of the shows were truly dreadful—but he liked to hear voices in the house. Conversations. It made the place seem a little less lonely.

Spiral fracture… within the last three years, four at the most.

Spiral fractures. The favorite injury inflicted by violent parents. Scream at a child; grab an arm, twist—snap. Crack. Hand off a load of bullshit to the emergency room doctor. But doctors had become more vigilant over the years, laws more stringent. Children coming in with a fracture like Elizabeth's would be swept from their parents, sequestered until it could be determined exactly how the injury had occurred, placed into protective custody if need be.

But Elizabeth was not a child. She was not of an advanced enough age that the doctors were considering elder abuse—but it was not the kind of injury that could happen falling down the stairs, for example. Dr. Ackerman had said she was quite forthcoming about the prior injury to the arm she had broken on Saturday: caused by her ex-husband over thirty-five years prior, just as it would have been caused on a child. Screaming. Beating. Trying to flee. Grabbing. Throwing to the ground, twisting—snap. Snap. Snap. She was calm when relating her story, almost detached.

But… what about your right arm, Mrs. Hamilton…?

Well, yes, Walter had broken her right arm, too. There had been so many injuries over the years…

No; this one was much more recent. Perhaps three years ago?

Ackerman said she had been silent for several minutes, then: "Oh, my. I had forgotten. It—it was so awful, I tried to block it, I guess."

Worse than having the man who had sworn to love, honor and cherish you beat you senseless for two years?

Oh… it was a mugging. I stayed late one night, this young man—it was so sudden, he was grabbing my purse, it pulled my arm—

Mmh. Ackerman's 'bullshit-o-meter' had gone into the red zone. She was lying, he was sure. But why?

The first suspect would be her spouse—but she wasn't married. It sounded like she wasn't even dating. The next logical suspects: immediate family.

Tori? Not a chance. He was willing to stake his reputation on it. She was a wreck over her aunt's accident, worried beyond measure. (Ah, but how many abusive parents came off as loving and concerned in front of the doctors?) He shook his head. No. No. It couldn't be Tori, it just couldn't be. Besides, she was a tiny thing, as small as Elizabeth had been all those years ago; she wouldn't have the strength to hurt Elizabeth. She was smaller than—

—Ziva.

He abruptly remembered a tour the year before, a civics and government class from a local high school. A big, hulking lad, football player by his letterman jacket (probably played all back four), had laughed at the idea of Ziva being able to 'take him down.' She had smiled that smile that made her team tread carefully and said, "Size is far less important than you know." His classmates had laughed roundly at the double entendre, and the young man had turned almost maroon with embarrassed fury, still insisting that he'd beat her in a fair fight.

A glance to the teacher; "His parents signed a waiver. All of them did. They knew there would be demonstrations… If he's volunteering for a self-defense demo…"

He most certainly was. He swaggered up to stand in front of Ziva, towering over her by more than a foot and outweighing her by at least 140. She smiled sweetly and said, "Hold out your hand." He complied. One second later, she bent back a finger (carefully not breaking it); half a second later, he dropped to his knees like a rock. She released his finger and stepped back, hands folded demurely in front of her.

Time expended: five seconds, max.

"Aw, you can't do it again. I know what to expect."

She shook her head. "Dumb as a boxed rock," she muttered.

"Box of rocks," DiNozzo corrected.

She looked at the football player expectantly, who crawled back to his feet and held out his hand, smirking. "Both sayings are stupid." So was the student.

Three seconds. Flat.

"As you can see… Size. Means." Smile. "Nothing." The ribbing of his classmates probably continued for weeks to come.

Size… means… nothing. Ducky shivered.

No. Tori couldn't—wouldn't. Impossible.

But that only left Rowena. She didn't have the ultra-defined physique of an obsessive body-builder, but the short sleeves of her scrub shirt showed she was in excellent condition. Even her scrub pants couldn't hide her sturdy leg muscles. She was tall, lithe, strong—she could have easily…

No! He slammed a clenched fist against the padded arm of the sofa. He couldn't think that of her. This was her grandmother, for God's sake. She planned to be a medical student—she wanted to save lives, not harm them, take them—

He stared at the scar that split the back of his hand and drew a shaky breath. Oh, yes… doctors never caused harm. And his judgment was always spot on: Dr. Janice Byers immediately sprang to mind. The hell with Janice—Julia Stewart was more to the point. Oh, yes, spectacular judgment, Mallard.

Oh, God.

He frowned; it sounded like she wasn't even dating. Now—yes. But perhaps, back then…? After what she had endured with Walter Hamilton, wouldn't she have come forth, told the truth again?

