Disclaimer etc see Chapter 1 Samantha Spade's apartment, New York City

December 24, 9.45 a.m.

Soreness greeted her. It was the first sensation as she stirred, somewhere in the realm between dream and waking.

 Her entire body felt as if she had run a marathon. For a moment she was actually considering that possibility, but then she recalled the frantic walk of the previous day. In memory it seemed even more remote and unreal than before. She sat up in bed, trying to find herself between the lingering images of a dream she hardly recalled, but could still feel and the challenges of the real world. Don't panic…take it slowly, she coached herself, the experience still vivid.  It was Thursday—physiotherapy at the hospital, and she also needed to go grocery shopping. What else? Dinner with Vivian. She had almost forgotten about that.  Nothing too bad. She should be able to manage; she would manage she told herself.  Yet the doubts were still there and would follow her every step of the way, all day, wherever she went. The fear of a repetition of the panic attack was there. It was classic: fear of fear.  She had read about that. But like everyone, she had never believed it would happen to her. She was trained to handle difficult situations. Panic attacks were for other people—those who couldn't handle life—but not her. Determined she got up, immediately reminded by her sore muscles how much things had changed. The loss of strength during her captivity was just one symptom of the physical damage she had taken. Getting her strength back would take a while, but there was no question that she would.  But would she ever feel the same again?  The answer to that question was much harder to find and she was not even sure she wanted to know. It was too early and she wasn't ready to deal with the what-ifs. Getting physically back on track was the first priority, she decided, as she got ready for the day.

If she ever wanted to go back to work, a visit to the Bureau's counselling services was mandatory. She knew she would have to go and see her eventually.  Right now, she was still on leave to recover physically. Her leave would take another few weeks at the least, depending on the opinions of her doctor.  According to her physiotherapist, however, getting her strength back would take two to three months. He hadn't made any prognosis yet about recovering full mobility on her arm. The fact that the fracture had been untreated for two weeks had invited a host of problems.

She toyed with the white card. It was made out of thick, white paper. It was plain, stating name, job title, telephone number, office location and hours. The edge was creased.  She flattened it out, bent it and flattened it again. She knew that the moment she dialled the number, she would have to concede that she couldn't handle it alone, that she couldn't cope on her own. That's what the counselling service was for, she reminded herself. Vivian had given her the card when she had picked her up from the hospital. She had not said a word about it, but had silently handed it to her. Since then it had been sitting on her countertop. Even before the episode in the park, she had considered calling to make an appointment, but had been merely toying with the idea. Since then, she had experienced herself how deep the consequences of her experience ran.  But she felt that she had to justify herself. Somehow the gravity of her experience seemed unreal. She had hardly any recollection of what had happened. She hadn't been tortured or gravely physically hurt.

Even her dreams were filled with reconstructed images because the drugs had prevented all the actual memories.  Drugs like that—often called date rape drugs—interfered with brain chemicals and prevented memories from forming. As far as her brain was concerned, it had never happened. She only knew of those events from what others had told her. She didn't know how to deal with demons that weren't there.

It was ironic that after the shooting, Jack had wanted her to see a therapist. She had resisted, honestly believing that she didn't need one. But it was so much different now. She had been able to deal with the shooting because it was something tangible, but her imprisonment eluded her, didn't exist in her memory, and she didn't know how to deal with that.

In any case, any decision about work could wait until after the holidays. Celebration was the last thing she was in the mood for. Although, objectively seen, Danny and she had gotten improbably lucky, she didn't feel lucky at all. She didn't know what she felt and that was what was driving her insane. She didn't know how to deal with it all and now she had to figure out what to do with herself over the holidays, which were often hard on single people. She felt trapped in her life. Work had never allowed for much free time, so she had never made any close friends in New York City, except the people she worked with. There, she had an idea. She searched in her address book, and then dialled the number.

"Hey Danny, it's Samantha. I hope I didn't wake you or anything."

"No, no. I've been up for a while."

"I was wondering whether you would have dinner with me today." Samantha hoped that Danny didn't mistake this for an invitation to a date. But in contrast to Martin, Danny had never shown any romantic interest in her.

"Sure."

Il Parioli, New York City

December 24,

Dinner had gone well.  Getting out of her apartment and being with people was doing her good and distracted her. She and Danny talked about their plans for the holidays, the weather and other superficial subjects. They had avoided talking about what had happened. In a way, it felt good to be normal again. She hadn't felt this normal in a long time. Still, something was tugging at her. By the time they were waiting for dessert, Samantha finally dared to ask the question that had been on her mind all the time

"How much do you recall?"  She anxiously watched how Danny took it.

"Nothing. The last thing I recall doing was searching Liam Kendall's house in the countryside. After that there is just a blank. The next thing I remember is us being in the woods freezing, but that's just there in pieces. I remember that it was cold and that I kept falling. But that's about it. I think I'm glad that I don't recall anymore. It makes it easier to forget if you don't remember in the first place."

"I keep getting those flashbacks. I won't get all the memories back, but I recall quite a bit about what happened." Samantha paused, not sure whether she should talk about it. Danny apparently didn't want to know. She didn't blame him. It was his way of dealing with what had happened. She wished she could just ignore it as well.

