Chapter Three
The agents stepped over the threshold into Sam's front hallway. She left the door open and moved to stand in front of it, her arms crossed over her chest in a defensive posture she couldn't help taking. "What's this about?" she asked, determined to get them out of her house as soon as possible.
The shorter one, Michaels, reached into his pocket and pulled out a photo. "We're looking for this man," he said, showing her the picture. She glanced down at it, unsurprised to see John staring back at her. "We understand you worked with him for several years as part of the Violent Crimes Task Force."
"Yes," Sam confirmed, taking her eyes off the photo to look back at him. "I did."
Agent Simone took over the conversation. "We're investigating the deaths of several fellow agents. We need to talk to him. I don't think I have to tell you what it means to the FBI when one of our own is murdered, especially when it's a deliberate killing not caused in the field. We believe Agent Grant is responsible, or, at the very least, has vital information on who is. We need to talk to him," the man repeated.
Sam pursed her lips regretfully and shook her head. "I'm sorry, I haven't spoken to John in over two years." She hesitated, then continued, "But I did know him for several years before then, and I can tell you that he's not responsible."
"Then he should come forward and prove that," Michaels replied, and Sam knew from the carefully measured tone of his voice he was well aware she was hiding something.
Sam nodded. "If he contacts me, I'll tell him that," she promised.
Agent Michaels reached into his pocket again, pulling out a business card. "Contact us, too," he said grimly, handing it to her. He moved towards the door, then turned to look back at her again. "By the way, who's staying with you?"
Sam blinked, the only sign of startlement she allowed the agents to see. "Excuse me?"
Agent Michaels gestured with his head towards her driveway, visible through the open door. "The rented car is yours, then?" he prompted.
"Oh!" Sam exclaimed, smiling. "No, no, it's not, but no one's staying with me. I have a friend who injured his wrist, he asked me if I'd give him a ride up to visit his sister. I'm picking him up tomorrow." The lie came easily and flowed smoothly from her lips.
Agent Simone nodded. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Waters. You'll be here, then, if we need anything else?"
"You have my number," she replied, expertly evading the question.
The two agents left, and Sam shut the door behind them. She breathed a sigh of relief, then looked through the peep-hole. The pair made their way to a black sedan parked on the side of the street, a good three inches away from her mail-box. Shaking her head at the ease in which law-enforcement broke the rules they were supposed to enforce, she watched them get into the vehicle. It was several minutes before the car finally drove away.
She waited until they turned a corner before leaning back against the door. Judging from the amount of time they'd lingered in the car, she knew they had their doubts about her sincerity. Fortunately doubts alone weren't enough to authorize a stake-out, at least not right away. As long as John'd used a decent alias to rent his car, she figured they had another day or so before anyone began watching her house.
Worrying at her lower lip, she pushed away from the door and headed back to the living room. It was strange, she mused, how easily she'd been able to lie to them. Even if she hadn't done a very good job at it, she'd never pictured herself as someone who'd ever lie to protect a fugitive, no matter who that person was. Feeling sympathetic towards all those imprisoned for aiding and abetting, she opened the laundry room door. John was sitting atop her washing machine, his injured leg stretched out to her dryer. "They're gone," she said, smirking at his position.
John took in her strained expression and frowned. "How'd it go?"
"As well as could be expected," she answered. "What name did you rent the car under?"
John shrugged. "Nothing that could be traced, I did it over the phone. I spent half my childhood on the run, Sam," he reminded her pointedly. "If I know nothing else, I know how to hide." He stared at her a moment longer, then addressed the second half of her statement. "Which is exactly why I don't need you to come with me."
Sam glared back at him. "We can go together, or I can follow you. Your choice." She waited a moment, and when he didn't reply added, "I need to pack. Could you go online and print out what George sent? You'd do a better job than I could of deleting it."
John nodded, hopping down off of her laundry machines gingerly as she started to leave. "Hey, Sam?" he called out.
She stopped and looked back.
"What's your password?" Her expression changed dramatically in response to his words, and he couldn't keep from staring at her. He couldn't recall ever seeing her look so uncomfortable.
"It's, uh... it's B-M-N-J-G," she replied quickly, with a rueful smile.