Perhaps… perhaps not. The idea of admitting that she had made such a mistake again might have been too much. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice…?

Yes. Oh, yes—definitely. That was far more palatable than the idea of Tori or Rowena hurting her. It had to be what had happened.

If he could just get her to tell him…

/ / /

"Mallard residence," he mumbled. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and squinted at the cable box; who in the hell would call him at six-thirty in the morning?

"Dr. Mallard?"

"Yes," he said with excessive patience.

"Special Agent Murphy Harris, sir. We have the weekend shift; just received a call, woman in Burke couldn't reach her ex-husband, Staff Sergeant—" the sound of rustling papers. "Kevin Prentiss. She went into the back yard this morning, says she can see him hanging off the bed and he looks dead."

"Mmfh." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Burke? Virginia?"

"Yes, sir. We contacted your assistant, he's on his way to pick up the wagon, he'll meet you at the site—"

"That's much more sensible than my driving a hundred miles round-trip," he said drily. "What is the address?" He scrabbled for a notepad, jotted down the address and directions. Fortunately, he had a couple of jumpsuits at home; it wasn't the first time he'd been called to a scene from the house, and probably wouldn't be the last. "As quickly as possible. Yes." He staggered to the kitchen and put the kettle on; a lightning-fast shower to wake up, change, take tea in that thermal mug Tori had sent home… he'd be awake and probably beat Mr. Palmer to the scene. With longing thoughts for the delicious treats Tori had brought to the hospital the day before, he forced himself to go upstairs and climb into the shower.

/ / /

"Suicide?" Mr. Palmer asked, brows gathered.

Ducky shook his head. "Possibly. Or… accidental overdose." He gestured toward the body on the table. "A liver like so much cheap shoe leather—our Staff Sergeant has been abusing his body with overindulgence of alcohol for quite some time. And I'd be willing to bet—'the cheap stuff,'" he said with a sniff and a look of distaste. "Percocet from one doctor, Tramadol from a second, Phenelzine from a third, all clearly marked 'do not take with alcohol' but that advisory does not ensure the patient will obey. Massive stroke, pharmacologically induced. Suicide…" He almost threw his pen on the desk. "Or stupidity. Pick your poison," he said with barely repressed anger.

There was an uncomfortable silence from his assistant.

"I apologize for my… lack of patience, Jimmy." When he started to object, Ducky waved him off. "I am not in the best of moods today."

"You look kind of tired, Dr. Mallard," he said hesitantly. "Did you have a bad night? I guess with your mom gone and Dr. Hampton gone—I mean—that is—I'll… just… close him up?" he finished.

"That would be an excellent idea," he said tolerantly. The boy really meant no harm, but sometimes his mouth was just stuck in fifth gear.

"Hey, Duckman!"

He smiled and shook his head, looking up at the laboratory link screen. "Good afternoon, my dear." Abby had probably come in with fewer hours of sleep than he had, but she sounded perfectly rested and perky. Oh, to be young again…

"Got the tox results." She looked almost smug.

"Mmh?" he said encouragingly.

"I'm as corny as Kansas in August," she belted out. She looked at him expectantly.

He drew a complete blank. All he could think of was the last CD she had given to him—Chaos Theory—and none of the lyrics even came close. "I'm sorry, Abby, I need you to fill in the blanks."

"High as a flag on the fourth of July," came from behind him. He turned slowly to find Mr. Palmer standing over Staff Sergeant Prentiss, needle in hand, suture running down to the body. He looked slightly abashed. "My mother likes old musicals," he said awkwardly.

"Jimmy!" Abby laughed appreciatively. "Not a bad voice! Yeah, our Staff Sergeant was flying without air traffic control or a flight plan. Lear jets cruise lower than this dude. His bloodstream could have left his whole neighborhood stoned."

"Percocet?"

"Acetaminophen and Oxycodone, yep."

"Tramadol?"

"Oh, yeah."

"And Phenelzine?" Ducky said tiredly.

"Yeppers. And a little meth, some THC—the pot they brought in was high-grade, no pun intended—and the hair samples show a long history of cocaine use."

"Good Lord."

"Annnnnnd… his BAC…" she leaned over to consult a screen. "2.2. Almost three times the legal limit. He was posted, toasted and roasted." She looked at him shrewdly. "Suicide?"

"Possibly. There's no indication that he was restrained in any way, forced to overdose… His body shows long-term exposure and abuse. It could be an accidental overdose; the prescriptions are dated this week."

"Gonna do a little forensic psychology on our DARE poster child?"

