Hold on to your hats; it's a long one, folks.
She'll sing above the blast and the clothing singed by fire.
She'll sing above the black smoke rising from the funeral pyre.
-Laura Viers, "Nightingale."
Gibbs was surprised to wake up in his own bed on Monday morning. There had been no nightmares, no tantrum, no vomiting in the wee hours. The sliver of sky he could see through the blinds was orange and someone was brewing coffee. He threw his legs out of the bed and instantly regretted both rounds of badminton against Abby. He'd won, but barely.
Jackson was downstairs, sipping his second cup of coffee and perusing the morning's paper. He barely glanced up from the sports page when his son appeared.
"The Sox beat Baltimore last night, but that's no surprise. The baby up yet?" He'd taken to calling Sara the baby. Leroy, he'd ask, did you give the baby some chicken? Will the baby need a booster seat? Does the baby like salad? Put a sweater on the baby—the sun's going down.
"No," he grunted.
Jackson nodded. "Baltimore plays Pittsburgh tonight. I'll go to the supermarket for steaks and beans. You want anything else?"
Gibbs shook his head, mouth full of coffee. He actually needed a lot of things—most of them for Sara—but he needed to take the lists the nutritionist had provided. He needed to compare labels and ingredients, the nutritional values, the calorie content. While she would—and did—eat most anything, he was careful to provide the food best suited to her needs.
"I'm taking her to HSC at nine. We should be home after lunch. Maybe we should go down to the park for an hour when we get home."
Jackson just nodded and picked up the local section.
. . . .
"Ok, Sara. One more time."
Sara was on her back on a colorful play mat, knees bent. Julie and Adjoa were helping her roll gently from side to side. Gibbs' job was to hand her a soft foam ball each time she faced him, and, when turned away, she was to toss it into a basket. Almost every throw had been a success and Adjoa confided in him that she was pleased with her hand-eye coordination.
Julie decided to up the ante and held out a big round ball.
"Hold on, Sar. Let's put this between your knees and try again. Can you squeeze it?"
"Ok," she complied easily enough, but Julie frowned and put both hands on the outside of Sara's legs.
"Squeeze with both legs, Sar," she instructed.
"Squeezin' it," Sara insisted, but Julie's frown only deepened. Setting the ball aside, she rotated both of Sara's hips in their sockets and straightened her legs, running her hand down her upper legs and over her knees. Anxiety bloomed in Gibbs' chest.
"What's going on?" He demanded. His tone was light but deadly serious.
"There's weakness on Sara's left side. How many hours went by before she was treated?"
His heart sank. Adjoa slid closer to Sara's face and presented her with a hand-held jigsaw puzzle. It was better to keep he busy while the adults talked.
"We can only guess, but the minimum is eight hours."
Julie and Adjoa noticed the collective pronoun and shared a glance that Gibbs couldn't identify.
"You think something is wrong because it took so long to get medical attention?"
Julie shrugged. "It's possible. Dislocated joints can cause permanent disability if not treated promptly. If she went that long it's feasible that she sustained some nerve damage. I'd like to schedule and MRI for tomorrow morning."
"Dr. Levine mentioned that she might need follow-up operations after the fixator is removed."
"And she still could," Adjoa interjected. "If her pelvic ring doesn't close properly it can cause other problems. Right now we're just worried about mobility and sensation on the left side."
Sara solved the puzzle and held it out to Adjoa, then rolled her eyes upwards at Gibbs. She held out her hand to him.
"S'ok, Daddy," she soothed. "S'ok. Doesn't hurt."
Julie left momentarily and returned with a small wooden stick. She poked Sara's left side and leg with it, starting just below the fixator and moving downward.
"Can you feel this? And here? Here?"
Sara nodded each time, only hesitating once when Julie poked a spot just above her kneecap. When Gibbs raised his eyebrows, Julie shrugged him off.
"It's very minor sensation loss. We'll just keep an eye on it. I'm more worried about the weakness on that side. I paged Dr. Levine; he's on his way down."
Julie whisked off to make some notes in the paperwork, and Adjoa put a hand on his arm. "The MRI is painless but they'll sedate her."
Gibbs nodded. "I know what an MRI is," he grunted, "I just feel like every time we see Levine he's telling me she's going to be disabled. She has special needs—I get it. Why are we wasting so much time with bureaucratic nonsense?"
Adjoa shrugged. "I get your frustration. But there are so many layers to this—Sara, you, Julie and me, Dr. Goldman, Dr. Levine, and whatever specialist he calls in to help. Then there are the social workers, MedicAid, and the District. We need to go up the chain of command in order to get her properly treated and the treatments subsidized." She scooped Sara off the mat.