"B-M-N...," he started to echo, then stopped, looking at her incredulously. "Bailey Malone and John Grant?" he asked, disbelievingly.
Sam shrugged, her gaze fixed firmly on the carpet beneath her feet. "The two people I've missed the most," she explained softly.
"Right," John replied, voice cold.
Sam looked up, and saw that his eyes were as cold as his voice had been, hiding what she suddenly realized wasn't anger, but hurt. She felt her own eyes tear, and wished she had an answer to the question she knew was on both their minds. Unfortunately she respected him far too much to lie to him, and there was no way she could bring herself to tell him the truth. After an impossibly long moment of staring at one another, Sam forced herself to turn away. She headed towards her bedroom, afraid to glance back and see his response to her leaving rather than answering.
* * * * *
John stared at the computer screen blankly as the printer whirred to life, spitting out page after page of information related to the case. George had sent all the relevant files, including photographs, autopsy results, and Rachel's profile, which, John was pleased to note, bared no resemblance to him in any way. George had also included a brief note asking that they keep in touch if possible. John had to smile at his friend's careful wording, even if the e-mail was somehow traced, John knew there wasn't a chance in hell it'd stand up in court as evidence of conspiracy.
As the printer continued to work, John found his thoughts wandering away from the investigation and onto the subject of Sam. He'd known that coming here would bring back all the feelings he'd had so many years ago. What he hadn't been prepared for, hadn't even really known was *there*, was his anger. If she'd really missed him, enough to include him in her *password* of all things, why hadn't she kept in touch with him? Why hadn't she ever picked up a phone, written a letter, hell, even sent an e-mail? Anything at all to let him know that she was alright. Instead the only proof he had that she'd ever cared at all was his initials in a five letter password.
There had been so many times since Sam'd left that he could have used her friendship and support. Less than a year ago he'd watched his girlfriend die on the floor of a convenience store, and Rachel had come to see him at his apartment, trying to lend her support. The entire time she'd been there, offering comfort, he'd been wishing she was Sam, instead. Sam would've known what to do, what to say, to make it better. It'd been her advice and support he'd wanted then, and so many times before and after over the past two years. But she hadn't been there.
Of course, she'd been only a phone call away for Bailey.
It hurt.
It hurt more than he thought was possible, more than he was justified in feeling. And he knew he was doing a really bad job of trying to hide it from her.
"John?" John turned his head, startled, and saw Sam staring at him, suitcase in hand. "Where were you?" she asked.
John shook his head, pushing all thoughts of the past from his mind. "Zoned out for a second." He gestured to the printer, which, he realized, was finished. "There's everything you wanted on the investigation. I need to clear the info off the computer, then we can get going."
Sam nodded. "Okay. I need a few minutes, anyway," she assured him, bending down in front of her television. She ejected the tape and put in a new one, then reached for the remote.
John watched her out of the corner of his eye as she began to program the VCR to tape her soap. "I never pictured you as much of a TV person," he commented.
Sam shrugged. "The writing used to be a lot better," she admitted. "I stopped watching regularly a while ago, but then they brought on this new character, Roy DeLuca?" She turned the statement into a question and looked at him for a moment, then, seeing no sign of recognition on his face, continued, "He's really fascinating."
John rolled his eyes. "Wow, do you need a life," he muttered, turning his attention back to the computer.
Sam blinked, and looked up at him. John hadn't said anything so obviously designed to hurt her since the first few months they'd known one another, and the remark caught her off guard. Of course, she didn't really have the right to expect him to treat her as a friend anymore. Sighing, she turned on the timer, knowing she wouldn't be so bothered if he wasn't right. "You almost ready?"
"Whenever you are." He stood up, leaning against the table for support, and gathered up the pages from the printer, shoving them into a folder from the desk. "What car are we taking?"
"Mine," Sam said firmly. "We can stop and get another one later." She suddenly frowned and turned to face him, standing up as well. "That's leaving a trail, isn't it? Renting a car?"
John nodded. "Sure is, but I can't see how we got much choice." He shrugged. "The only other option I can think of is to steal one, and we sure as hell can't do that. Even if I wasn't hoping to go back to the FBI when this thing's over with, we'd have a lot more risk of being pulled over in a hot car."