He was too tired to think straight. "After Agent Harris and his team have done more work on their investigation." That should give him time to get a good night's sleep—maybe two.

"Oh—how's Elizabeth?" she said, bouncing on her chair.

The silence behind him was pronounced. "The surgery went well," he said neutrally. "She's still in the hospital, should go home in a couple of days."

"I'm so glad." She looked like she wanted to say more but reconsidered, probably (belatedly) taking into consideration that Ducky was not alone.

"As a matter of fact…" He glanced at the clock: two p.m. He could stop by the hospital, visit with Elizabeth a bit—but he always visited his mother on Sunday afternoons. Both would tap him out completely. "I need to give a call, see how she's doing."

"Give her my love." She almost blanched. "Uh, tell her I hope she feels better."

He smiled. "I will."

He punched a speed dial code; all of the hospitals were on the list. He spent the time waiting for the switchboard to pick up debating with himself: room phone or nurse's station? He decided the latter just as the line was answered. The hold music as he was transferred was just a shade too peppy for his brain.

"Five East."

"Yes, this is Dr. Donald Mallard—" it never hurt to use a title. "I'm inquiring as to the status of a patient, Elizabeth Hamilton, 510—"

"Oh, yes, doctor, I remember you from yesterday. Edie Dawes."

"Nurse Dawes, yes." He put a smile in his voice.

"Dr. Mallard—Mrs. Hamilton left two hours ago. Just as I came on shift."

He couldn't have heard correctly. "I beg your pardon?"

"Yes." She sounded quite unhappy. "She insisted on being released AMA."

AMA—against medical advice. "And she went home?" (Where else would she go—back to the store?)

"I would assume so. Oh—wait just a—may I put you on hold?"

"Of course," he said politely.

After a moment, the line opened again. "Dr. Ackerman."

Thank God. "Ted. Donald Mallard."

"Ducky." A heavy sigh came across the wire.

"What is this about Elizabeth Hamilton leaving AMA?" He was a mix of appalled, horrified and angry, and tried to keep it from his voice.

"Very much AMA," he said grimly. "But she's not qualified for a 72 hour psych hold, her vitals were stable—I just don't like the idea of her going home. Not with… things still up in the air."

Things. The cause of her injury three years before.

"Do you have any information?" Dr. Ackerman asked obliquely.

"Not yet," he sighed. "But… I'm sure your… thoughts… were incorrect."

"I doubt her veracity with regard to the history," he said stiffly. Medical code talk.

"And… I concur," Ducky said cautiously. "But I feel there must be another option beyond the two we have discussed."

"Mmh. Will you be… following up, Dr. Mallard?"

He hesitated. "I'll try," he said honestly. No guarantees.

A brief silence. "Thank you."

"Thank you." With promises to call as soon as possible, he rang off. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and removed the business card Tori had slipped into his hand. Elizabeth wouldn't be at the store (well—shouldn't be), but Tori probably would be. He punched in the number.

"Ealasaid's, Megan speaking. How may I help you?"

"Good afternoon, Megan," he said cordially. "This is Dr. Donald Mallard, calling for Victoria Cameron."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Dr. Mallard. Mrs. Cameron isn't in today; her aunt was injured in a fall yesterday, and she went over to the hospital to pick her up. She might be back this afternoon; I'm honestly not sure. But I'd be happy to take a message, unless there's something I can do to help…?"

"No, thank you. I'll try to catch her at home." He sighed and stared at the telephone, his finger on the lever. Might as well get it over with. He punched the numbers: one, seven-oh-three… He took a slow, calming breath.

"Hello?" The voice was soft, but he recognized it right away.

"Rowena? It's Dr. Mallard."

She drew in a short breath. "Dr. Mallard. I'm so glad you called."

He smiled and relaxed somewhat. "How is your grandmother? I called the hospital, found she had… been discharged," he said politely.

"Yeah," she scoffed. "It's called walking out the door." Her voice was low.

"Mmh." Delicate touch needed here. "Is your mother available?"

"Oh, Dr. Mallard, you just missed her. Nana told her to go to the store, leave her in peace. She left about ten minutes ago, once Nana fell asleep."

Asleep. That was probably a good thing. "It looks like she'll recover well," he said cautiously. "Considering that it's an injury where her arm was broken before…"

There was a slight catch of air. "Yes," she said quietly.

"Given the severity of the break, Dr. Ackerman was concerned there might be other damage," he said, trying to coax her. "He x-rayed her ribs, her clavicle… her right arm…"

Heavy silence.

"Rowena… there was something he questioned," he said gently.