"Here, hold your little girl," she instructed, and shifted her gently into his arms. His frustrations melted away and Sara placed her hand on his cheek, smiling her wry half-smile up at him.
"Daddy," she whispered theatrically. "S'ok."
. . . .
Dr. Levine asked Gibbs to lay Sara on an exam table in the therapy room and drew the curtain closed to give them some privacy. He started by examining the fixator, then rolled her hips inward and outward before flexing her knees and ankles. Placing her left foot in the palm of his hand, he instructed Sara to push. She looked at Gibbs, who nodded.
"Go ahead, Sara," Dr. Levine prodded. "Push against my hand."
"Am pushin'," she countered. Nothing happened.
Dr. Levine went to her right foot, placing his palm against the sole and repeating the instructions. Sara didn't hesitate and sent his hand back against his chest.
"Gibbs said you told him your other leg doesn't hurt. Is that true, Sara?"
She nodded. "S'ok. Doesn't hurt."
"Does it hurt when you tried to push against my hand?"
She shrugged. "Liddle."
"Where?"
She pointed to her left hip and then moved her finger down to about mid-thigh.
"Down here?" Dr. Levine questioned, tracing her path with his own finger. "In a line?"
She nodded and reached for Gibbs' hand.
He looked to Gibbs, too. "The MRI should be able to tell us more. This isn't uncommon given how long it was between injury and treatment. It's fixable."
Gibbs blanched, not believing him. "How?"
"PT," Dr. Levine countered easily. "It works wonders with kids, really. If not, we can take donor nerves from her back and implant them in her leg. The surgery is harder with kids than adults, but the results are better and faster. They're bodies are so much more capable of healing than ours. The MRI will be at GW tomorrow morning. Can you be there by nine? They'll want to sedate her and run contrast, so allow extra time."
. . . .
Ziva clutched her pen hard and tried not to growl. Morales and Nachshon, the Metro PD detectives on Sara's case, had come by to ask for Godwin's files. As he was discharged personnel, the military tribunals were not willing to see his case. Luckily, he could still be prosecuted in civilian courts. Ziva was furious; she'd wanted every chance she could take to make his life hell.
"Ya all right over there, David?" Tony asked, chewing messily on a sandwich. Lunchtime found them both at their desks still. "It's not a big deal. And if they can get him on the Endangerment charges it'll add a year to his sentence."
She swallowed in an attempt to get control of her anger. "I am fine, Tony," she snarled, "I am simply disappointed that I no longer have the opportunity to make Godwin suffer."
He snorted. "Keyman's still available. Want him?"
She bristled. They'd visited Abby this morning about some evidence they found in Hazelbaker's rack, and she'd had lab reports from Sara's SAE kit next to her computer. The semen came back as Keyman's, also a set of fingerprints found with infrared film. She'd already packed up Godwin's evidence kit and sent it via bike messanger to the Southeast Metro precinct. I don't like this, she'd said curtly. But I want him to suffer for what he did to her.
"No," she fired back. "I don't want Keyman. I want another inmate to want him."
Tony stopped chewing and stared. He knew the case was upsettin, but he had no idea that she was capable of wanting such violence revisited upon him.
"Ziva," he said quietly. She wouldn't look at him, but ground the tip of her pen into her desk blotter, knuckles white, face drawn.
"Ziva," he repeated. "Look at me, please."
She dragged her gaze upward, eyes hollow. "I hope he rots, Tony. I hope terrible things happen to him. I hope his sense of safety is degraded more every day."
Tim had been watching the whole exchange with an open mouth, pretending to hack into the DEA database for names and addresses around Godwin's home in Southeast. He shuddered at Ziva's final words and gave himself away. Both Tony and Ziva pinned him with glares.
"I…uh," he stammered. "I'm just going to head out on some errands. I'll be back before my lunch break ends. Take care, you two." He waved feebly and grabbed his piece and car keys.
"See ya, Elf Lord," Tony echoed, still staring as Tim rang for the elevator and disappeared behind it's closing doors. He turned back to Ziva.
"When's your appointment with the therapist?"
She flushed red. "Tony. I don't need you to amplify that information. If Vance finds out he'll pull me off the case."
"Maybe he should."
Her ire rallied again and she had to blow out a breath to keep from strangling him. "I need to be on this case, Tony. I cannot think of taking time off right now. I would go mix-crazy."
"Stir crazy," he corrected, and softened his tone. "I just want you to be healthy, Zee-vah." He tore his gaze away from her and studied his computer screen intently. "I just want you to be happy," he amended softly, and added under his breath, "with me."
