Disclaimer etc see Chapter 1

Note: This chapter takes places three days after the preceding chapter. This chapter also covers a longer time span than most of the previous chapters. I hope this is not too confusing. As always thanks to D and M for their invaluable advice, and to everyone who has managed to come this far.

Victor Fitzgerald's office, FBI headquarters, Washington DC

December 17, 8.30 a.m.

"My secretary tells me that you have been waiting for two days. You have five minutes." Without a greeting, Victor Fitzgerald invited Jack into his office.

Not asked to sit down, Jack came straight to the point.

"I have information about the man who is responsible for commissioning the attempted murder of your son."

"We know who was behind the shooting. He's the same man who was behind the other murders—a drug dealer who goes by the aliases Liam Kendall and Markus Feldman. He is on the wanted list of both the FBI and the Interpol. The case is closed."

"You know as well as I do that it is no drug dealer who is behind that. A drug dealer wouldn't have gone to all that trouble. I think I know who might be behind this, but I need your help to get information."

"Tell me what you know." It was a start and more than Jack had hoped for. He had not expected Victor Fitzgerald to be willing to listen to what he had to say, but apparently he had misjudged him.

"Ten years ago, I was working for the Narcotics Unit in Los Angeles. The unit was led by Agent Ian Carlyle. I started to suspect that Carlyle was taking payment from drug dealers in exchange for making evidence disappear. I passed on this information to Internal Affairs and there was an investigation. There was never enough proof to warrant criminal charges, but nonetheless his reputation was tainted. He blamed me for ruining his career and had me transferred to another unit. "

"I don't see the connection to the case. Carlyle may have reason to dislike you, Agent Malone, but I highly doubt that he is the only one there. If that is all you have, then I was right—this was going to be a waste of my time," Victor interrupted him.

"A witness said that she had seen a man with a tattoo similar to that of Carlyle working together with Agent Robinson.

"Agent Robinson has not been implicated in any wrong doings whatsoever."

"We now have a witness, an FBI agent, claiming to the contrary. She clearly implicates Agent Robinson in the kidnapping and attempted murder of two agents.

Victor Fitzgerald was silent. It was clear that he had not heard of Samantha's statement. Bureaucracy was taking a while, even if the local police could be trusted to pass on her statement to the right people. And even if they did, there was still the question of the drugs' influence. Her testimony might not hold up in court based on the argument that she had been under the influence of drugs.

"I won't promise you anything, but I will look into it and see what I can do, after I have verified what you've told me."

Mercy Hospital, New York City

December 17, 9 a.m.

Another day, another tray of bland breakfast was standing in front of her. She eyed the food suspiciously, trying to figure out the best order in which to consume it. Not that the issue was a great importance but it was a task that would occupy her mind for a few minutes. She had few memories of the food they had been served in captivity. She seemed to recall sandwiches and soup at one point, but the impression was vague, mere fragments of recollection. Even though she had lost quite some weight, her appetite seemed to have diminished considerably. Never one for cooking, she certainly wasn't picky and ate pretty much everything—not quite on Martin's scale, but she was getting there. But as she scrutinized the food in front of her—orange juice, cereal with milk, and a small mass of something translucent orange with fruity looking pieces in it—all traces of hunger vanished.  Determined, she grabbed the spoon and went on to tackle the jiggle mass. The taste revealed itself to be bland and inoffensive. She then took another spoonful, then another. She needed to eat to regain her strength, she reminded herself. Otherwise, she would never get out of here. The truth was that getting discharged from the safe confines of the hospital scared her a bit. There was so much to deal with and she had no prior experience on how to get back to her life when nobody thought she'd ever come back—when, in fact, they assumed she was dead and gone for good. It could be worse; she still had her apartment. But it was not only the practical part, the prospect of settling back into a routine seemed nearly insurmountable, not to mention mending her personal relations. With Jack gone, she wasn't even sure where to begin. In the space of merely two weeks, the world seemed to have changed as if at least a decade had passed. And yet, it had all stayed the same; she just had not been around.  It seemed like the world had ceased to exist for two weeks while she had been gone from it.