"Dr. Mallard?" she whispered, cutting him off.

"Yes, my dear?"

"I need to talk to you," she continued, still whispering. "Privately. Not now. Not on the phone."

His heart almost stopped, his hands ice cold. Oh, God, please—no. No. Don't tell me it's your mother. Don't tell me it's you. "Of course," he said evenly.

"I told the hospital I won't be in because of Nana. She's asleep. But she's not under medication—she refuses to take it."

It figures.

"She should be okay if I leave her alone. I'll leave her a note, just in case she wakes up." Her voice was still low. "Can I meet you at your office?"

He laughed shortly. "My dear, an autopsy suite is hardly an appropriate place to meet a young lady."

He could hear her smile. "Hey. Remember—I'm going into medicine, Dr. Mallard? I'm not planning on research, for crying out loud. I can take it."

He managed a genuine smile. "True. But it's still not very hospitable. There's a coffee shop nearby—The Daily Grind? M and New Jersey?"

"I can find it. I have to take the Metro, but I think I can get there in about an hour."

"I'll see you there." He hung up, cognizant of the silence behind him. "Jimmy?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I have errands to run. Please put Staff Sergeant Prentiss to bed and… tidy up. I will see you…" he sighed. "Tomorrow." He glanced over.

Mr. Palmer was getting better at containing his curiosity—and his words. He simply nodded. "Good night, Dr. Mallard."

/ / /

Questions he had to ask… answers he didn't want to hear. He sighed and shook his head slowly. It was nearly four; he was starting to worry. Had she gotten lost? He had flipped through the Sunday paper, sipped spiced cider in lieu of coffee or—ugh, teabag tea—but time had crawled.

"Dr. Mallard, I'm so sorry!" She slipped into the seat across from him even as he started to rise. "I got off at the wrong stop," she said in irritation. "Had to walk back. Mom's car is in the shop, so I loaned her mine." She gave a small laugh. "Nana's van is a little temperamental. She's the only one who can drive it."

He smiled, thinking of his own car. "I completely understand." He waved a waitress over. "And—please. You're welcome to call me Ducky."

Rowena smiled and gave a half-shrug as the waitress came over. She looked over his shoulder and scanned the blackboard. "Uh… Extra large Italian-Viennese-French roast, triple shot, iced. Double-double chocolate, double vanilla, lots of whipped cream. And a cinnamon roll. I'm starved." She was well-versed in their menu.

"Perhaps something more nutritious?" The amount of sugar in her order made his teeth flinch.

"Hey. I left a pot roast in the crock pot."

Fair enough. He made idle chit-chat about articles in the paper until her drink arrived and she had taken a long sip. Once she looked a bit less frazzled, he probed gently. "I'm concerned about your grandmother." She looked up, uncertain. "I'm worried," he said, frankly but not unkindly. "Worried that she might… injure herself… again."

"No—oh, no, it won't—" she broke off in confusion.

"She said it was caused by a mugging. But… the x-ray does not support her story." Her eyes were squeezed shut. "Rowena… you know what happened. Don't you."

She nodded almost imperceptibly. "Yes." Her voice was the barest whisper.

"Please… tell me." There was a long silence. Oh, dear God, no… He swallowed. "Ro…" he said gently. "If you're afraid… I promise you. Nobody will hurt you. Or your grandmother."

She looked confused, then took tally of the names listed. "You think—no, oh, no! No!" She looked miserable. "It was Ronnie," she finally managed.

He was baffled. "Ronnie?"

She let out a long, quivering breath. "Ronnie. My sister. Bronwyn."

Oh, God. It had been one of her grandchildren—just one he'd forgotten about. "Tell me, please." He reached over and laid a hand on hers.

She picked up her glass with her other hand and took a long drink. "Mom and Dad… Mom had no clue that Baxxter's was going to close. Nobody was hiring, so she started working with Nana… and she liked it. But Mom and Dad, boy… they fought. A lot. They got divorced about a year later. Personally, I was glad. Well… kind of. Ronnie was…" she frowned. "Eight. And she… didn't take it well. At first… everything was okay. But when she got to junior high, she was… a mess." She made a face. "It didn't help that I got skipped up to her grade. Pretty bad when your kid sister is hanging around…" She forced a smile. "So… Mom and Dad were having teacher conferences—about Ronnie—almost every week. She ditched school. She got picked up for shoplifting. She started smoking, hanging around with older kids, real jd's…"

Ducky remembered another middle child, whose parents should have divorced. 'I tried to be as un-perfect as possible.' If only you could have been here for your grandchildren…

"It didn't get better when she got into high school. She was—" she looked up and hesitated, turning slightly pink and looking uncomfortable. "Uh, pretty… wild." He could guess. "And she started doing worse—not just pot, she was into meth, cocaine, PCP—"

"Oh, dear God." He pushed his mug away, ill.

