Disclaimer etc see Chapter 1

Hotel Costos, Washington DC

December 23, 6.20 a.m.

Jack rubbed his eyes. His neck and back were sore. Only now, he realized that he had fallen asleep slumped over his desk. He had been reading files until late into the night, making copious notes of anything that stood out to him. There was plenty to suggest that Agent Robinson was dirty, but that he had known already. While a court might reject Samantha's testimony, he believed that Agent Robinson had indeed murdered Agent Rita Severin and then disguised his crime as a suicide. The forensic report of the crime scene and the autopsy transcript only confirmed his suspicions. The report was brief. The cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head, but there was no mention of whether gunpowder residues had been found on the victim's hands. Only her prints had been on the gun, but that proved nothing. The angle of the bullet's trajectory was straight, but again that didn't tell him anything. Aside from Samantha's statement, there was nothing to suggest that Agent Robinson had murdered Rita Severin. He had no idea what Danny had told the police about what happened the night Rita Severin died. There was nothing about that in the file. There was only a copy of the preliminary statement he had given while in the hospital, and it mentioned only very few details. Jack sighed. This was getting him nowhere. He needed to take a more direct approach if he wanted to get Robinson and, more importantly, the people behind the scheme. There was no proof whether Agent Robinson had simply left because he was afraid that the investigation would uncover his secrets or whether he had been made to disappear just like Danny and Samantha.

Jack got up from his chair, stretching his stiff body. The holidays were drawing close; if he wanted to get something done with the investigation, he had to move soon. This was not an urgent enough matter for anyone to leave their Christmas celebrations.

Samantha Spade's Apartment, New York City

December 23, 9.15 a.m.

The next morning, Samantha woke up later for the first time since her return from the hospital. She couldn't recall any dream, which relieved her. She knew that she still had a long way to go, but the world did look better after a good night of rest. She had just gotten up and made herself coffee and a sandwich, when the doorbell rang. She wasn't expecting anyone and the person she spotted through the spy hole was the last person she ever expected to show up on her doorstep. It was Maria, Jack's wife. She had never met her personally, but recognized her from the pictures in Jack's house and in his office. Curious, but also alarmed and somewhat guilty, she opened the door. The appearance of Maria already put her in the position of the bad guy. She had slept with a married man. Maria was the wife, and she automatically had the moral high ground.

"Hello, you must be Maria Malone?" Sam tried to start off on a friendly note, suspecting that it might turn a lot uglier later on. But immediately after she'd said it, it occurred to her that addressing her by name was not such a good idea. If she had no personal interest in Jack, she probably wouldn't recognize her, or at least not recall her first name. But to her relief, Maria either didn't notice of didn't catch her on it.

"Yes. Samantha Spade?"

Sam nodded, wondering how exactly Maria had found her. "I wanted to talk to you about something, but if this is a bad time…" she trailed off.

"No, no, come in." Sam was still trying to figure out what game was being played here. She had no idea what Jack had told his family about what he was off to do. He had been rather cryptic in his letter to her.

They took their seats in her living room on opposite sides of the coffee table. Sam waited for Maria to begin. She had opened the game; it was her task to make the first move here.

"My husband phoned me to tell me that he had to leave for a while regarding a case. Since I didn't even get to hear from him that he had been fired, I was wondering whether you know where Jack is." The accusation was clear.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know where he is. He didn't tell me anything."

"Now that is interesting. It all started when you disappeared. Jack started acting strange…not just at home. He was suspended from work too because of it. He didn't tell me; he just rented a small apartment and moved out. In the beginning he called at least every night to say goodnight to the girls, but then he stopped doing that as well. I was about to report him missing when Agent Johnson told me the whole story. And now he is gone again. I think you know why."

"What do you want me to say? That I'm happy that he's gone? But I'm not going to say it. I don't know where he is or what he is doing."

"He went off because of you. He left his daughters without telling them anything. Why? Because you're more important to him."