The thought sent a chill through her body and she felt panic wallowing up inside her. She wasn't going to go there, she wasn't going to ponder this, return to the void in her mind where memories should be. She shook her head. No, it would only get worse. She moved the tray to her beside table. No way she could eat now; it felt like her stomach was balled up tight. As her physical health was slowly improving, her nerves were declining fast and her fear of what was awaiting her was rising. She lowered the head end of her bed, hoping to be able to doze away again. She had wanted nothing more than to get out alive when she had been awake in the basement, tied up, her body painfully protesting the harsh conditions. But now that she was safe, lying in a comfortable bed, a very different pain was haunting her—one for which she had no solution. It wasn't as easy as taking off the chains that were twisting her muscles. This was a different kind of darkness than the one in the cellar, and she didn't know whether it would end. She just wanted to sleep. Luckily her body was still craving rest and soon she found herself drifting to that strange place between dream and waking where the world only barley exists.

Martin had not planned on making this visit. He had wanted to visit Sam ever since he had heard that she had been found, but he had not managed to bring himself to actually do it. He didn't quite know how, partly because he had no idea how to react to her. He had not seen her since the shooting. There were so many conflicting feelings when he thought of her, that he simply didn't know what he should be thinking anymore. Then suddenly, this morning when he had been at the hospital for a check-up, he had decided to go and visit her. There wasn't much to it.  He had gotten her room number from Reception and then had taken the elevator up to the eighth floor. But that was where the easy part ended. Now that he was approaching her door, he became more and more aware of his own uncertainty, a feeling he decidedly did not enjoy.

He knocked, waited, but got no answer. He knocked again, and then carefully opened the door. Sam had her back turned to him, lying on her side, looking like she was sleeping. She needed her rest, and Martin was about to close the door, secretly relieved, when Sam pushed herself to a sitting position and turned around. Her expression changed from sleepy to surprised when she saw him. He was clearly the last visitor she had expected.

"Hi. I heard you were doing better. I thought I'd drop by, see how you were doing."

"Much better.  Come on in," she said.

He winced when he eased himself down in the chair. His recent injury was still painful. He had still quite a bit of recovering himself before he would return to work. Sam noticed his pain.  It was a reminder of what had happened and a reminder of what she had caused. He had been shot because she had failed at her job. She was supposed to watch his back and had been unable to react when it had been necessary.

"I'm sorry. I should never have allowed this to happen."

"Hey, Sam. That's not important now. It happened and there is nothing you can do to change it. You have more important things to concentrate on at the moment."

 He put his hand on her arm. She didn't even seem to notice. He didn't know the extent of what had happened. Since he had been on medical leave, things had fallen apart at work, and he had been out of the loop with regard to the case.  Most of what he knew he had learned from Danny. But facts weren't what mattered right now. He didn't regret that he had finally made up his mind. They had both needed this. Both carried their share of guilt. Sam felt guilty for her reaction in the field, and he felt guilty for having been angry with her. His anger had dissipated the moment she had gone missing, yet he still felt bad for having thought so in the first place, even if it was a perfectly untreatable reaction.

"If there is anything I can do, let me know."  Martin turned, his hand already on the door handle.

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

She had played the conversation with Martin a few times in her head.  The day after the shooting it had been on her mind constantly; every scenario she had explored had been filled with guilt.  She looked up. Her guilt would always linger, but she was relieved that Martin didn't hold blame. In fact, it surprised her, as she in his place would be angry about her irresponsibility. She was too tired to figure out the intricacies of this.

Mercy Hospital, New York City

December 17, 3 p.m.

Of all the people she had even vaguely considered as potential visors, she would never have thought that she would come and visit her. Yet, when she saw her in the doorframe, she was glad in a way. She had never thought that the sight of her mother could produce that reaction in her. She had considered all feelings towards family to have been dead for a long time.

"Samantha."

"Mom"

"They told me what happened. They said that you wouldn't come back, but then yesterday they called me, telling me that you were in the hospital."

"I'm happy to see you too." It was her voice, but she didn't know what made her say it. She had not talked to her mother for almost a year, since last Christmas to be exact. She wasn't even sure when she had last seen her, probably at her father's funeral, six years ago.

"Come in." Her mother hesitantly followed her invitation, taking a seat.

"Are you going to be okay?"

"Yes, my arm will heal. I'm probably getting out by the end of the week. But I'll have some physiotherapy before I get everything back to working order."

"Will you go back to that job?" her mother asked.

"I don't know. I honestly don't." There she had said it. What she had barely been able to admit to herself, she had told her mother, of all people.

