Disclaimer: I own nothing associated with "Without a Trace". I make no money from this!
A/N: Okay, so I lied last time when I said there were only two more chapters to go. Due mostly to length, I've now broken this part down into two separate chapters. The next one is almost done and should be up in a day or so – hopefully. Thanks, as always, to Newlands for her suggestions and for encouraging me to improve this, even when I seem a little reluctant. :) Sorry, again, about the wait.
Chapter Eighteen
9.10pm
"Well, it's been fun. We should do it again sometime."
Climbing indelicately out of the battered cab, Martin turned to glare at his grinning partner. He was well aware that he hadn't been in the best of moods for the duration of their trip. Ordinarily he welcomed Danny's light-hearted banter, but over the last 24 hours it had been wearing increasingly thin. In spite of this, he still appreciated the effort his colleague had made to alleviate the atmosphere - even if he was in no mood to indulge him. The source of his irritation wasn't exactly a great mystery to anyone and he was mostly grateful that his partner hadn't pushed the matter. As he reached in to grab the travel bag being handed to him, he noted that Danny's smile had become noticeably sympathetic. Sighing, he slung his bag over his shoulder, forcing himself to offer a friendly acknowledgement as the vehicle pulled away.
His key poised in his hand, Martin wearily trudged up the steps to the building's un-manned door glad, if nothing else, to be finally getting out of the cold. Exhausted, and willing this day to be over even more than he'd gotten the impression Danny had been, all he wanted to do was collapse on his couch, switch the TV on and his mind off. It had been a long day - there was no disputing that – and as he let himself into his deserted apartment he briefly allowed the images of Adam Walker's prone body lying unconscious in his ICU bed to flood his brain. This figure all too quickly merged with the smiling, happy family photos of the same man that he'd seen the previous day, and as his mind drifted to the tearful, hopeful wife, he involuntarily shook his head to displace the rest of these thoughts. They may have found their missing person alive, but he wasn't entirely sure if that would prove to be any lasting consolation for his family.
Fumbling in the dark for the light switch, he dumped his bag unceremoniously on the floor - idly wondering what it meant that after two years of living in this place, its intimate details were still so unfamiliar to him. That problem solved, he shrugged off his coat leaving it splayed over the bag. As he headed into his un-stocked kitchenette still littered with the remnants of old take-out, he noticed the angry blinking light of his answer-machine. A heavy feeling in his gut, he hit the play button, simultaneously swinging open the refrigerator door and grabbing the conveniently placed bottle of beer that he knew Samantha would have left there. Never knowing when they were going to hit a particularly rough case, she rarely let her supply run dry.
As the beep of the machine echoed around the room, he cracked open his drink waiting for the familiar message. Another case closed, another questionably satisfactory result and, of course, a sure-fire way to take their minds off any number of things which never quite bore thinking about. Seven months down the line and this whole exercise had taken on a ritualistic inevitability. Ignoring the bubbles that had formed at the bottle's lip, he took a long swig as Sam's voice filled his apartment.
"Hey, it's me." There was a short hesitation. The discomfort behind it was slight but sadly familiar. "I'm sorry I couldn't come get you guys from the airport. But, I'm… er… nearly done here so I'll stop by your apartment around nine, maybe?" There was another pause, as if something had distracted her, or perhaps someone? It was obvious in the otherwise silent apartment that her voice had suddenly become more hushed. "So I just… I'll see you later, okay?"
The machine clicked off and Martin set his bottle down on the counter, sweeping the empty food cartons into the trashcan below. The digital clock on the counter was already showing nine-fifteen. What exactly was she finishing up at the office that could take so long? Adam Walker had been found. The case was technically closed. The reports shouldn't take that long. He took a breath. He wasn't going to let himself get more paranoid. Maybe she stopped by earlier – before he got home? But if that was the case, why didn't she just use the key he'd had cut for her a couple of months earlier, 'just in case'? Of course if she had, that would be a first. The gesture hadn't exactly been greeted with the enthusiasm he'd hoped for. In fact, after a moment of uncomfortable silence, she'd slipped the object quietly into her pocket, never to be mentioned again – by either of them. With a sigh, he turned his attention back to the immediate situation. Ever the boy-scout, he grabbed himself a second drink in anticipation that the first one would soon be drained, and headed for the couch.