"Have you talked to the police?"

"Yes, I told them what I know, but whether it will be enough to do any good in court one day isn't sure yet. They have to catch someone first and I don't think they ever will."

Danny nodded. He didn't seem upset about the prospect. Part of Samantha also wished that there would never be a trial. She had been a witness at trials and knew how painful it was for the victims to testify to their experiences. She didn't want to have to go though that ever, even if it meant that justice wouldn't be done. She knew that this was the wrong attitude, but she couldn't help her feelings.

Danny jerked her from her thoughts.

"Do you have any plans about going back to work yet?"

"No, not yet. I don't think I'll go back for a while. I just don't feel up to it right now. What about you?"

"Well, at the moment I'm still on leave; after that I'll go back and do desk duty. I have no idea when I'll get re-certified for the field.

Samantha Spade's apartment, New York City

December 25, 3 p.m.

Samantha was aimlessly sitting on the couch, watching TV when the phone rang.

"Samantha, it's Jack."

"Jack, are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine, but I need your help with something. I'm in Washington and I think I know who is behind your kidnapping— Carlyle, an agent I used to work with. He has a grudge against me, blames me for ruining his career. He has the right connections and it fits the MO. This has been personal against me from the start. I think I can get him to make a mistake by drawing him out in the open. He must believe that we're still on the case. That's what I need your help for."

"Jack, you're making a mistake. You don't have any proof, but if Carlyle is really behind this, all you'll do is get yourself killed. I'm sorry, but I can't help you. Please, think about what you're doing," Samantha said. It hurt her to decline Jack's plea for help, but it was the only sane thing to do. Although she shared his feelings and wanted to bring those criminals to justice as much as he did, she saw that Jack was in over his head. Maria had not been wrong when she had told her about Jack's strange behaviour. He needed to step back from the case and take a break. He was no longer able to work objectively. He was starting to take too many risks.

"I'm doing this for you and Danny and all the other victims of those bastards. I thought you understood."

"I understand that you want to bring them to justice, and so do I, but not like this. Not if it means getting yourself killed in the process. You have a family who needs you," Samantha pleaded with him.

"Jack, I won't get caught up in this again. I can talk to Victor Fitzgerald with you again, but that's it. Maybe you can't win this one." Samantha hung up. It was painful, but less so than the alternative. She had done all she could. If Jack wouldn't listen to her, she couldn't force him. Torn between anger and guilt, she restlessly cleaned up her apartment. She didn't immediately realize it, but when she started to look for a suitcase, she knew what she was doing. She had really known since she had talked about it with Danny. She needed to get away, to gain distance and the calm to make sense of it all.

~two days later~

Samantha Spade's Apartment, New York City

December 27, 6 a.m.

The twinge of regret was undeniable, but it was small compared to the relief she was feeling now that she had finally forced herself to make the decision. There were still fleeting doubts flashing up in her mind, causing her to ask herself whether she has really made the right choice or whether this was just a rash, ill-thought move that she was bound to regret later on. But the longer she sat there, the smaller the voices of doubts grew. Her eyes were burning from lack of asleep and from tears cried during this long night. She was exhausted, both physically and mentally. The weight that had pressed down on her in the recent past had finally been lifted from her shoulders, giving her respite and finally room to breathe. It felt good, almost happy. She smiled to herself, grateful that somehow things had seemed to turn for the better even though they had seemed so bleak for a time. She owed so much to the people around her: Danny, Vivian, Martin, Jack. They had all done more for her, each in their own way, than she could ever have expected from people she worked with. She was happy to know people like that. They were all flawed and they had all made mistakes—mistakes that had led to horrible tragedy—but they had shown her that it was not the end.


The fear was still there—the fear of making yet another mistake, the fear that leaving behind the city and her life in it meant losing herself. But although it was there, the fear didn't get a complete hold of her. It wasn't all encompassing like the wild, irrational panic that she had been experiencing. The panic seemed to fade more and more into a nightmarish memory than something that had happened, waking in broad daylight. She knew that the panic could come back and probably would one day, but for now, she felt calmer than she had felt in a while. The flares of fear were intermittent as she folded the clothes and neatly staked them in the suitcase. |It was a mindless task, but occupied her, allowing the mind to wander.

The prospect of getting away had a calming effect; she was noticing it more and more now. This only confirmed that she had indeed made the right choice and wasn't just running away from her problems, as the voice of criticism in her mind wanted to keep telling her. This was simply not true. Getting away from all the triggers of pain was, in fact, the best solution on a rational and emotional level.  It would shift her focus away from the singular spot it had occupied for years without having a real break. Even the sky looked brighter as she let her gaze wander out the window. The sky was steel grey but it didn't quite look as dismal as yesterday. It filled her with anticipation instead of dread. She closed her suitcase and zipped it up. She didn't bother to check whether she had everything; she would make due somehow. She didn't know exactly where she was going to go, but it didn't matter. Once her head cleared, she hoped that she would able to make somewhat more coherent plans.