"Mom and Dad tried everything. Rehab. Private school. Boot camp, for God's sake. No good. She got kicked out of this boarding school in Maryland the day before it happened—as soon as she was home she hooked up with her loser friends again…" She shut her eyes. "She was up on PCP. I wasn't there, I was at school, she—ah—she was supposed to be off at Shores, the school they stick all the delinquents until they can figure out what to do with them. She ditched, like always. She didn't have a key, she broke into the house, Nana was home, she had the flu… Ronnie was… out of her head. She didn't realize—she didn't mean to hurt her," she said imploringly. She looked at him, eyes wet. "They were in the kitchen, she grabbed Nana—"

"And broke her arm." His voice was flat.

She nodded. "Mom had gone home to check on Nana, she got there right when it—ended. Right after it happened. Nana, oh, it hurt so much—she screamed. And—it was like that woke her up. Ronnie. Got through to her. She realized what she had done… and she ran away. Ran. Away. Right out the door, disappeared… We had no idea where she was, what was happening… She was fifteen."

"You mother must have been out of her mind with worry."

She nodded. "Oh, yeah. It was… intense. I mean, yes, she hurt Nana. But she didn't mean to," she beseeched him. "And we were all so worried about her, maybe… she was hurt. Maybe…" she swallowed. "Maybe even dead," she said with a catch.

He remembered what Tori had said. "But—she's in California, yes?"

She nodded. "She had guardian angels working overtime. She made her way to California, to Uncle Dennys and Auntie Maddie. They said yes, she could stay there. But she had to go through rehab. She had to get into therapy. She had to go back to school. And… she did it all. She's been clean for two and a half years. She got her diploma. And she's holding down a job, a good job. I know Nana has forgiven her. And Mom." She let out a slow breath. "I just don't think she's forgiven herself."

Very insightful for a young woman just old enough to drive. "I can see… why Elizabeth didn't want to tell the doctor the truth." He patted her hand. "I will assure her doctor that what happened will never be repeated. That Elizabeth is in no danger."

She closed her eyes. "Thank you." They sat in silence for a long moment. Finally she smiled faintly. "I'm so glad you came into the store yesterday."

He was still of two minds about that, but: "So am I."

She tipped her head. "I just realized… you're stuck working weekends?" She looked puzzled.

"Yes, and no. I normally have hours Monday through Friday and am on call for the weekends, unless I've arranged for coverage. But I often end up with several days off in a row as compensation for working weekends—so it has its positive elements and negative ones. It's weighted for the positive," he smiled.

"So you have the rest of the day off?"

He nodded. "I plan to go visit my mother. She—" he hesitated. "She's living in Cambridge Care, in Chantilly. She suffers from dementia," he said gently. "We shared a home until late last year, it just became too difficult…"

She slipped her hand out and placed it on top of his hand, giving a gentle squeeze. "It's hard. I understand." She nodded slowly. "How old is she?"

"She… just turned one hundred and one. This summer," he said with some pride. Her mind wasn't what it had been, but she was still going strong. And she did have her good times, her good days—it was easier with a trained staff to care for her. With the stress of 24-hour responsibility—even when he was at work he still felt responsible, and frequently had been—alleviated, it was much easier to enjoy being around her again. "Actually, I was going to stop at the store and pick up some shortbread for her. It was something we enjoyed at afternoon tea with my grandmother back in Scotland."

"That is so sweet…" Her eyes were damp again, this time from sentiment. "Chantilly… it's on my way to school. Do you think—would it be all right if I were to visit her some day?"

He knew he looked startled. He visited his mother at least once a week, more often whenever possible; he was touched that all of his friends at work had been out to see her several times over the past months. Abby and Jimmy were regular visitors; Abby played canasta with her, and had found a deck of cards with numbers large enough for Victoria to read unaided; they played for penny a point, and his mother was up by almost ten dollars. Jimmy often came to visit during the wrestling games, and had given her Circue de Soleil DVDs for her birthday, which she played almost as often as her one-and-only Jeopardy tape. Gibbs, McGee and Ziva often stopped by—and Tony, bless him, had brought her Corgis out for a visit several times. He was quietly astonished to discover a bouquet of flowers on her birthday, signed Mr. and Mrs. Leon Vance. But he'd known most of them for years; he'd only just met Rowena. Still… "That would be very kind, my dear. Thank you." He made an unobtrusive glance at his watch. "You mentioned taking the Metro; can I drop you somewhere on my way to the store?"