Pushing aside a battered paperback, its bookmark hanging haphazardly out the top, he smiled mirthlessly. It seemed somewhat fitting that one of the few personal items that Samantha deemed acceptable to leave lying around his home was yet another means of ensuring that the two of them had little need for actual conversation. But then judging by the way their last couple of conversations had gone, it would appear that this might not be such a bad thing after all. Raising his bottle once again, he savoured the fizzy after-taste of the cheap beer which he would never have thought to purchase for himself. Staring absently at his front door, he briefly checked his watch. Noting that another five minutes had since passed, he quickly drained the rest of his drink, exchanging the empty bottle for the full one.
Although rationally he knew that nothing had really changed in the past twenty-four hours, Martin could not shake the feeling that a seismic shift had taken place. He just hadn't quite realised it at the time. Now back in the privacy of his own space, it was as if all his thoughts from the past day were converging to this one specific point. In their line of work, as had been proved today, sometimes all it took to crack a case wide open would be the smallest, seemingly most insignificant, piece of information. It was becoming increasingly apparent that the same thing could also be said of his current situation. All the little hints and clues, that to a dispassionate observer would seem unimportant, had suddenly and abruptly been thrown into context and, looking around his apartment, he wondered whether in this particular case it was the disturbing lack of evidence that was exacerbating his doubts over his relationship with Samantha.
Aside from the novel sitting next to him tauntingly, a second tooth brush and a bottle of conditioner in his bathroom, and of course the beer in his kitchen, there was little indication that anyone except himself spent any meaningful amount of time here. True, more often than not, they seemed to end up at her place – although he'd often wondered just where that habit came from. But over the past few months more and more of his everyday personal belongings had gradually found their way to her apartment – first it was just some toiletries, followed closely by a clean shirt, and a pressed suit. There was a CD here and there, a spare pair of running shoes, and even some junk mail that he'd picked up in haste as he was on his way over. All the natural accoutrements of a growing relationship were scattered around her living space without ever seeming to quite fit comfortably in it. Yet here she'd rarely left so much as a change of clothes. It was as if she'd never really been here. And thinking about it now, maybe she hadn't.
"We'll talk later, okay?"
'Yes, I think it's about time we did', he thought to himself.
His second drink quickly heading the way of its predecessor, Martin forced himself to recall his words in the bullpen the previous day. Yet another conciliatory move on his part, it was quite a pattern they'd established. Another awkward question evaded, another difficult topic avoided and, as always, he'd shown her it was okay. She didn't have to be honest with him, and by continually letting it slide, he was proving to himself that in return, he didn't have to be entirely honest with her. After all, where was honesty really going to get them?
"You, Danny, at large in a new city, it might be fun."
Perched on the edge of the conference table, Martin watched Samantha sceptically. Her elbows casually resting beside her files, her chin cupped in her hands looking up at him, in any other situation he would have enjoyed the playful suggestiveness of her posture. Yet something was stopping him. It wasn't just the residual anger he could still feel bubbling inside him over Jack's dismissal of him in the meeting just minutes before. It wasn't even the fact that unbeknownst to Samantha, he could clearly see Jack watching their conversation from the indiscreet cover of his glass-walled office. It was more to do with the forced lightness in her tone, the guardedness in her eyes and the determination with which she was refusing to acknowledge the tension which had sent their colleagues running for cover.
"It's like, what, a forty-five minute flight? Hell, it's taken me longer than that to drive five blocks in traffic."
Her attempt at a joke fell flat as an uncomfortable silence descended. Sensing an impasse had been reached, Martin felt compelled to break it. Yet despite his best efforts, he was having some difficulty reining in his latent irritation.
"Well I just think it's been made pretty clear that my time… or rather my opinions aren't all that important right now."