She stared for a long time, twisting the remains of the ball-point in her fingers.
"I can be happy with you," she called quietly. "But I need to have a purpose. This is it. For now. Please be patient."
He smirked sadly. "Waited this long, haven't I?"
. . . .
Tim got to Gibbs' house before he and Sara returned from HSC. Jackson was out, so he settled in with his find and assembled it quickly. He was about to place the bow on top and leave when the door opened and Gibbs walked in, carrying a sleeping Sara.
"The hell you doin', McGee?"
Tim didn't backpedal or apologize. "I saw how poorly Sara's wheelchair handled in the backyard, so I thought this would be better for uneven terrain."
In front of him was a heavy-duty jogging stroller, the handle already adjusted for Gibbs' height. The front wheel was fixed—perfect for jogging—and the tires were pneumatic and looked like they could handle any off-road terrain Gibbs could find in the tri-state area. He took one look at it and planned a trip to the mountains in western Maryland. Perhaps a weekend hiking getaway would be good for them.
"Well," he mustered gruffly. "Thanks, Tim. This thing must've cost a ton. Where did you find the money for this?"
"A college friend of mine bought it for his son but his wife got pregnant before they could use it. They bought a double of the same model in the spring. He didn't charge me anything—just wanted the storage back."
Sara woke up then, startled when Gibbs fell silent and the rumbling in his chest disappeared.
"Whazzat?" She asked fuzzily, frowning sleepily up at Tim.
"It's so you and I can go for hikes together," Gibbs replied smoothly. "Can you say 'thank you' to Tim?"
"Than'youTim," she parroted, dozing again.
"You're welcome, Sara. Here, let's try it out."
Gibbs lowered her into the seat and Tim made adjustments for her size, shortening the straps and the footrest. Sara tugged at the sun shield and found she could pull it down to hide all but her feet.
"Nice," she said from under it, voice muffled by the long visor.
Gibbs smiled. "Got your own little hideout there, huh?"
She didn't respond and a peek through the window flap revealed she'd fallen asleep again.
Tim held out a paper booklet. "Here are the instructions. They'll tell you all about how the accessories work. And here's the bug shield and rain shield." He held out two flat packages. Photos and a diagram on the covers demonstrated how they worked.
"Did it come with a motor?" Gibbs pondered, checking out the storage and cupholders. "Damn thing looks like it should come with at least twelve horses."
"No, but you won't need it. It's remarkably light and comfortable. My buddy says his kids fall asleep in it all the time. They even use it to travel—it folds easily."
Gibbs sat back on his heels and looked at Sara for a long time. "Thanks, McGee. Seriously."
Tim blushed. "It's nothing, Boss. Really. After reading that study from Harvard I just wanted to do something about it. This will just increase your opportunity for bonding time." He checked his watch. "Damn. I gotta go."
"Get back to work," Gibbs growled without malice. Tim waved and was gone.
. . . .
Sara slept away the afternoon and Gibbs puttered with his boat, relying on the baby monitor to tell him when she woke. Another gift from Tim, it allowed him to be in the basement while Sara slept.
The doorbell started him and he cursed aloud when the planer slipped and nearly skinned his left thumb. Tossing it down, he picked up the wireless monitor and jogged up the stairs.
Detectives Morales and Nachshon were at the door, each holding a fat file folder and a cup of coffee. A third one rested in a carrier for him.
"Afternoon, Agent Gibbs." Morales greeted. "We need to speak to Sara; NCIS just relinquished Godwin's case. According to information from Agent David, we have additional charges we can file against him if Sara provides corroborating testimony."
"She's asleep," he challenged and motioned at them with the monitor.
"This is urgent," Nachshon offered the coffee. "The judge wants all charges to be filed ASAP so jury summons can be sent."
His eyebrows went up. "That fast?"
"It's a hot case," Morales professed. "The phones lit up the minute it hit the scanners. Apparently Godwin is pretty infamous around Southeast. Got at least two eyewitness reports of him abusing Sara."
Gibbs shook his head and finally allowed them entrance. Both women nodded their gratitude.
"Have a seat," he waved an arm at the living room. "And I'll get her up. But no promises. We've had a long day; if she's not up to talking then you're out. Additional charges be damned."
Sara was awake when he pushed open the bedroom door, and staring quietly out the window. The top of the elm tree rustled quietly in the breeze. She tore her eyes away and gave him her vague half-smile.
"Polices," she said quietly.
He was puzzled. "Did you hear them downstairs?"
She shook her head. "Them's talking to me sleeping."
"They were talking to you in your sleep?"