"Actually, if you can take me with you there, that would be perfect."

"Of course. It's right on my way," he laughed. He looked at the tab and dropped a ten and a five on the table. He stood and held out a hand, helping her rise from her chair; she looked delighted at the attention. Alas, chivalry was dying of late. He guided her out the door and to the back lot.

She stopped, staring, and looked at him in mild shock. "Yours…?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"This… car… is so cool!" She walked around the Morgan, partly in awe, partly in envy. "Beyond cool!"

He laughed. "Thank you." He opened the passenger door and helped her in.

"Oh, my God! It's a stick shift!" He smiled at her delight. "No, no, mom can't drive a manual. Drew taught me how to this summer—he bought a stick so Mom wouldn't touch it. He thinks she's a lousy driver."

"How sharper than a serpent's tooth—"

"Is to have an honest child," she finished. "I love my mom, but—she's not a great driver. She's okay, just—not on a stick shift. And at least she admits it. She just says, 'I'm perfect at so many things, I have to have a flaw somewhere.'"

He laughed again. "Perfect people," he sighed. "There are so few of us around."

She gave him an amused look. "And it's such a heavy burden, Dr. Mallard."

He held up an admonishing finger. "Ducky."

She hemmed and hawed. "I just feel like I'm being disrespectful."

"I assure you—you're not. I've been 'Ducky' since my school days. I didn't like it back then—but I came to in later years. You have been invited to call me Ducky—so there is no disrespect."

She waggled her head in a 'we'll see' manner.

"So. What do you do at Georgetown?"

She sighed. "I prep lab slides. And I run reports wherever they're needed. Real heavy-duty medical. But, hey, the name will look better than working at Barnes and Noble after school. Just like it is in the rest of the world, the plum spots went to those doing the ol' nepotism tango."

"Familial bonds shouldn't be the primary factor in placement," he said with a frown. "But," he continued before she could interject, "I understand that this is the way of the world. Adapt or die. Very Darwinian."

"It's a rat race," she said morosely. "And the rats are winning."

They pulled up in front of the shop and had a prime parking spot. It was late enough that the afternoon tea crowd had dissipated; a few die-hards sat at tables, lazing over tea and reading materials, but most of the crowd was made up of people dashing in for a last-minute dessert or goodies for Monday morning breakfast. Rowena led him back to the office and through the half-open door. "Surprise!"

Tori certainly looked surprised. "Ro, what are you doing here? How's Nana? Why—"

"She's fine. She was asleep when I left; I left her a note saying I was just running out for a bit. I just wanted to meet up with Dr. Mallard, let him know she was doing okay." She flashed him a smile. "I mean Ducky."

"Rowena—"

He recognized the parental tone. "I asked her to call me Ducky. Just as I asked you."

"Lizzie said you hate that name," she murmured, shuffling papers as Rowena ducked out of the office.

"Well, a lot of things have changed over the years," he said lightly.

"True enough." She found what she was looking for, stapled the sheets together and tossed them into a basket. "Why did Ro come all the way down here to meet you? Why didn't she just tell you on the phone that Lizzie was okay?"

"I think she was concerned about waking Elizabeth." He gave her his most innocent look.

She folded her arms and cocked her head. "Dr. Mallard," she said firmly, "I am the mother of three kids. Now, I may not have been able to prevent their bad choices and foolishness, and I may not have been able to really stop their bad choices and foolishness—but that does not mean I didn't know about their bad choices and foolishness." She gave him a long, measured look from behind water-spotted glasses. "Try again."

"I was concerned about an injury Elizabeth had sustained in the past. A break to her right arm." Her gaze dropped. "About three years ago." He let her think about it for a moment. "Rowena explained. And… I know that Elizabeth is in no danger. There was concern that she might be injured again. If there is any question from the medical community… I can assure those involved that everything is fine. Just fine."

She pushed back from her desk and slowly came over to stand next to him. "Thank you." She made a hesitant motion; he opened his arms and allowed her to step close and be wrapped in a hug. "Oh, it's been a hell of a weekend for you, hasn't it?" she mumbled into his shoulder.

"For us all," he said ruefully, pulling back.

"Here you go!" Rowena all but skipped back into the room. She ceremoniously handed over a box. "Plain shortbread, almond shortbread, baby chip shortbread, mint chocolate dipped shortbread—"

"Hmm, I sense a theme," her mother laughed.

