Chapter 19
Gibbs would never have guessed that Tim would pick a place like this to hide. The roads were passable, but there were still some piles of snow around in the middle of April, although they were rapidly melting if the mud and the puddles he could see everywhere were any indication. But still, he would not have thought Tim would pick northern Maine. ...although now that he thought of it, he didn't know where he would have thought Tim would go if he wanted to hide. Certainly not here.
He'd got lost following the GPS a couple of times, taking wrong turns and then struggling to turn around on the narrow roads. The mud on the sides looked ominous and his rented car probably would get stuck in an instant.
Finally, though, he thought he might be getting closer. At least the occasional house numbers were increasing. He hadn't passed a house in a while, though. Maybe he wasn't on the right road. Yet again.
Then, he passed a driveway before he'd realized it and he had to stop. Checking behind him, he carefully backed up until he was even with it. There was a dirt (or rather mud) driveway that went up a hill to a very small house. Parked beside it was an old Chevy Cavalier. Just like what Oliver had suspected Tim had been driving after selling his car. There were no tracks in the driveway. It appeared no one had been driving on it in a while, but Gibbs questioned whether or not his rental would make it. It looked very muddy and the hill was steep.
Rather than risk it, he pulled to the side as much as he dared and then got out and walked over. He stepped onto the driveway and his feet slid a bit. Yes, this was muddy. The rain that had been falling when he'd arrived the night before probably hadn't helped much. He'd never been to Maine before.
Quickly, he walked over to where there were trees growing thickly on the hill. Even if it was muddy, he could still use the trees to help him get up the hill.
And he needed them. He was rather impressed. An invading force would struggle with this approach. Oh, well. He could make it. If he fell in the mud, he supposed Tim could mock him for it.
It took a few minutes, but he managed to get up the hill and then over to the house that he now was sure belonged to Tim. Why this house and why here... well, Gibbs figured he could ask those questions. He walked to the front door and knocked. While he waited, he looked around. The house wasn't terrible, even if it was tiny. The view was actually beautiful. Maybe that was why.
No one came to the door.
He knocked again.
"McGee! It's Gibbs!"
He waited again.
Still no answer. The car didn't look like it had been driven in a while. There was nothing in walking distance.
Suddenly, Gibbs felt very worried. He knocked for a third time.
"McGee, if you don't open the door, I'm going to break in!"
If he was wrong and this house belonged to someone else, he was going to feel like an idiot, but right now, he didn't care about that. He didn't want to risk it, and Tim had been gone for so long. What if he'd come here for a specific reason? What if he'd come because he knew no one would look for him here and no one would know if he'd...
Gibbs checked the lock. It was a typical one. Nothing special about it, and he quickly picked the lock and then opened the door and hurried inside.
"McGee!" he called out, looking around the tiny space.
It seemed to be empty.
There was a narrow hallway and Gibbs hurried down it to a small bedroom.
No one there.
He looked in the bathroom.
No one.
He took a breath.
He wasn't finding a body. That was good.
But now, he had another problem. Where was Tim? If this was the house he'd purchased, where was he?
He walked back to the main room and his eyes tracked in on the typewriter sitting on a small table.
That was definitely Tim's typewriter. He walked over to it and saw a box of paper sitting on the floor beside the table. There was writing on it. Or rather typing.
He sat down and picked up a page.
And became even more worried.
All that was written on the page was one sentence. Over and over.
Abby is dead.
He picked up another page. The same thing.
Abby is dead.
Over and over.
The box was filled with pieces of paper that almost had all the same three words over and over again. There were so many pages in the box that it seemed that he now knew what Tim had been doing for the last ten months.
Sitting at this typewriter, typing the same sentence over and over again.
As he kept looking through the box, he found a page here and there that had other things on it, but they were simply variations of I'm a murderer or I'm guilty.
Why did I let Tim leave? Gibbs asked himself.
He could see Tim's state of mind and this didn't seem to be something he broken out of. He had condemned himself. When he had left that quote behind, it had meant even more than Gibbs had realized. It looked like Tim had suffered a total breakdown. And he had been alone all this time with no one to help him out.
He sat there for a while, looking at the evidence of Tim's mental state, worried that he was far too late, that he would have to tell Tim's parents the worst news.
He was worried that Landon had managed to claim one last victim.
His eyes kept going back to the pages Tim had typed.
Abby is dead.
He leaned on the table, resting his chin on his hand, not sure where to go from here. Just finding this place had seemed like a major success, but now, with Tim not here, even though it was obvious that this was where he'd been, for a long moment, Gibbs felt a little helpless, unsure of what to do. He had been ready to talk to Tim. He hadn't been ready for Tim to be missing even from the place he'd hidden.
Then, another horrible thought struck him and he stood up and left the house. He slipped and slid through the mud, looking through the trees for any sign of a body. He knew that Tim hadn't taken his gun with him since Gibbs had taken it after he'd shot Landon. That didn't mean he couldn't have got another one somewhere.
He searched the area for an hour before he gave up. There was no sign of Tim. Alive or dead. For all the time he'd spent not able to care, Gibbs could admit that, right now, he cared a lot. He had thought that coming up here would be the first step in letting things getting closer to normal. Tim would be here. They could talk. He'd come back. But now, Gibbs was getting more and more worried about where Tim might be, what state he might be in.
And part of it was that he knew, if Abby was alive, she would blame him. This was his fault. She might not be able to blame him for long, but she would... and she'd be right.
Gibbs stood there, looking around at the small house, the old car and the mud.
What did he do now?
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
"You killed me, Tim. How could you kill me? That's so mean! You're so stupid!"
