Chapter Twelve
Hello and Goodbye
Tim McGee, made late by his Maryland investigations so he drove directly to Silver Spring and therefore arrived home only thirty minutes later than he'd hoped, pushes his apartment door open in time to catch a glimpse of his wife at the end of the short passage rapidly walking from kitchen to the living room, portable phone to her ear.
"Do you have any idea how that will affect things?" she demands, her brogue sharper than any of Ducky's instruments.
He halts as she spins left so she doesn't see him, paces back to the kitchen, her tone sharper. "Yes, I'm happy for him!" She turns at the wall, stalks back, paces rapidly, her grip on the phone so tight that her hand is bright red cut through with white. "That's not the point." She turns at the far right wall of the living room / writing room and never does see him in the doorway as she stalks back. "The point is I can't spring this on him with a two week notice!"
She whirls back, her pace increasing until close to igniting the carpet. She's so angry she seems ready to chew it instead. He backs out and eases the door almost shut so he can see and hear her through the crack as she passes and repasses across the other side of the rooms.
Her speed increases with her ire and her heels thump on the floor. "This is too unexpected!" "Yes, I know the unexpected is unexpected. Do not philosophize with me when you ask for something like this!" "Because he is a Federal Agent, not a 9 to 5 clock puncher. Half the days I never know what time he'll be home unless he calls first, like he did today that he'll be late, or from what country he may call from!" "Because his boss can and does say 'Grab this flight, you're going to Afghanistan or Pakistan or some other darn stan'."
"No, I work two jobs. I'm Tuesdays at NCIS but every day I'm at Saint Mary's and I don't punch a clock either." She increases her pace to where he's tempted to look to the carpet for smoke.
"Father Donaldson. You met him at the Wedding. It's four months ago, not like it's four years." "I've imposed on him so much already." "Because I'm the Curate and supposed to be assisting him and I spend a whole day a week at the Navy Yard when I'm not called in to deal with some emergency." "More often than you think when I have to Counsel several hundred people, some of whom meet me at Saint Mary." "He has been very patient." "He can revoke my permission to work for NCIS." "Yes, he can! I'm the Curate, I work for him."
She halts, squeezes the phone in a strangle grip that sharpens the colors in her hand, then paces faster and harder than ever. Her brogue, so closely tied to her feelings that he can get a good read on her just by listening, is so sharp he has to pay careful attention. He's known for some time who she's talking to; from her side of the conversation it's obvious.
"Yes, I know this is a great opportunity." "Yes, I'm happy for him." "No." "That's not the point." "You know, you are forever doing this! Ever since we were kids you–" "I realize that." "Yes, I know." "Look, dinner's almost ready and I already have something to ask him." "Yes, I made his favorite." "Yes, I'm making it to make what I have to ask him go smoother." "No, I do not have to buy his agreements." Her steps gets heavier, she grips the phone more tightly, her brogue sharp enough to draw blood at ten feet.
"That has nothing to do with being a Priest!" "Yes, I love him." "Of course I love her!" "You I am not too sure of at this moment." "All RIGHT! I will ASK him, but if he says 'no' then it's no, you get me?"
Tim, staring through the crack, sees her slam to a stop and her face go from red to purple. "I do not Buy his favors, especially with that!" she grates and he's offended on her behalf.
"All right," she grits the last of her patience. "I shall ask him. And I shall call you back tonight with his answer."
He so well knows that formality is her last layer. When she resorts to that and you press just one more inch, watch out.
"Don't mention it. Goodbye."
She stabs the disconnect as though trying to make the phone need Ducky's services. She stands clenching the unit and her voice is tight. "Dia, a dheonú dom an neart chun seasamh in aghaidh le mo neart féin a choinneáil ó tachtadh di chun báis!"
x
Tim eases the door closed and relocks it as quietly as he can. It takes a lot to make Shav angry but this isn't angry, this is furious. In all of her time at NCIS only he and Tony have ever managed true anger, and for those times it had taken cataclysmic events. Even the dénouement at the Hotel Maritz hadn't brought her to purple faced fury.
He'd understood her last appeal, a plea for strength to resist her own strength to keep from choking 'her' to death. Considering the person on the other end of the line, it was appropriate.
He decides his wife needs time, so he returns down the hall, takes the elevator to one, waits in the lobby for a measured four minutes and then rides back up, inserts his key in the door lock and comes home.
