The Cruellest Month

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

—T.S. Eliot "The Waste Land"

Summary: Several days in April. From all perspectives. "Transitions" are happening, "second sight" is needed, and "bogey man" is everyone's inner turmoil.

Disclaimer: If they were mine, I wouldn't do this to them! I am only borrowing the guys for a while to be returned unharmed, dry-cleaned, and, hopefully, happier!

Author's note.Again, to all the wonderful reviewers: I can't thankyou enough! I was thinking about this story, and it occurs to me that it is just a series of post-eps, and that's why the plot is so elusive. Oh, well, it writes how it writes, and the plot can take a seat in the bleachers! LOL.

xxxxxx

Jack leaned in a relaxed stance, the sun-heated side of the truck supporting his back. It was about an hour before the meeting with one Patrick Conway, the supposed kidnapper of Agnes. It was a sting operation he and Danny put in motion. Conway would be here to sell them a defective RV.

Jack secretly liked sting operations. They made him feel as if he were playing a part. He wouldn't have admitted it to anyone - least of all his team - but he enjoyed the theatrical aspects of it. Of course, not every sting was enjoyable. Some of them were dangerous and did not resemble a play at all. But this one didn't worry Jack too much. They held the upper hand, and he was almost certain that the missing girl was all right.

The sun that heated the car metal also washed the giant concrete parking lot in grayish yellow color. It was like being trapped in an enormous, modernist, abstract painting, the kind Jack once saw at some exhibit Maria dragged him to at the Whitney Museum.

He adjusted his sunglasses and felt a craving for a cigarette. He didn't have one, and maybe it was just as well just as well, but the craving was suddenly sharp and persistent. He was glad to see a dark-colored Yukon pull up at a designated spot. Danny was here.

He got out of the car, and Jack burst out laughing.

"I know this is a sting operation, Danny, but who are you supposed to be disguised as, Richard Simmons?"

Danny flashed him an unconcerned and bright smile, glancing over his ridiculous outfit of beige velour leisure suit topped with an electric blue cap, and then gave Jack a return once-over.

"I am getting this from the guy who inherited his entire wardrobe from Johnny Cash? And, by the way, nice shirt, Jack: my mom used to have a table cloth just like this. It's making me feel nostalgic."

"Funny boy, Danny."

"Seriously, Jack, look where we are: it's a Walmart parking lot in a factory district. Velour suits are practically a must here, and here you are, dressed like Farmer Bob on his first outing to 'them big cities!' All you need is to lose the sunglasses and add a straw hat, and I can practically hear the 'Green Acres' theme song follow you around. Which one of us do you think is going to stick out?"

Jack laughed and shook his head.

"Neither. No one looks at anyone in this place. I sat here for a while, so I am in a position to know. But I give you the props for thinking this through."

Danny smiled and walked back to his car, his walk springy, almost insolent, and Jack thought that he would probably stick out anywhere, no matter what he was wearing.

xxxxx.

It was over quickly. Conway didn't turn out to be quite the hardened criminal they expected, though his other, lesser crimes were probably numerous. Not their concern: as far as this case went, he was just a father, trying to reconcile with his estranged daughter and help her in any way he could. Agnes - or Margaret - was safe. As safe as anyone with a progressive, debilitating, and eventually fatal disease could be. Huntington's was there, looming over her like a sword from one of those intricate Tarot cards she used to wield. But she was with her family now, and Jack, relating part of the conversation to Danny, told him that she considered that to be a blessing. She recounted to Jack all the horrible symptoms she will have once the disease progressed. "I couldn't do this on my own," she said. "My family will stay with me. Who else would do that?"

Danny threw the blue cap onto the back seat. Time to take the Yukon back to the FBI garage. The case was closed. And not a moment too soon: the leisure suit was really too hot. Did anyone truly spend any leisure hours in something like this?

My family will stay with me. Who else would do that?Maybe Agnes' family, Danny thought. Or Vivian's, to name one. But Danny had seen too much, been through too much in his life to know that "families" took all shapes and forms, and, sometimes, those you were connected to biologically were the last people on Earth you'd go to in a crisis. The last people who'd stick by you in your hour of need.