Leaning forward a fraction, he watched closely for a reaction to these words. A slight flicker across her eyes told him she was processing his statement. But the softness with which she finally replied informed him that she had made a decision to take it purely at face value.
"He's still our boss, Martin."
The neutrality of her response made him want to scream. How long could he do this for? He was sick of talking in riddles, of being in this permanent state of truce, of not being free to say what he really wanted to say. Her propensity for deflecting such discussions was so controlled, he was starting to believe it was reflexive. Glancing once again at the office behind her, he opened his mouth to speak, but something about her expression silenced him. Only when he heard her exhale quietly, did he realise that she'd been holding her breath the entire time.
Both sensing that something more than they were acknowledging had just transpired they held eye contact for several seconds until they saw Danny cautiously approaching them. Samantha stood abruptly and waved him over. Martin noted that her cheerfulness was forced but assuaging nonetheless.
"How about I drive you boys to the airport?"
Setting aside the second empty drink, Martin pushed himself up off the couch, gathering both bottles and depositing them on the now empty kitchen counter. Reaching into the cupboard above him, he retrieved a glass tumbler, setting it decisively next to them. After checking his watch again, he dropped a couple of pieces of ice into the bottom of the container before going in search of something a little stronger than beer. Finding, to his relief, a half-empty bottle of JD stashed under his sink, he unscrewed the top and poured a healthy measure. It wasn't his intention to get drunk so much, but there was nothing like a bit of false-courage in situations such as these. Following that line of thought, he considerately placed a second tumbler next to the open bottle.
Again looking around his apartment, he was struck by the fact that within it there was not a single picture of himself and Samantha - more missing evidence to add to the growing list. But then in order for someone to take their picture, it would require for someone, other than their colleagues, to actually know about their relationship. It was ironic really, that the people who Sam seemed most desperate to hide from, were probably the only ones who were in any position to know, or to care. Raising his glass to his lips, he shook his head slightly. As he felt the liquid warming its way down his throat, his eyes scanned his surroundings once more. They drifted back to the innocent novel on the couch and his mind hit upon an important distinction. Samantha had not left one single shred of evidence in this apartment that held any emotional significance to either of them. He smoothly swallowed the rest of his drink.
Checking his watch for the third time, he realised that it was now nine forty-five. Pulling out his cell, he briefly considered calling her before tossing it resignedly onto a chair behind him. Why rock the boat? Pouring himself another helping, a bitter smile played across his face when he realised it was exactly what he'd been expecting. He might have had a couple more drinks than he was planning, but it didn't take a genius to figure out where she was, or who she was with. There was only one person who had that much control over her, and it had really never been any other way. In all the time he'd spent with Sam over the last few months, he could barely recall an occasion, outside of the bedroom that is, which had called for an ounce of emotional intensity. Hell, they couldn't even have a decent argument. As he placed his drink back on the counter, a little harder than he intended, he realised that someone was knocking gently on his door.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
9.44pm
Mounting the deserted stairway up to Martin's apartment, Samantha felt a distinct sense of foreboding. For a start, she was well aware that she was running late. That in itself would not normally concern her too much, if not for the fact that they both knew exactly where she'd been - and who she'd been there with.
The false sense of purpose provided by the steady rhythm of her boot heels on the concrete did little to calm her nerves. Reaching a stairwell, she stopped for a moment, leaning heavily against the wall. Damn it, she'd only been at the office. Why should she feel so guilty about it? It's not as if this was a new issue. It was only a problem if she made it a problem. If the last six months had taught her anything, then that was undoubtedly it. If she had to be a victim of something, it was going to be of her own choices. She groaned inwardly. This was so screwed up.
Her last conversation alone with Martin hadn't been an overwhelming success. His resentment from the meeting had spilled over and he had made little attempt to conceal it. It hadn't escaped her attention, that during the twenty-four hours he'd been out of the city, she hadn't received so much as a phone call from him, even regarding the case. It was true that she may not have given them much room for discussion before he left, but she really couldn't afford to let him pull this crap when they were at work. She groaned quietly. How had their personal issues become so irrevocably entwined with their ability to focus solely on their professional responsibilities? How had she let this get so far?
