Twelve
Disclaimer: Not mine
Days had passed since she'd seen him, since he'd come to her in the dead of night in the rain, and there were times she wasn't sure if she'd imagined him altogether. It seemed he was making more progress in finding out where John Michael was not than where he was. Not for the first time, or even the hundredth, Samantha wished they had kicked around ideas before he'd done this. She wondered if he remembered to check the Burger Kings with the play areas; those were his favorites. She wondered if he remembered the boats; her son's interests had changed recently, and his infatuation with trains had inexplicably shifted to boats. Surely he did...
They had spent hours upon hours watching boats while they were here in Miami, from pleasure boats to sailboats to enormous tankers to remote controlled boats, and she wished she could call Jack right now and asked him if he'd been checking places with boats. They had always worked well together, always sparked each other, bounced ideas off of each other, and she had never felt more keenly the fact that he'd been behind a desk and not out in the field for a while now. She knew that his instincts were as sharp as they ever were, but knowing he was out there without backup had her constantly on edge. She knew she wouldn't be able to relax until she had him back.
She hadn't called her mother and her sister; there was no point. She talked to Kate and Hanna daily, and just hearing their voices imbued her with hope and strength. They weren't giving up, and when her own faith and hope were flagging, they never failed to keep her going. She needed every bit of help she could get. She needed to be strong, to be positive, to keep up a cheerful front for Finn and Bea when all she wanted to do was curl up in the corner and cry. Or, better yet, arm herself to the teeth and go out and find them herself. She didn't like being left behind like this. She needed to be out there doing something. Anything.
ooooo
They settled into a tentative routine. After the time they had spent together that first day, Jack had turned to leave once seeing them safely to her little house, asking hopefully if he could call on them tomorrow. He was beyond surprised when Clea had blushed and told him he was welcome to spend the night, on the couch, of course, because she wasn't that kind of girl.
Which kind? He'd wanted to ask. The kind who indulged in one-night-stands? Which he already knew from experience she was? Or the kind to kidnap and maybe kill when she didn't get what she wanted? Without any statute of limitations. Because, damn, it had been years. Luckily for him and his team, only a handful of criminals they had encountered in his career had the patience this woman possessed in spades. He had to remind himself that she wasn't anywhere near sane, and force himself to keep those thoughts inside. To make sure they didn't show on his face.
Nodding as if he understood completely, he had thanked her and camped out on her sofa, not daring to sleep because he couldn't trust what she would do to him if he did. As well as constantly watching for the moment she would let down her guard and leave him alone with John Michael. Of course it hadn't happened yet. In three days she hadn't left the boy's side for a moment. Even to sleep, which made him shudder even though he was utterly relieved when she'd let slip that she was glad the bedroom was large enough to fit his race car bed adjacent to hers. What he had seen left him reassured, as reassured, at least, as he could possibly be in the current situation.
She doted on John Michael, seemed to genuinely care for him. He thought she thought she loved him dearly. She treated him with warmth and affection, seeming genuinely delighted when she saw evidence of his sharp mind or the intense focus he brought to everything he did. Jack had found himself holding his breath more than once, sure that his rambunctious boy had just earned himself a smack for his smart little mouth, and had tried to steel himself for that eventuality, but the explosions he had waited for had never come. She never spanked him, never laid a finger on him at all. And he'd checked unobtrusively the same day he'd found them; there wasn't a mark on him.
This would be the third night he had spent here, and as he was stretching out on the couch, he was startled to see Clea appear in the doorway to her bedroom, a demure robe over her pajamas. Shit. Now what in the hell was he going to do?
Every time he inadvertently touched her he felt repulsed. Dirty. Now he couldn't believe that he had actually slept with her. Even once, when he'd been deep into both a bottle of Jack and his own self-loathing. He wasn't the least bit attracted to her now. He couldn't see how he ever could have been. She wasn't Samantha. But then, no one was.
But if he had to do this, he would. He could sleep in the same bed with her, couldn't he? Surely she wouldn't want to have sex in the same room the boy was in? He swallowed down his own revulsion and walked toward her, trying fiercely not to look like a man on his way to a firing squad. That was the way he felt right now, but he couldn't let her see it. Couldn't let John Michael down. That was the bottom line here. Nothing else mattered. He would do what he had to do to get his son out of this alive.
Whatever he had to do.
ooooo
Martin's voice on the phone was reassuring. At least he wasn't beating her up for this like Danny was. "We found the father of her child, Samantha. It wasn't easy. These people don't advertise in the yellow pages. He's a merc for hire, did a lot of work with Clea in the old days, was actually in a crew with her for a while, before she struck out on her own. We know a lot more about her now. This guy was a treasure trove of intel."
Samantha sat back in the chair in Calleigh and Horatio's home office. Thank God. She'd needed some good news today. Not hearing from Jack after he'd gone dark was driving her crazy. The guys at the lab were still keeping track of him, but that didn't make her feel any better. She needed him and John Michael home.
"Well?" she prodded anxiously. "What have we got?"
"We were right about her childhood. Short and violent. Mother left when she was a baby, father abused her even as he taught her everything he knew. Petty thief who was sent to prison when she was 12, eventually died there. She was on the streets after that, eventually hooked up with a crew and then left for another, more successful and highly skilled organization. This guy Walker Powers met her there, and they had a son, played house for a while. They pissed off the wrong people and someone was sent to take out Clea and Powers, got the kid instead but Clea survived, disappeared, struck out on her own. This was the first he'd heard of her in twenty years. She's a stone cold killer, Samantha. No remorse."
Samantha was still scanning pictures and disguises of the woman on the Caines' computer. "Good news is, Powers thinks that was probably the only time she was even remotely close to happy, so she's probably trying to recreate that time in her life, with Jack and John Michael. Her lost lover and son."
"She won't kill Jack if he goes along with what she wants," she murmured. He would have already figured that out by now. And she was already so tired of these images in her mind. Jack was a pro. He would do what he had to do to get their son back. Her asinine statements to him haunted her now. Just get through this, she told herself, and then you can make everything right. I won't ever be lost to you, she told him fiercely in her mind, hoping he knew. Because she wasn't ever letting him go.
TBC...