"For your mother," Rowena finished importantly.

Tori looked up. "Your mother? If you're mailing them to England—"

"No, no. My mother lives in Chantilly—now." He gave her an abbreviated version of his mother's history.

Tori looked as concerned as her daughter had. "Does she have many visitors? I mean, you, of course—"

"Some of the ladies from the kennel club get out on occasion, but it's not often. They aren't—young," he said diplomatically. "Of course, everyone at NCIS knows her—some better than others," he laughed. "But… they've been very kind over this past year, visit her fairly often. It's been difficult," he admitted.

"Would it be all right if I went out to see her? Or would it be too confusing, a stranger…?"

Like daughter, like mother. "That would be lovely." He smiled up at Rowena. "I'm sure she'd love to meet you both." Well—one can hope, he thought, remembering others who had received a less than stellar first meeting. He removed his wallet. "Now. What do I owe you?" Tori shook her head and waved him off. "No, I insist, this is your business, you can't be—well, giving away the store—"

"And you're family. Adopted in, anyway," she said.

Rowena leaned over. "Free food. It's our only perk. Well, that and being the guinea pigs if Mom or Nana get a recipe idea."

He smiled. "I really can't—"

"And I insist," Tori said firmly.

Family. He smiled down at the box. It would have been nice—he'd felt that tug for all these years, watching friends marry, have children, grandchildren… He was 'Uncle Ducky' to the children of so many others—but never had any of his own. Yes, if he and Elizabeth had been together, their lives would have been quite different—he wouldn't know Gibbs, Abby or any of the others. He might not even be in the States. He looked up and caught Tori's eye. But he would have relished rearing this young woman, perhaps gifting her with brothers and sisters… His history with Elizabeth gave him instant family status with her and Rowena, even if Elizabeth was still a little distant. He loved his 'family' at NCIS as if they were his own, and was delighted to have the ranks grow. "Thank you," he said simply. An idea that had been bubbling in the back of his mind came to full flower. "And speaking of family…"

Tori leaned against the desk. "Yes?"

He set the box down and turned to Rowena, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "If a position became available—an internship, that is—which offered more, mmmh, cachet than your position at Georgetown... would you be interested?"

"Cachet… in what way?" she asked hesitantly.

"Well, instead of being one name out of how many listing Georgetown as an internship—"

"Thirty-something," she said, her voice a tad disheartened.

"If you were to have an affiliation with an institute that rarely offers an internship and, when it does, only offers one such internship—and has international standing for criminal investigation of which forensic science—which is linked to medical research as well as pathology—is a great part of that investigation—"

A grin slowly spread across her face. "You're kidding. You're kidding? You're not kidding. Say you're not kidding!"

He chuckled. "Now, I can't make any promises," he cautioned. "But… I would be happy to make the highest recommendation in your name. The final choice does rest with our Forensic Specialist and I will freely admit that Abby doesn't usually work well with assistants."

"Oh." Her face fell.

"But—you would be an intern. Not an assistant. Not even a trainee. I think she'll be amenable to the idea." He smiled. "She has a bit of a soft spot for me," he admitted. "And I have no problem playing that up. Nepotism… is not such a bad thing."

"You'd really—" she bit her lip, face contorting as she fought back tears. "Oh, thank you!" She flung her arms around him and gave him a bone-crushing hug.

"Oh, on that note the two of you will get along just fine," he managed around her death grip.

She pulled back. "What should I do? Where do I go? What—"

He laughed. "Would you be able to come by NCIS tomorrow?"

"Absolutely! Any time. It's my short day, I can be there by one, do you want me in the morning? I can ditch—"

"Oh, no you won't!" her mother said hotly, even as Ducky opened his mouth to protest.

"That won't be necessary," he soothed Rowena. "Tomorrow afternoon would be fine. Bring your c.v., transcript, résumé—whatever you have." He pulled out a card, scrawled his private numbers on the back and handed it to her. "That's the main switchboard number, my direct line to Autopsy—and my cell and house numbers are on the back. Call me when you're heading over; don't leave before you reach me, just in case we're out in the field."

"Oh." Her tone was almost reverent.

Tori glanced at the clock. "Do me a favor, sweetie? There are about fifteen boxes on the back counter, they're all marked 'Bishop'—check them off on the order sheet, load them in the back seat. It's a last minute delivery, they can't come in for a pickup."

"Back seat… of my car?" Rowena asked hesitantly.