Abby stood there, blood pouring from the places she'd been shot. The puddle of blood at her feet was getting larger and larger and she stood facing him, her expression accusatory.
"I can't believe you would kill me."
"I didn't!" Tim said. "Abby, I didn't. I didn't want this to happen!"
"If you didn't want it to happen, then, why did it? You were right there! You could have stopped him if you actually wanted to. You just wanted me to die! How cruel!"
"No, Abby! Please!"
Tim woke up in the night, shaking from the nightmare. He sat up in bed, trembling and he could feel the tears yet again. He tried to stop them. He was so tired of needing to cry.
He sat there, breathing irregularly, trying to calm down.
It just wasn't happening.
He managed to look at a clock. It was only three in the morning. He couldn't ask for help right now. He had caused enough trouble. He had to deal with it. Alone.
But the plain fact of the matter was that he could still hear Abby's accusations. It didn't matter that it was only a dream. What mattered was that he could hear them. He could hear Abby saying he had killed her. That was all that mattered.
And he was panicking again.
He had said he wouldn't hold it back, but he wasn't going to put this on anyone at three a.m.
He'd just have to deal with it until someone was awake.
He got out of bed and stumbled out to the main room. He couldn't remember where the light switch was and so he was walking in the dark, but he also couldn't remember where all the furniture was, and before he knew it, he ran into a table and caught his foot on the leg and then, he fell over, taking the table with him. There was the sound of breaking glass and Tim was lying on the floor, bruised and still panicking. He tried to get to his feet, but he still couldn't see anything and he cut himself on the glass.
Then, he heard the sound of a door opening and a light came on, momentarily blinding him.
"Tim, what happened?" Mark asked. "Oh, man."
Tim's vision cleared and he saw Mark looking extremely dismayed and worried.
"I'm... I'm sorry," Tim said. "I... It was... and..."
Mark sighed and shook his head.
"No, it's okay. Just stay where you are for a minute. Let me get the glass cleaned up."
Tim started to move to get out of the way again, but Mark stopped him.
"No, Tim. You're going to cut yourself again. Just stay put."
Tim looked at his hands and they were cut and bleeding. He looked around and saw the shattered lamp. The table was broken. And there he was sitting on the floor, the cause of it all.
With his panic and anxiety from the dream he'd had, his attempt to deal with it himself, and all the problems he still had, Tim couldn't handle one more thing being his fault. He started sobbing again, feeling both stupid and overwhelmed. He was such an idiot.
"Tim, it's okay. It's just a lamp," Mark said as he came in with a broom.
"I'm sorry. It's all my fault," Tim said. "It's me... and I shouldn't be here, ruining your life."
"You're not ruining my life," Mark said. "This is inconvenient, but you didn't mean to, and it's fine."
"No! It's not! It's all my fault! If I wasn't here..." Tim said, still crying. He was getting more and more wound up by what had happened. He closed his eyes and began hitting his forehead with the heel of his hands. "This is all my fault. I just ruin things. I destroy things."
Then, suddenly, Mark was pulling his hands down from his head.
"Tim, stop it. Take a breath. Just calm down. It's fine."
But Tim couldn't calm down. He was trying but he couldn't.
"Tim, it's okay."
"Can't... breathe," he gasped. "I can't... breathe..."
"Yes, you can. It's all right. Just take a breath."
"No... no..."
"Yes, it's okay. Let's get your hands cleaned up. That will help you feel better."
Tim shook his head, but Mark kept up a calm flow of words and Tim felt him carefully cleaning his hands where he'd cut them on the broken glass. Gradually, he started to calm down and by the time Mark finished, Tim felt like he could open his eyes.
Mark was there, looking at him worriedly.
"What happened, Tim? What were you doing?"
"I... I had a... a dream and... couldn't stay in bed. I was getting up and I didn't... couldn't see the table... and..."
"And you tripped. That's okay."
"No, it's not. I keep destroying things, and you're having me stay here and I'm destroying you, too!"
"No, Tim. It was just a lamp. It didn't mean anything to me. It wasn't an heirloom. It's okay that it got broken."
Tim shook his head again.
"Tim, you need help. More than I can give you. More than Harris can manage out here. Will you please let us get you the help you need?"
"No... I can't... I..."
"Yes, Tim. If a dream is bothering you this much, you need help dealing with it."
He shook his head again.
"Just let me go back to my house."
"No. I already told you. That's not happening. Not until you can handle it. And you clearly can't."
"Please."
"No," Mark said, firmly. "Tim, if you aren't willing to go, I can't force you, but please, think about it. You need help working through this stuff. I want to help you, but I don't know what to do, and you need someone who does."
Tim knew that Mark was right. This overwhelming feeling kept coming back, no matter what he did. He couldn't deal with it. He felt bad about making Mark deal with it...or rather he felt bad that Mark insisted on trying to deal with it. But going to a hospital meant that he might be brought into a state where he could get over it, and he shouldn't.
"Please, Tim. I know you don't want to do this, but would you please?"
"I don't want them to help me."
"I know you don't right now, but you'd really be helping me."
And that stabbed right through his determination. He knew he was making Mark's life a lot harder than it should be. He just couldn't seem to find an even keel ever since Mark had brought him to his house. He was trapped on a roller coaster and it never seemed to stop. It slowed down sometimes, but it never stopped.
He was still shaking. He covered his face with his hands.
Mark put an arm around him.
"Tim, it's okay. It really is, but I just want you to get better. If you won't do this for yourself, how about you do it for me for now?"
And with that, Tim had to nod. He didn't want to. He hated the very idea of it. Part of him was screaming no.
But he nodded.
"O-Okay," he whispered.