Chapter 10

They found Esosa sitting with Ducky, speaking slowly with him. As soon as they came in, she looked up, almost as eager as Ducky to hear Gibbs' report.

"I think it is a good idea to practice my English," she said with a brief smile. "Ducky said he is happy to help. ...Hernan wishes Timon to be safe, but he wishes me to be safe more. He does not like that I... am helping you."

"And what do you think?" Gibbs asked.

Esosa smiled mischievously, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening. "I will help. It makes me happy to do it. I think it is how I will fight our...dominaturos?"

"Um...leaders, maybe?" Tony suggested.

"Si...but it is not a good leader," Esosa said. "Good leaders are not dominaturos."

"Aren't you worried at all?" Tony asked.

"Worried?"

"Afraid," Ducky supplied. "Afraid for what may happen."

"Ah," she said, nodding. "Si. I am...worried?"

"Yeah. That's right."

"I am worried for my family, but I am worried more for Timon, for what happens to him there. He is not good, si?"

Gibbs shook his head. "No, he's not good at all. We need to get him out. I don't think he's going to last much longer."

"He is sick again?"

"No...well, he's not healthy but he's not sick, I guess. He doesn't think anything will happen. He thinks he's going to die in prison."

"He is stronger than you think," Esosa said. "...but he is not to be in Sirja more than he must be."

"Do you know anywhere safe we could take him and keep him until our ride gets here?"

Esosa was silent for a long time.

"Did you understand?"

"Yes. I am...thinking."

"How was he, Jethro?" Ducky asked in the space of silence.

"Not good. He's like a different person. I didn't even recognize him, Ducky. He said he got shot and received no treatment for it that I can tell. He probably got a concussion a month ago...again, no treatment. He seemed dazed the whole time I was talking to him...and he looked starved."

"Probably he was," Ducky said, his face solemn. "No matter how sincere Esosa's efforts have been, it probably has not been nearly enough for someone of Timothy's size. If he has been fighting off tuberculosis, along with whatever other diseases he probably has picked up during the last six months, his body probably isn't strong enough to fight off anything else. I would wager that a simple cold would completely exhaust his reserves at this point."

"There is a place...I think," Esosa said, interrupting their conversation. "I...hesitar?"

"Hesitate," Ziva supplied.

"Si. I hesitate to tell it to you. It is a safe place...I think."

"Why do you hesitate? What is this place?"

"It is a house of my family."

"The family who disowned you?"

"Si. Yes, Ziva. It is empty for many years."

"Where is it?"

"It is near the ocean, in the trees. It is...dam-...damaged? That is the word?"

"Yes."

"It is damaged now for many years. ...but it is still my family. If he is...if they find him in the house, it is bad for my family."

"We have eight days, Esosa. I'm going to see him tomorrow, but we could get him out in three at most if we have somewhere we can take him. Please."

Esosa looked around at them all and then nodded. "Yes. Yes, the house will be a good place. No one sees it. Not for a long time."

"One more question."

"Si?"

"Could the guards be bribed?"

"Si," she answered without hesitation. "The pay is low and if you find the right guard, you will find one who will...not see what you do."

"Do you know which guard is the right guard?"

"No. Timon can know...but I do not know. I do not know the guards who take food and those who do not."

"All right. I'll ask him."

"Could not one of us go in your place, Gibbs?" Ziva asked.

It was Esosa who answered. "No. That is..." She searched for the word but could not find it. "...People will see another visitor. It is too many."

Ziva nodded. "I wish to see him. It has been a long time."

"Si...but it is more safe to wait."

Ziva smiled. "Sometimes, it is harder to wait."

"Yes."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim went back to his place in the yard, alone. They actually left him alone this time. He was glad of that. He wanted time to think, even though thinking had become very difficult.