But then, she wasn't exactly the only one at fault here. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, unrelated to the icy touch of the bricks she rested against. What were they all doing? She'd endeavoured to make light of Jack's decision to send Martin and Danny to Boston but, in truth, she had found herself relieved - and not just because it gave her a temporary respite from her immediate problem. The unavoidable truth was, that if she'd been playing back any conversation from the previous day in her head, it was not the one she'd had with Martin. The words she couldn't free from her mind were spoken in a darkened office later that same evening, and for whatever reason, she couldn't seem to let them go.
"I don't owe you an explanation…… So, why do I feel like I do?"
Jack.
Letting her head rest against the cold wall, she momentarily closed her eyes. How could she even begin to process her feelings towards Jack? They'd become such an integral part of her, that just thinking about them was exhausting – assuming she allowed herself to think, of course. She'd devoted so much time and energy these last few months to banishing such thoughts from her mind. But here she was allowing them to creep back in.
"I'm not going to say that I hope you two will be very happy together."
Slipping easily into the memory, Sam let Jack's words wash over her. His voice had been so gentle, so honest as he'd spoken, that she'd responded without hesitation.
"I'd be disappointed if you did."
She turned her thoughts to the man she assumed was now waiting for her upstairs. He hadn't said it explicitly - yet. But it was obvious from the brief moments he'd witnessed, that Martin had sensed the return of the unspoken familiarity between her and Jack. She knew he'd been watching when the two of them arrived in the bullpen the previous afternoon. Yet her almost intuitive reactions to Jack's presence seemed beyond her control. And if Jack's behaviour toward her over the last couple of days was any indication, she wasn't the only one feeling the conflict.
Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes. Her gaze falling involuntarily on the blinking 'emergency exit' sign in front of her, she fought the urge to close them again. Instead she covered them with her palms.
If she was brutally honest with herself, again something she'd been avoiding recently, paperwork wasn't the only reason that she had found it so difficult leaving the office this evening. Jack had barely spoken a word since they had finally left the Walker's house in the late afternoon. The drive back to the city had been conducted in virtual silence and unsure as what she should say, she'd thought it best to leave Jack to his own thoughts. Something about this case had hit him harder than anyone else seemed to realise. And her instincts told her that he wasn't quite ready to discuss it further. Returning to the bullpen, he'd retreated quietly to his office, the only evidence of his presence being the steady glow of his lamp through the blinds. Every now and then she thought she'd seen the shutters flicker, as she sensed his eyes upon her. Yet the glass partition had remained between them. As she'd lingered on her reports, she'd lulled herself into the belief that he was accepting her unnecessary presence as a silent show of comfort – unwilling to acknowledge that, just as desperately, a part of her needed to know that he was okay.
Abruptly, she shook the images from her mind. This had to stop.
In a defiant movement, she pushed herself determinedly away from her resting place. She had somewhere to be. She'd made her decision back when all this started. This was the right thing to do. Martin was the right thing to do. So why was she suddenly so reluctant? Anyone could see that this was a good thing for her – according to Danny, at least. She didn't have to worry about Jack finding out anymore – another good thing, right? So what was stopping her?
Digging her numb hands in her coat pocket as she climbed the final steps, she was served with a sharp reminder when her thumb hit a metal edge. As she pulled the offending item out, it glinted at her in the sharp fluorescent lighting – it was a singular key. Mesmerized for a moment by the artificial light dancing off it, she studied the object with a guarded fascination. But as she turned it over in her palm, she was hit by an unsettling wave of clarity. The sense of dread she was suddenly feeling, had little to do with her own actions. There was a reason why she'd been grateful to have caught Martin's answer machine earlier that evening, and a reason why she knew he wouldn't bother to call her back. She'd seen it in his eyes the previous day. For the first time, he was challenging her. Although it was fair to say at this point, that neither of them knew exactly how she would deal with this new, unpredictable development.
Sighing resignedly, she slipped the key back into her pocket and reluctantly raised her hand to the door.
TBC