Sam pursed her lips together thoughtfully. "I have a friend who hurt her wrist," she said, remembering her inspiration for the story she'd told the agents earlier. "She can't drive for at least another month, she'd probably let me borrow it. Then we wouldn't have to rent a car."
"Sounds perfect," John agreed.
Sam reached for the phone and, after a few minutes of conversation, hung up and smiled at him. "It's all set. We'll have to park mine somewhere it won't be noticed, though."
"I passed a place not too far from here that might work," John said, shifting position with a wince. He couldn't stand still on his leg for more than a few minutes without it throbbing.
"Let's get going," Sam prompted, noticing his expression. She picked up her suitcase with some effort. "Don't even think about it," she said firmly, catching the look of solicitation that crossed John's face.
"Wasn't thinking a thing," he assured her, and waved the folder, as if carrying it took all of his effort.
Sam smiled, and they headed out of the living room together.
* * * * *
John sorted through the pile of papers spread out over his lap, relieved that they'd managed to ditch Sam's car without incident. "You want photographs before or after the autopsy reports?"
Sam rolled the window down slightly, making sure the papers wouldn't get caught up in the wind, and shrugged. "Doesn't matter," she replied, taking a deep breath. The air was crisp and fresh, containing a quality that could only be found after a thunderstorm.
Sighing, John shoved the papers back into the folder. Sam didn't seem to care one way or another, why should he? He looked out the window, watching as they passed the gas station he'd found so tempting last night. "Where we going, anyway?"
Sam glanced over at him, then looked away, hesitating. She was well aware he wasn't going to like her answer. But there didn't seem to be any other option, and it wasn't like she could just not tell him. He'd figure it out sooner or later. Taking in another deep breath, she forced herself to reply. "We're going to Atlanta."
~End Chapter Three~
End Note: I couldn't resist the Roy DeLuca mention, sorry. :) Please let me know what you
thought, good and bad, I'd really appreciate it. And thanks to everyone who replied to the
previous parts. It helped me finish this one sooner.
The agents stepped over the threshold into Sam's front hallway. She left the door open and moved to stand in front of it, her arms crossed over her chest in a defensive posture she couldn't help taking. "What's this about?" she asked, determined to get them out of her house as soon as possible.
The shorter one, Michaels, reached into his pocket and pulled out a photo. "We're looking for this man," he said, showing her the picture. She glanced down at it, unsurprised to see John staring back at her. "We understand you worked with him for several years as part of the Violent Crimes Task Force."
"Yes," Sam confirmed, taking her eyes off the photo to look back at him. "I did."
Agent Simone took over the conversation. "We're investigating the deaths of several fellow agents. We need to talk to him. I don't think I have to tell you what it means to the FBI when one of our own is murdered, especially when it's a deliberate killing not caused in the field. We believe Agent Grant is responsible, or, at the very least, has vital information on who is. We need to talk to him," the man repeated.
Sam pursed her lips regretfully and shook her head. "I'm sorry, I haven't spoken to John in over two years." She hesitated, then continued, "But I did know him for several years before then, and I can tell you that he's not responsible."
"Then he should come forward and prove that," Michaels replied, and Sam knew from the carefully measured tone of his voice he was well aware she was hiding something.
Sam nodded. "If he contacts me, I'll tell him that," she promised.
Agent Michaels reached into his pocket again, pulling out a business card. "Contact us, too," he said grimly, handing it to her. He moved towards the door, then turned to look back at her again. "By the way, who's staying with you?"
Sam blinked, the only sign of startlement she allowed the agents to see. "Excuse me?"
Agent Michaels gestured with his head towards her driveway, visible through the open door. "The rented car is yours, then?" he prompted.
"Oh!" Sam exclaimed, smiling. "No, no, it's not, but no one's staying with me. I have a friend who injured his wrist, he asked me if I'd give him a ride up to visit his sister. I'm picking him up tomorrow." The lie came easily and flowed smoothly from her lips.
Agent Simone nodded. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Waters. You'll be here, then, if we need anything else?"
"You have my number," she replied, expertly evading the question.