She nodded and brushed her hair out of her eyes. He sat her up and re-fastened the swath that protected her shattered collarbone, smoothing the wrinkles out of her slept-in dress.
"Well they're here now and want to talk to you about Mr. Godwin. Are you okay with that?"
Sara's eyes darkened but she nodded resolutely and jutted her chin upward. "Him is in jail," she challenged.
He smiled, unable to help himself and glad the reassurances were settling in. "Yes," he agreed. "He is in jail and he is going to stay there for a long time."
. . . .
A quick stop in the bathroom and they were down the stairs, seated together on the couch.
"So Sara," Morales began, "Did Mr. Godwin ever take you anywhere."
Sara nodded. "Yes."
"Where?"
"Party." Sara pulled a face, indicating that it was not the kind of party a child would be happy to attend.
"Where was this party?"
"A house. S'dark. And bad people on the floor."
"What were those people doing on the floor?"
"Probably dead or sleepin.' Them doing drugs."
Gibbs was impressed with the clarity of Sara's voice and tone. She was working hard to speak clearly, to answer the questions directly.
"Do you know what drugs are, Sara?"
She nodded. "Yeh. Drugs is bad things. You do them and then you go dead. Like all the people at the party. They do drugs and deaded."
"Did Mr. Godwin have drugs, Sara?"
"Yes." She was nodding. "Yes. Him having drugs and putting them for money."
"So he was giving people drugs and they were giving him money?"
"Yes."
"And did he give you any drugs, Sara?"
She nodded and Gibbs just about put his fist through the living room wall
"S'ok, Daddy," she said, and rubbed his arm. The detectives melted under their sharp gazes. Turning back to them, she resumed her answers.
"Him gived me them and I give them to 'nother man and he took needles and he put…" she trailed off, but demonstrated, far too accurately, how a person would shoot narcotics.
"So they put the drugs in their arms, Sara?"
"Yeh."
"Did any of those people hurt you, Sara?"
Sara closed her mouth with an audible click and allowed her gaze to wander the room. Gibbs allowed her to disengage for a moment, then jostled her. "Did they hurt you, sweet pea?"
She turned back to him, eyes wet. "Mad at me."
Detective Nachshon piped up. "Who hurt you, Sara?"
She fidgeted. "They telling Mr. Godwin and he…" She lost focus again and her thumb traced an arc around her mouth. Righting herself, she tucked her hand under her sling and looked at Nachshon. "He taked his belt and hitting."
"So the other people got upset with you and told Mr. Godwin, and he took off his belt and hit you with it?"
"Yes." Sara replied testily. "Him was hitting me and then the dead people came and pulled my arms."
Gibbs frowned. "So some of the people held your arms while Godwin hit you?"
"Yes," she snapped again. "Pulling my arms. Then I threw up. Like before Papa came."
Nachshon jumped, grabbed the files, and flipped through Sara's SAE photographs, pulling the photos that highlighted the deep bruises below the epidermis—invisible to the naked eye without infrared film. She held them close to her face and scowled.
"I want to get these to the crime lab, have them checked for needle marks. Did any of her blood tests come back positive for narcotics?"
Gibbs shook his head. "Not that I know of. And if I find out she did have drugs in her system and no one told me then I'll have a lot to talk about with the hospital staff and Susan McNamyre."
"The residuals are probably gone by now, but have her checked out anyway. Are you going to the doctor soon?"
"MRI tomorrow morning, but I can have my lab check her tonight."
Morales hemmed, wanting all evidence to be collected by Metro PD agencies. "Agent Gibbs, I'm sure the doctor…"
His eyes hardened. "If there were or are narcotics in her system, my lab will let yours know within twenty-four hours. And then you will be responsible for bringing these people to justice. And that involves a little face-time with me. Understood?"
Both detectives nodded mutely.
"Now I promised Sara we would go to the park with her grandfather."
The detectives saw themselves out.
Gibbs and Sara sat together on the couch until Jackson returned from his errands. He took one look at his son's stricken face and dropped his supermarket bags.
"What happened?"
"Metro was just here, getting a statement from Sara. They want a blood sample." He choked up and Jackson crossed his arms over his barrel chest. "Drugs," he managed, checking his fury.
"I'll call Ducky and put this stuff away. Put her in that contraption. We're going to the park before dinner."
Sara lit up, unphased, for now, about what transpired over the course of the interview.
"Park, Daddy?"
"Park, sweet pea. You can swing on the swings while Papa and I talk."
She put a stern hand on his cheek. "You don't let go, Daddy. Ok?"
"Absolutely not, my little bird. If I let go you would fly away."