Until recently, Danny considered this unit to be his family. With Jack as a sort of a father figure, and Viv in a mothering role, and Sam and Martin a couple of contentious but lovable siblings.

And then he thought of all the things they weren't telling each other. Yep, pretty typical family. Dysfunctional, but then again, as he once read somewhere, any family with more than one person in it is dysfunctional.

It made him think of Allie, a 14-year-old they encountered on a case back in January. Allegra Stevens-Newberg. A pompous name for a pretty down-to-earth teenager with a refreshing world-view and a mess for a family. He realized he hasn't spoken to her in weeks. - yet another source of guilt. She hasn't called, to be sure, but then she never did call first. Afraid of imposing, perhaps, or trying to maintain her independence and determined to not ask for help. But Danny could tell she liked their talks during those few meetings they had since January. A cup of coffee for Danny, an ice-cream for Allie, and a talk, usually about nothing specific, certainly nothing pertaining to Allie's precarious family situation. He kept tabs on both impending Stevens-Newberg trials: mother's involuntary manslaughter one, and father's fraud and conspiracy. The charges have been filed, but the wheels of the Justice System rotated slowly, and both erring parents were still at home, in their rarified Upper East Side mention, driving each other and their daughters crazy.

Danny's concern was Allie, the youngest and the most affected by the events. In a moment of connection he had slipped Allie a piece of paper with his phone numbers, inviting her to call him anytime, whenever she needed anything, or even when she didn't. But it was he who ended up calling. Except, in all the excitement of a new relationship, he hadn't done so in more than a month.

Why was it always the bad things that moved us to act, he wondered. It was never the happiness or the triumph that prompted connections. In February he was elated, in March he was content, and April hit hard with Vivian's illness and some cases that spoke to his understanding of the transient nature of life. He thought of his brother, whom he hasn't heard from in months, either. He thought of Nicky - the kid nephew so suddenly discovered and so easily pushed to the back of his mind. And he thought of Allie. Keep your connections, Danny. They are your family, biological and not, pleasant and otherwise. Allie was a delight, his brother was far less so, but in the end, connecting with both took work. Question was whether Danny's faith in family was strong enough to put any work into it.

Danny shook his head. Questionable or not, he would at least call Allie. He owed her his time. He made the connection and she trusted him with it. What was that Agnes said again? Family will stay with you. Who else would do that? How about someone who, whether through guilt or through love, felt bound to you in a way that was not unlike the bond of a family? Danny took out his cell phone and dialed the number.

xxxxxx

"It's the 'High Priestess,' it stands for non-action, unconscious awareness, potential, or mystery."

Rebecca's fingers, long and deft, flipped the Tarot card over, making Samantha flinch. What am I doing here? It wasn't the first time Sam asked herself that during the past hour. It was all still there: the anger, the mistrust, the slight shame of going to these lengths to find some order in her life. To Rebecca's credit, she didn't challenge Samantha's change of attitude toward psychic readings and Tarot cards. She did manage to make the agent somewhat comfortable with her no-nonsense attitude. Much like a psychologist, Rebecca went about her business as if it was a routine thing everyone did, and there was no question of dubiousness or discomfort.

The thing was, Sam was frightened. This woman managed somehow to tap into her concerns and doubts. She went as far as an impromptu reading in their last meeting, grabbing Sam's hands in an attempt to make her believe, and telling her - with that infuriating clear voice and unflinching stare - that Sam was troubled, that she was worried about a sick friend, and that she was going though a tough phase with a man whose name began with an 'M'."

That last one got to Sam. Anyone can have a sick friend, it could be put down to a wild guess on Rebecca's part. Same for the man trouble. What woman didn't have those? But the letter "M" struck a chord. How could she possibly know that? And if she was the real deal, if she somehow was able to see into people's psyches, if she really did have visions, then what did it all mean?

So, here was Sam, the nonbeliever of nonbelievers, sitting in the creepy shop, across the table from a woman she mistrusted profoundly, having - of all things - a psychic reading. My God, the lengths our troubled minds will make us go to! It was all too unsettling. Take those Tarot cards, for instance. They were like a code, open to interpretation, and only meaningful if you chose to learn the language.