The two agents left, and Sam shut the door behind them. She breathed a sigh of relief, then looked through the peep-hole. The pair made their way to a black sedan parked on the side of the street, a good three inches away from her mail-box. Shaking her head at the ease in which law-enforcement broke the rules they were supposed to enforce, she watched them get into the vehicle. It was several minutes before the car finally drove away.
She waited until they turned a corner before leaning back against the door. Judging from the amount of time they'd lingered in the car, she knew they had their doubts about her sincerity. Fortunately doubts alone weren't enough to authorize a stake-out, at least not right away. As long as John'd used a decent alias to rent his car, she figured they had another day or so before anyone began watching her house.
Worrying at her lower lip, she pushed away from the door and headed back to the living room. It was strange, she mused, how easily she'd been able to lie to them. Even if she hadn't done a very good job at it, she'd never pictured herself as someone who'd ever lie to protect a fugitive, no matter who that person was. Feeling sympathetic towards all those imprisoned for aiding and abetting, she opened the laundry room door. John was sitting atop her washing machine, his injured leg stretched out to her dryer. "They're gone," she said, smirking at his position.
John took in her strained expression and frowned. "How'd it go?"
"As well as could be expected," she answered. "What name did you rent the car under?"
John shrugged. "Nothing that could be traced, I did it over the phone. I spent half my childhood on the run, Sam," he reminded her pointedly. "If I know nothing else, I know how to hide." He stared at her a moment longer, then addressed the second half of her statement. "Which is exactly why I don't need you to come with me."
Sam glared back at him. "We can go together, or I can follow you. Your choice." She waited a moment, and when he didn't reply added, "I need to pack. Could you go online and print out what George sent? You'd do a better job than I could of deleting it."
John nodded, hopping down off of her laundry machines gingerly as she started to leave. "Hey, Sam?" he called out.
She stopped and looked back.
"What's your password?" Her expression changed dramatically in response to his words, and he couldn't keep from staring at her. He couldn't recall ever seeing her look so uncomfortable.
"It's, uh... it's B-M-N-J-G," she replied quickly, with a rueful smile.
"B-M-N...," he started to echo, then stopped, looking at her incredulously. "Bailey Malone and John Grant?" he asked, disbelievingly.
Sam shrugged, her gaze fixed firmly on the carpet beneath her feet. "The two people I've missed the most," she explained softly.
"Right," John replied, voice cold.
Sam looked up, and saw that his eyes were as cold as his voice had been, hiding what she suddenly realized wasn't anger, but hurt. She felt her own eyes tear, and wished she had an answer to the question she knew was on both their minds. Unfortunately she respected him far too much to lie to him, and there was no way she could bring herself to tell him the truth. After an impossibly long moment of staring at one another, Sam forced herself to turn away. She headed towards her bedroom, afraid to glance back and see his response to her leaving rather than answering.
* * * * *
John stared at the computer screen blankly as the printer whirred to life, spitting out page after page of information related to the case. George had sent all the relevant files, including photographs, autopsy results, and Rachel's profile, which, John was pleased to note, bared no resemblance to him in any way. George had also included a brief note asking that they keep in touch if possible. John had to smile at his friend's careful wording, even if the e-mail was somehow traced, John knew there wasn't a chance in hell it'd stand up in court as evidence of conspiracy.
As the printer continued to work, John found his thoughts wandering away from the investigation and onto the subject of Sam. He'd known that coming here would bring back all the feelings he'd had so many years ago. What he hadn't been prepared for, hadn't even really known was *there*, was his anger. If she'd really missed him, enough to include him in her *password* of all things, why hadn't she kept in touch with him? Why hadn't she ever picked up a phone, written a letter, hell, even sent an e-mail? Anything at all to let him know that she was alright. Instead the only proof he had that she'd ever cared at all was his initials in a five letter password.
There had been so many times since Sam'd left that he could have used her friendship and support. Less than a year ago he'd watched his girlfriend die on the floor of a convenience store, and Rachel had come to see him at his apartment, trying to lend her support. The entire time she'd been there, offering comfort, he'd been wishing she was Sam, instead. Sam would've known what to do, what to say, to make it better. It'd been her advice and support he'd wanted then, and so many times before and after over the past two years. But she hadn't been there.