"Hon, I'm home," he calls and she comes around the kitchen counter to him, pulls him into a hug.
"Oh, I am so happy to see you!" she exclaims with utter sincerity and kisses him enthusiastically. He would never guess she was any less than happy and content. She'd told the truth to her caller, she never has to buy favors from him. One kiss from his lovely wife and he's willing to shower unasked riches upon her.
"Me too, you. How was your day?"
"It started off great, then fell off a cliff but never mind that. Get undressed, dinner'll be ready in half an hour."
xxx
Donald Mallard, already in his civilian attire, pushes the long body tray containing Mister Mayfair into cooler 5, closes the door and turns to his assistants. Correction, associate and assistant. "Well," he says to Maura Isles, "by such ends a tale."
Maura has also changed, in her case into a red minidress appropriate in the scorching summer only if she wants to start fires, and red high heels inappropriate for running therefrom.
"Kind of wish I could stay to see this one through."
"As do I. It has been a long time since we have worked together, my dear."
"Well, if I have to go - and Jane is chomping at the bit to get me back - at least we got to work on an interesting one."
"I dare say it will be some time before we can top this one."
She grins. "Says you. A Vampire?"
"Well, yes, that was interesting. It reminds me of–"
"Ducky?"
"Yes?"
"Just kiss me goodbye."
x
It's a chaste kiss and embrace, but when they part Sammy wipes a faux tear from her eye. "That was beautiful."
"None of that, young lady," he says, his voice stony. "Before your next shift you are to purchase a wristwatch."
"I'm sorry," she says, vastly subdued. She'd taken off the instrument on the stairs but very wisely had not tried to give any explanation for her four hour vanishment, instead throwing herself upon the mercy of the dissection table.
"Oh, give her one time," Maura urges.
"Well... I admit it was only the one time - that I know of." He'd been gone for a month.
"It was," Maura assures him. "And you," she says, turning to the petite young woman, "you keep in touch," she emphasizes with a hug. "Let me know when you get that license."
As an MD, Sammy can assist in Autopsy, but like Jimmy she's a good two years from being Licensed as a Medical Examiner. "With Ducky's mentorship, it'll be pretty soon."
"Yes," he says, flattered, "well at least I have the assurance that, when I ultimately do retire, NCIS Autopsy will be in good hands with Doctor Palmer and Miss Sky."
"HEY!"
But his eyes twinkle before he returns his attention to their departing colleague. "I shall miss you."
"Maybe next time you'll come to assist in Boston."
"If you have an appropriate supply of clam chowder."
"I'll have them reserve an entire boat's yield if you'll come up."
"Most tempting."
"Oh, boy!" Sammy exults, "Jimmy and I in charge of Autopsy!"
"I shudder to think of the consequences to Agent Gibbs."
"Well," Maura says, "I'll leave you to work that out. I have a plane to catch." Flying out on a Tuesday evening is relatively easier,
"Goodbye."
"Bye."
x
After several more hugs the woman is gone. Sammy, looking after her at the closed elevator door, says "She was so sweet. I'll miss her," she turns to her mentor. "Not that I'm not thrilled to have you back."
"You may well not be."
"Huh? How can you say that? Of course I am." He'd already verbally raked her over flaming coals so the only thing she's sure of is that she's safe from another punishment.
"I looked through the log sheets earlier and noticed you haven't filled out your AS-211 or SKI-42 for today, plus yesterday's and today's L9-370s, not to mention that yesterday's U-193 is by no means complete."
"Yes, I meant to explain that. You see–" He reaches into his jacket pocket, holds out his pen to her. "Now?"
"Indeed."
She looks out to the elevator. "Is it really too late to get Maura back?"
"Just pray you finish them and all your other paperwork before I must look at the L-648s."
"Yes, sir." He heads for the steel and glass pneumatic doors to the elevator. "Where are you going?"
He turns back with a smile. "I am still on vacation. I shall see you in the morning."
"You're kidding," she says through frozen smile.
"Oh, and Special Agent Gibbs will be down," he considers, "sometime before 2100, for the report on Mr. Mayfair. Be sure to give him everything, including the C-314 and the M-47."
The smile hasn't moved, but its hard to speak through it. "You're not kidding."
"Good night, Doctor." All the doors close, the elevator whisks him away and Sammy looks about the silent ward and to the pen in her hand.
The life of an (acting) Assistant ME.