Gibbs. Here. On Lugniapo. They knew where he was. ...unless that had been a lengthy hallucination, complete with tactile sensations. He couldn't dismiss the possibility. He wasn't feeling at all like himself. It was as though his whole self was screwed up, almost creating a whole other person. He knew who he was, that he was Timothy McGee, that this was not where he was supposed to be, but he also knew that he wasn't able to act like himself. It just wasn't possible at the moment. Things had changed too much...he felt as though to act in a normal fashion would take every ounce of control he possessed, leaving only a void behind. It was easier just to coast through and ignore everything but the direct stimuli...and even then, he ignored everything but the stimulus which required a real response. Rain? No reaction. Pidaro coming at him again? Definite reaction.

As he sat, trying to decide whether or not Gibbs had really been there, time moved in dollops. He only stared at the rest of the yard, never out the bars. He didn't want to see the free world. That place only existed for a specific subset of society...and he was not a part of it. He was part of that subset whose entire existence was confined to one place...this prison. His world was the yard, the cells...the horror. That was his world.

The bell rang, signaling the return to the cells. Tim hated the cells. His worst moments were there. Each cell held between thirty and fifty prisoners. There was room for the cots they were given for beds, a couple of relatively open areas...and the wall of toilets, provided only because the guards had to be there. They stank, but they kept most of the cell free of feces and urine. It was one of the few concessions to sanitation provided. Tim got up and walked out of the yard, hoping that the trend of ignoring him would continue. Maybe he'd even be allowed to sleep on his cot tonight. They weren't soft, but they were certainly better than the stone floor.

The prisoners walked without pause, knowing where to go and how to get there. Tim was at the back of the group, as usual. He knew his place. He belonged behind and below everyone there. Trying to upset the hierarchy only turned out badly for him.

"Menio albo!"

Tim sighed. He should have known the isolation couldn't last forever. He turned away from his cot. He didn't bother to say anything in response. There was so little point. So little point to any of it. He stared at the speaker.

To his surprise, no one threw a punch at him this time. The leader of the group, not Pidaro, simply pointed to the empty space by the barred window. ...and then he waited to see if Tim would try to protest. There was no point. Only pain awaited if he tried. Tim just turned and trudged to the indicated space. Conversations sprang up as he retreated. He slid down the wall and stared out the window. With a sigh he leaned his head against the bars. He almost wished that Gibbs' appearance was a hallucination. He didn't want to think it was possible for life to get better.

He stayed in almost perfect stillness as the sun went down and the stars became visible. It was a beautiful, yet painful, sight. Almost against his will, he reached a hand up and out, stretching for freedom, knowing that he'd never get it.

Suddenly, from behind, a hand reached over, grabbed his and wrenched it backward, pulling Tim away from the wall. He cried out, both in surprise and in pain. He was yanked to his feet and dragged backwards, by his twisted arm, across the cell and thrown violently against the wall. He collided with it, but managed to get one arm up before he could repeat what had happened to him in solitary.

There were shouts and yells of encouragement all around him. He turned around quickly and then they surged closer and closer. Although he didn't show it, Tim felt a small measure of relief. This was simply a normal occurrence. They began pushing him, almost throwing him through the crowd of prisoners. Every so often, someone would hit or kick him a couple of times. If he blocked it, they just pushed him to the next prisoner. It went on and on until a good jab in the gut knocked him to the floor.

They laughed at him and the crowd broke up, leaving him on the floor, gasping for air. He lay in the widening circle until he felt reasonably certain of being able to breathe. Then, trembling a little and cradling his aching arm, he got to his feet and stumbled back to his place by the window. He swallowed hard and tried not to cry.

It was the incredible callousness of his treatment that got to him every time. Even after however long it had been, he couldn't get used to being thought of as scum. Perhaps this was supposed to be a learning experience.

What should I be learning from this? ...that I'm the scum of the earth and not worth a brass penny. ...and that I have absolutely no coping ability.

Tim watched the other prisoners in his cell. He actually envied them. He wasn't sure why. They were criminals (maybe), but at least they had some degree of humanity available to them. His only access to humanity was in his head.

Not that it matters. I'm going to die eventually anyway. Might as well live in my head. Not living anywhere else.

The lights went out an hour later. Tim slumped all the way down on the floor and curled into a fetal position. He was feeling a little bit of congestion in his chest. Maybe it was just a cold...but he figured it was the beginning of a relapse. That meant he was going to die.

He'd never felt so alone.