"I know, it'll be tight, but you have the only game in town. Unless you'd rather drive home and swap with—"

"Oh, hell no," she said, earning a mild glare from her mother. "Sorry." Tori gave her a nod toward the kitchen; a last hug to Ducky and a whispered, "Thankyou-thankyou-thankyou!" and she dashed off.

"That… was very kind." Tori smiled gently. "I can't thank you enough. Putting yourself out like that—"

"Well…" he shrugged toward the box of cookies. "As you said… we're family." He shook his head. "Oh, Tori, I loved your aunt more than life itself," he admitted with a sigh. "You said yourself—maybe this is the hand of God, fate, your grandmother trying to atone for her sins… whatever it is, I plan to make the most of it. You are her niece, her adopted daughter. Rowena is her granddaughter. Call it a favor for an old friend two generations removed. Call it helping the family I never had. Call it an attack of 'Boy Scout-itis,' doing my good deed for the day. Does it matter?"

"No… I suppose not," she admitted. "She and Abby will get along great," she said with a laugh.

If he could convince his favorite Goth scientist to go along with the plan. "You think so?" Not that he disagreed; it was nice to have a second opinion.

"Oh, I know so. Abby and I had quite a chit-chat yesterday until Ziva came back—and even after. They're both darling girls."

He laughed at her description. "Let's see—Abby is only five, maybe six years younger than you, and Ziva only a couple of years beyond that—yet they're 'darling girls?'"

She grinned. "Ducky, I was born older than they are." She stared off a moment and sighed. "And there are days I think your mother would be young in comparison."

"Hard business?" he said sympathetically.

There was a crunching noise from the kitchen and she winced. "There are days." She pushed away from the desk tiredly. "Be right back. I hope."

He wandered the room, curious. It wasn't an office-type office; yes, there were the requisite file cabinets and computer and other items in almost all offices, but there were personal items and photographs galore on walls, tabletops and shelves. The folding frame Tori had shown him yesterday had been set on a bookcase in front of a few dozen cookbooks; next to it was a set of baby pictures in ovals. Fortunately, each had a name written next to it: Dennys, Patricia, Elizabeth, Victoria, Andrew, Bronwyn and Rowena. Decades of baby pictures.

He looked up; more cookbooks (no surprise). In front was another double frame. On one side, a particularly lovely shot of Patricia, apparently from one of her last competitions. She looked a little younger than the Patricia he had known, but at the same time more elegant, more grown-up. She was in a filmy white outfit, the chiffon fluttering about her and making her look like a tall, blonde swan. The other picture was a perfect counterpoint: Patricia, looking like the suburban mom she'd wanted to be, with toddler Tori in front of her, holding her daughter's hands while Tori wobbled on double rail skates with a 'what am I doing?' look on her face. Tish plainly loved being a mom, sharing something she enjoyed… even if for so brief a time. "Oh, Tish… you'd be so proud," he murmured. "They've all really done well." Considering.

He caught sight of a triptych of stiff school photos: on the left, a tot who was undeniably Rowena (the russet waves were a dead giveaway); underneath, the legend read, Rowena, kindergarten. The next picture was a tiny girl with light blonde hair and enormous dark blue eyes: Bronwyn, 2nd grade. A grinning lad with mussed hair and winking wire framed glasses sitting lopsidedly on his nose completed the trio: Andrew, 5th grade. Oh, yeah, he could see Tori in all three children, especially her eldest.

Another bookcase; still more cookbooks. Another triple folding frame. Rowena, not such a rounded face as before, minus a tooth: 2nd grade. Bronwyn, with upswept pigtails like Abby: 4th grade. Andrew, flashing braces added to the glasses. Poor kid. 7th grade. Elizabeth was a very proud grandmother.

"Crisis averted." Tori came in, pulling her hair down from her bun as she walked, sweeping it back into a ponytail. "And we are officially closed."

He nodded to the pictures. "Nice photos."

"Drop in the bucket. Lizzie shoots like she owns stock in Kodak. You should see—" She brightened. "You should see! Come home with us—"

"Oh, thank you, my dear—but I do need to be getting along. Visiting hours are allowed until 8:00, but they would really prefer that people come earlier—"

"I understand. It's an open invitation." She handed him the pink box of shortbread. "Don't forget these."

"Never." He leaned over and gave her a small kiss on the cheek; he was already falling into his role as surrogate grandfather with relish. He followed her to the front door, Rowena calling a goodbye from behind stacks of boxes, and quickly slipped out of the darkened store.

In the Morgan, he punched a number on his cell phone. "Dr. Theodore Ackerman, please; Dr. Donald Mallard calling." After a moment, a grin spread across his face. "Ted? Ducky. I have very good news for you…"

10