"Good night."
xxx
"A chuisle, dinner's ready," Siobhan McGee calls over the kitchen counter, but Tim doesn't look away from his computer's screen. The computer is on the workstation near the bedroom door and its the furthest the man has gone since she'd said to change his clothes from work. "Chothaímid?"
She can't see the screen from her angle but whatever is on it holds him rapt. She picks up a fork, stabs a piece of gravied meat from his bowl, comes out from the kitchen and crosses the room. Now she can see the images on the screen belong to a Hobbyist's page but he's giving it the attention another man might lavish upon a porn site. She reaches out and draws the meat across his lips.
Startled, he rears back and returns to the apartment. "What's that?"
"Irish stew."
"Your special recipe?" He licks his lips. "Tastes good."
She sticks the meat and fork into his mouth and leaves it there. "Well, if you want the rest of it, follow me."
"Anywhere," he slurs around the utensil and abandons the search.
x
When they're seated at the small kitchen table she asks "What's so enthralling?"
"Working on a case." He aims his fork at the bowl only to watch it move away in her hands.
"Timothy E. McGee, you do not do that."
Since he has no middle name she's long ago developed the method of filling in her points there. "All right, what's 'E'?"
"Evasive." She returns the bowl.
She's become his frequent sounding board, listens to his challenges and problems on the job and occasionally provides fresh insight. "If you can take it, I'll tell you. But it's not a dinner thing," he tells her definitely.
"So bad?"
"Too much death. Too much grief. No answers at all. We have a perp who hunts people the law declares 'Not Guilty' and kills them for it."
"And Hobby Shops are involved?"
"I don't know. All I'm sure of is that another victim was chosen today, and he - or she - will be murdered tomorrow. And there's nothing I can do to stop it."
His hope that the cash paying customer at the first hobby shop he'd been assigned to review the tapes of would point to their probable killer had been dashed. And when he'd left the shop and called ahead the third was closed, so unless their perp's a fourteen year old girl who may well be stopped at the courthouse steps...
"You're right, a chara. Later, when you're ready. Not now."
He doesn't want it to be ever. He'd rather hear about what was behind that fiery call.
x
They return to their meal but after a bite she says "Speaking of picnics, what do you think of the Friday after this coming?"
He looks up and makes his face a masterpiece of confusion. That has to be the secondary concern, the one she'd planned on hitting him with tonight, but to him it's a segue powerful enough to cause whiplash. "Who was speaking of picnics?"
"We are, darling," she confirms with a loving smile.
"You mean we are now."
"Of course. So what do you think of next Friday?"
"I think I'll be very sorry to get into this," he lies. He likes picnics, and one with his wife is something to truly enjoy. "What picnic?"
The smile falls from her face and takes the forced high spirits with it. "Daor amháin." She takes a deep breath that doesn't seem to make her feel better. He supposes the call has derailed her original presentation, probably undoing both.
x
"The Palmers came to me this morning. They're having a very rough time." She won't mention the photos on James' cell phone unless she has to. He's not an invader of privacy; he would have selected the Crime Scene images on it solely by date and know nothing of any others. If she's wrong - well, she'll deal with that if she has to.
"Considering that yesterday she tried to slam him through a wall, you won't get any argument from me."
She pictures his various injuries this morning, all inflicted by his outraged wife.
"No one included it in their reports, however. The last thing their marriage needs is for her to be charged with 'Assaulting a Federal Employee'."
"No."
However, yesterday's drama coupled with today's conflagration only strengthens her resolve.
"Honey, I was thinking earlier, before I knew any of this, but this only tells me my idea was right. They go back in the Monday after next, the 30th, and have to jump in with both feet. I was thinking you and I and they might go out for a picnic, Friday the 27th. No stress, no NCIS, no nothing but a very enjoyable day of unwinding and whatever."
x
She watches him think it over. A whole planned day together; they don't get many that can be set aside when NCIS or her Priestly responsibilities for a parish of over 900 souls don't pull them in some unexpected directions.
"Fine with me. Ask them, I'll talk to Gibbs and you see Father Donaldson."
She won't tell him that, of that list, only Gibbs needs to give his approval. She'd called the Palmers late this afternoon after a long time of prayer and consideration and then called George to tell him that she'd scheduled a Counseling Session for next Friday but didn't mention with whom. It's the truth, considering the number of sessions they've already had and her certainty that there'll be a need for many more.
Slammed James into a wall, indeed.