Of course, she'd been only a phone call away for Bailey.
It hurt.
It hurt more than he thought was possible, more than he was justified in feeling. And he knew he was doing a really bad job of trying to hide it from her.
"John?" John turned his head, startled, and saw Sam staring at him, suitcase in hand. "Where were you?" she asked.
John shook his head, pushing all thoughts of the past from his mind. "Zoned out for a second." He gestured to the printer, which, he realized, was finished. "There's everything you wanted on the investigation. I need to clear the info off the computer, then we can get going."
Sam nodded. "Okay. I need a few minutes, anyway," she assured him, bending down in front of her television. She ejected the tape and put in a new one, then reached for the remote.
John watched her out of the corner of his eye as she began to program the VCR to tape her soap. "I never pictured you as much of a TV person," he commented.
Sam shrugged. "The writing used to be a lot better," she admitted. "I stopped watching regularly a while ago, but then they brought on this new character, Roy DeLuca?" She turned the statement into a question and looked at him for a moment, then, seeing no sign of recognition on his face, continued, "He's really fascinating."
John rolled his eyes. "Wow, do you need a life," he muttered, turning his attention back to the computer.
Sam blinked, and looked up at him. John hadn't said anything so obviously designed to hurt her since the first few months they'd known one another, and the remark caught her off guard. Of course, she didn't really have the right to expect him to treat her as a friend anymore. Sighing, she turned on the timer, knowing she wouldn't be so bothered if he wasn't right. "You almost ready?"
"Whenever you are." He stood up, leaning against the table for support, and gathered up the pages from the printer, shoving them into a folder from the desk. "What car are we taking?"
"Mine," Sam said firmly. "We can stop and get another one later." She suddenly frowned and turned to face him, standing up as well. "That's leaving a trail, isn't it? Renting a car?"
John nodded. "Sure is, but I can't see how we got much choice." He shrugged. "The only other option I can think of is to steal one, and we sure as hell can't do that. Even if I wasn't hoping to go back to the FBI when this thing's over with, we'd have a lot more risk of being pulled over in a hot car."
Sam pursed her lips together thoughtfully. "I have a friend who hurt her wrist," she said, remembering her inspiration for the story she'd told the agents earlier. "She can't drive for at least another month, she'd probably let me borrow it. Then we wouldn't have to rent a car."
"Sounds perfect," John agreed.
Sam reached for the phone and, after a few minutes of conversation, hung up and smiled at him. "It's all set. We'll have to park mine somewhere it won't be noticed, though."
"I passed a place not too far from here that might work," John said, shifting position with a wince. He couldn't stand still on his leg for more than a few minutes without it throbbing.
"Let's get going," Sam prompted, noticing his expression. She picked up her suitcase with some effort. "Don't even think about it," she said firmly, catching the look of solicitation that crossed John's face.
"Wasn't thinking a thing," he assured her, and waved the folder, as if carrying it took all of his effort.
Sam smiled, and they headed out of the living room together.
* * * * *
John sorted through the pile of papers spread out over his lap, relieved that they'd managed to ditch Sam's car without incident. "You want photographs before or after the autopsy reports?"
Sam rolled the window down slightly, making sure the papers wouldn't get caught up in the wind, and shrugged. "Doesn't matter," she replied, taking a deep breath. The air was crisp and fresh, containing a quality that could only be found after a thunderstorm.
Sighing, John shoved the papers back into the folder. Sam didn't seem to care one way or another, why should he? He looked out the window, watching as they passed the gas station he'd found so tempting last night. "Where we going, anyway?"
Sam glanced over at him, then looked away, hesitating. She was well aware he wasn't going to like her answer. But there didn't seem to be any other option, and it wasn't like she could just not tell him. He'd figure it out sooner or later. Taking in another deep breath, she forced herself to reply. "We're going to Atlanta."
~End Chapter Three~
End Note: I couldn't resist the Roy DeLuca mention, sorry. :) Please let me know what you
thought, good and bad, I'd really appreciate it. And thanks to everyone who replied to the
previous parts. It helped me finish this one sooner.