"You do whatever makes you happy," her mother sighed.

Sam was surprised by the insight. That view was new. The next half hour floated by in harmless chatter.

They avoided all areas of conflict. Years of fighting had taught them which issues best to avoid. That reduced their conversation somewhat to the superficial, but being in each other's presence was what they needed right now. It might be too late to mend their relationship—too many years of hurt feelings and mistakes had passed—but they were still mother and daughter. Being distant from the people in her life, she still had spent 18 years with her mother.

"Bye, Sam. Be sure to phone sometime" They both knew that they wouldn't see each other for a long time. The gap between them would never be bridged. For the first time in years, this made Sam sad, but—in a way—happy as well. She had been given another chance to do things that she might have missed.

Sam sat on her bed, for the first time in weeks dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. Wearing normal clothes felt off, not only because she hardly ever got a chance to dress casually, but also because it had simply been a while. The fabric felt constricting to her, adding to her nervousness. Vivian had agreed to pick her up and drive her to her apartment

The hospital routine had sheltered her, kept her busy with visitations, physical therapy and even several group meetings, which she had attended—albeit silently. All those planned activities and visitors had kept her mind off thinking about what was going to happen next. The re-entry into normal life was what scared her. What was normal life? It would be a while before she could return to work and at the moment, the possibility that she would ever feel ready for it seemed remote.  Even just establishing her daily routine suddenly seemed daunting. She had not led a normal life for almost a month now. And even the weeks before she had been more pretending to live a normal life than really doing it. Her rational self told her that it was ridiculous. She had survived in an extreme situation, had acted rationally and calmly where most people wouldn't have. She had come back when everyone had given up on her already. Yet she was scared of going back to her normal, peaceful life. But it was also a lonely life, where her work was the central focus. With that part of the equation disappearing, everything would come out of balance.

~~five days later~

Hotel Costos, Washington DC

December 22, 10 a.m.

Even after the somewhat promising conversation with Victor Fitzgerald, jack had still had its doubts about whether he could really expect some help with his enquiry into Agent Robinson's background. Those doubts were erased when he had returned to the hotel after a walk and found a thick folder waiting for him at the reception. The folder contained copies of Agent Robinson's file, as well as of files of cases that Agent Robinson had investigated over the last two years. Jack wasn't sure whether he'd be able to find anything solid in there, but it was a start. It also gave him something to occupy his mind. As Christmas came closer, the sensation of missing his family grew daily. But returning wasn't a question. The last thing Hannah and Kate needed now were their parents fighting constantly and there was no question that this was exactly what would happen between him and Maria.

Samantha Spade's Apartment Complex

December 22, 1 p.m.

She had left Vivian at the corner, insisting to walk the last block to her apartment. She needed a little space. The busyness of the city seemed worse than ever, the noise making her head hurt. She had never been so acutely aware of the sheer number of cars and pedestrian population in the congested streets. It felt like she had been gone for years, instead just over one month. It suddenly occurred to her that she was lucky. Her mother had not sold her apartment, even though there had been practically no hope that she would come back. Vivian had brought her a backup key from her landlord. Her own key was gone; it had disappeared along with her clothes when they had been kidnapped. She stepped into the entrance hall, immediately noticing that the doorman was staring at her. Even in an anonymous place like this, rumours had probably reached her neighbours. And she didn't exactly look her best at the moment either. She tried to wear a confident smile as she passed the doorman and climbed up the stairs to her apartment on the second floor. She struggled with opening the door with just one hand, but then she stood in her apartment. The air was musty, but everything looked exactly like when she had left it. It was as if she had never been gone. But what impact had her disappearance had really? Her mother wouldn't have known if the FBI hadn't informed her. But even when she thought about it, she couldn't come up with anyone aside from her co-workers at the FBI who would have missed her. She had no close friends, and none of her occasional dates knew her well enough to miss her. She was just another anonymous face in the city—she went to work, she went to the gym, she went out to dinner and then she went home. What would have happened if she hadn't come back? Her mother would have sold her apartment, the FBI would have found a replacement for her and everyone would have moved on. And what had she come back to?  Her job to which she might never actively return. She sat down on the couch, suddenly devoid of all energy. It all seemed so bleak and hopeless. She sat there, not moving until long after night had fallen and darkness covered her apartment.