"That is not true. I don't know why Jack did what he did. But he clearly isn't here for me either. I don't know anything more than you do. Do you really think that this is just a game?" Sam started to get what Maria had been assuming. It was preposterous, but a small part of her actually wished that it were true.

"Here, this is all I know." She fished the letter—which she must have read a thousand times—from the drawer in her desk. She tossed the piece of paper over to Maria. She didn't want her to read it but she had to. She didn't know why, but the urge to defend herself to a woman she had no responsibility to was overwhelming. She was angry with herself for it, angry with Jack for having left and having put her into this position, guilty about having caused all of this, and angry with herself because she felt guilty over something that had not been her choice. It was all upside down in her head, getting more unbearable by the second. She took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure—at least for a moment. She needed to be alone now.

"Please leave." Her voice was surprisingly calm considering how she felt.

Maria looked at her, a mix of resentment and something else on her face. She silently got up, put the letter back on the table and left.

Hotel Costos, Washington DC

December 23, 10 a.m.

Jack had returned from a brisk walk. He had hoped to clear his head, but it didn't seem to have helped much. He needed someone to talk with about this. Normally there was always Samantha and the team to go over matters, to discuss ideas. Now, he was all alone in this. He needed to figure this out by himself.

There, it hit him. This was a personal thing, so chances were good that he would be able to draw out Agent Carlyle, get him to make a mistake. Carlyle was out for revenge and so far he had gotten what he wanted.  He had pushed Jack to the limit and had got him into a situation where he had been bound to make mistakes. Carlyle had no reason to come out of hiding. His plan had worked well enough. He had to do something to convince him that it hadn't—that he had not had his revenge.

Samantha Spade's Apartment, New York City

December 23, 10.30 a.m.

She rarely cried; she hadn't shed tears during her captivity nor afterwards, but now it all seemed to come crashing down at once. Everything had come unravelled somehow. Her life was in shambles and she couldn't see any way to sort it out, no matter how much she willed herself. It was hopeless. She couldn't work, she couldn't think. Restless, she got up and started to pace. She needed air, but the idea of leaving her apartment was even scarier than the prospect of being trapped inside, unable to come to a rest. She sat back down on the couch. It was paradox. She knew that it was simply a reaction to what she had been through, and it was normal for her to react that way. The meltdown would have come eventually; Maria had just been a catalyst. But her emotions were beyond reasoning, no matter how much she tried telling herself that she just needed to calm down. She couldn't take it anymore. She grabbed her coat, not even bothering to try to put her left arm though the sleeve and hurried downstairs into the street. Her hands were shaking, and she had no idea where she was going, but she needed to get away. Blindly she hurried along the street.  The noise was hurting her…it was all too fast…she had to keep going. It was raining, and soon her clothes were drenched. She couldn't breathe…she had to slow down. Her knees were shaking…she had to sit down. She collapsed onto a bench. She had no idea where she was, probably Central Park. How far had she walked? She didn't know. Slowly her racing mind was calming down, decreasing its frantic peace. Her surroundings started coming into clearer focus as order returned to her thoughts. She didn't quite know what happened. A panic attack? Probably. It scared her. It had felt so real:  the fear, the feeling of going crazy, of it all unravelling. She felt shaken and suddenly shivered from the rain and the cold. She started to feel the wet clothes against her skin. In spite of the discomfort, it took her a long while before she finally got up and slowly started walking, making her way back home. She didn't know how long it took, how far she had walked. After what seemed like a timeless eternity, she unlocked the door to her apartment. She took a shower and put on dry clothes.  As her body started to warm up, the entire experience receded to being like a weird nightmare. It seemed unreal, like it had been someone else and not her. In fact, she had always thought that things like that—mental problems—happened to other people, and not to her. Knowing that this was false didn't change anything. The experience had left her numb, as if her capacity for emotion had been exhausted for the day. The hours of walking wore her out physically as well—an added bonus, as she thought cynically. That way she might be able to go the bed early for a change, as a contrast to staying up until the early morning hours, like she had done on the past few days since her release from the hospital.

tbc