They had never addressed those scratches on his arms, neck and chest, nor the bruises on his legs or his swollen face. From the context all had been obvious. She wonders for the Nth time how she's going to help this couple, and prays they'll make it all the way to the 27th intact.
That agreement James and Michelle made about their individual Counseling sessions, Dr. Gyves and the Anger Management Program, had started out as a bad one and sounds more problematic by the hour.
x
"Where do you have in mind?"
She quickly returns to the conversation and hopes her absence hadn't been noticed. "Remember last Advent, before the Christmas Pageant, that cave on the edge of Shenandoah?"
His look of anticipation crashes. "I remember." His tone is as flat as the rubble of his smile. The search for five year old Natalie Salamanca had pulled out Rescue personnel from half a dozen organizations, NCIS among them, plus an untold number of friends and volunteers. Every place a child could be expected to reach in several hours had been blanketed. Gibbs had reasoned that the child had gone to the cave which she'd been forbidden, over and over, to explore.
"We searched the four tunnels, we and your agents, but this time they're... well, this will be a pleasant afternoon." She reaches out, takes his hand. "And if after the picnic two couples want to find a little privacy..."
"Sounds good. I'll talk to Gibbs about next Friday. Who knows?" he asks, "we may even come out by Monday."
x
He watches her face fall and knows the other shoe is about to drop. "For someone who just scored a three or more day picnic, you're not very happy."
"I'm not," she admits, pushing some meat and vegetables about in the bowl with her fork.
"Why not?"
She tries to ask, tries a second time, clenches her fist and bites her knuckle and her face reflects too much distress.
He reaches out, takes her hand, kisses her indented knuckle. "Tell me."
She sighs and it sounds so much like defeat. "Before you got home Lenore called." He'd known it was her elder sister; that had been blisteringly obvious from the context. "Remember that in October we were going to look after little Bridget for a week, while she and Bill went on that Honeymoon they never had."
"Yeah," he says cautiously. He has never thought much of Shav's younger sister; he considers her thoughtless and manipulative; witness tonight's phone conversation. However, for the sake of peace he's never voiced this opinion. He knows he shares it with the younger sister, but also knows that the very best way to lose is to come between sisters, no matter how distant they are.
Bridget is six now and Shav had planned to use a Sabbatical in three months to look after the child. The mistaken impressions of that arrangement had caused a misapprehension Tony DiNozzo may never recover from - through the fault of no one but himself.
"So?"
He already knows Shav didn't want to ask this and decides to be merciful - for whatever reason it may be.
x
"Well, turns out Bill got a promotion on his job, senior something or other, but it requires them to move to Utah. They're going out to look at and open a house that comes with the job."
"Utah, huh?" He thinks he's got the gist of the overheard call and has worked out Shav's dilemma. "Pretty far away."
"Very far," she admits and he watches her spirit plummet.
"Won't be getting back to the East coast anytime soon, I guess."
"Guess not." Her tone has dropped from maudlin to bleak, not the direction he'd wanted it to go in.
He's surprised at her lack of pressing. "Then we probably won't look after little Bridget in October, will we?"
"No," she tells the stew bowl. "Not in October."
"Too bad."
"Yes," she says, sounding more forlorn than even a moment ago, probably feels whatever hopes she'd built up vanishing.
"Guess you'll miss them, seeing how the last time you saw them was the wedding." And she'd had a million things on her mind that day, probably hadn't spent more than an hour total with her sister and brother-in-law, none at all with their little niece, who'd been with a hired babysitter during the hotel Reception. March to July, four months; not a real lot of time far apart but if the prospect of extended (permanent?) separation is looming...
"Guess so," she admits, her mood down to crash and burn. Connecticut isn't next door, but it's not thousands of miles away. "Yes."
"When do they leave?"
"Saturday, the 4th."
"Two weeks." Now he understands why she'd been so upset with her sister. He gets up, ostensibly to go to the cupboard past her, then halts, turns back, sees her stare past his chair. "Shav, I have an idea. While they're getting a house in order, why don't you look after little Bridget for a few days?"
She turns in her chair, her face gleaming. "You don't mind?"
"Why should I mind? We were going to do it anyway in October. The patter of little feet, a la that e-mail that got Tony into so much trouble. You can even introdu–" She's out of her chair and the rest is silenced by her lips.
It's true what she'd told her sister; she never does have to buy his agreements; but he does feel that they have a great lay-away plan.