Oh, it was too vague, too insufferably open-ended! So, back to what am I doing here? Still, Sam sat through it. If nothing else, it made her face the doubts, arrange her feelings, and, for once, contemplate what it was she was feeling.

"High Priestess? Isn't that a bit religious?"

Rebecca smiled a faraway smile. "Maybe. It's Medieval, for sure. But it doesn't have to have that connotation at all. Like I said, it stands for non-action. Or for potential or unconscious awareness. It's open to your interpretation."

"Great. I am not here to interpret things; I am here so you can interpret them for me." Sam felt irritated again.

"I don't do that," Rebecca's voice was low and smooth, her tone soothing. "I can show you your turmoil and your potential. And you can go with it or not. That's how it works. I can predict or uncover, but I don't comment."

Sam felt the beginning of a headache. "What's this one?" She pointed at the next card the woman flipped over.

"That's 'Justice.' It represents responsibility, decision, and cause and effect."

"Does that mean I have to decide something in the near future? Or take responsibility? Or what?"

"Do you feel you have to? It speaks to you, not to me. Are there things in your life that require clarification? Are you on a fence about something? The card tells you that there are things in your life that will require responsibility, a decision that will have an effect, but whether it's your decision to make or someone else's, that's not for me to tell you. I don't know you, I just see the images."

Sam sighed and nodded for Rebecca to continue.

"This one is 'The Moon'."

"It's pretty," said Sam for the sake of saying something, because the woman's face looked concerned.

"It may be, but the meaning is troubling. It refers to fear, to illusion or imagination, to bewilderment. It can be a good thing, but usually it's not, and I am sensing something from you that tells me your particular bewilderment and illusion is causing you to fear." She dropped her hushed professional voice and spoke directly, "You wouldn't be here otherwise. People don't come to me for clarity alone. They come because they are scared."

And so far you are not helping. Sam didn't say that, but Rebecca must have sensed it. She smiled sadly and moved on. "Here's a clearer one: 'Death' card."

Sam shivered: "Not alloying my fears here, I must say."

"Oh, 'Death' card doesn't mean that. Not literally, anyway. . . . Not in your case, I don't think. I sense worry from you, indecision, fear. I don't see a dark cloud, though, the way I did with Agnes. 'Death' card means ending, transition, or elimination. And it's a good card for you, because whatever decision you are afraid to make is going to be made soon, by you or by circumstances. 'Death,' in this instance, following the 'Moon,' will bring - if nothing else - clarity.

Clarity would be good. Sam thought about today, about her yet another fight with Martin. She didn't like herself much, not today and not lately. She was snappy, irrational, cruel even, for the reasons she was too scared to examine and which were not Martin's fault. She called him selfish, but it was transference really. Martin was rarely selfish, and if he didn't exactly understand what she wanted or needed, it was her own doing.

"You said earlier that you could see the letter 'M.' That I am having troubles with a man whose name starts with 'M.' Truth is, I am having troubles with two men whose names start with that letter. Can any of this suggest a course of action?" She nodded at the Tarot spread in front of her, half ruefully, as if mocking herself and the ridiculousness of her asking something like that.

Rebecca nodded thoughtfully, not surprised. "All it can do is suggest, really. Not the direct course of action, nothing as clear as that. But it can tell you which path not to take. I think it already has."

"Get off the fence, right?" Sam smiled in that same self-deprecating way.

"I can't advise you on how to solve your problems, but I can tell you that fence-sitters are never happy and seldom get anywhere. Making up your mind to pursue one course of action or another can be painful, and there's no guarantee in life that the course you pick is the best one. But what I sense, and what the cards seem to be saying, is that for you nothing could be as unhappy as your current indecision. So, in short, decide, whichever way."

Samantha nodded absentmindedly. Nothing so far was news to her. She could have told all of it before she walked into this shop. But she did feel clearer, as if having Rebecca and the dubious deck of cards confirm what she already knew, was making it easier to deal. Maybe that's why people went to these places: for reinforcements.

"Here's an interesting one: 'Page of Cups.' That's an action card, one that gives directions. You wanted directions, right? It tells you to be emotional, intuitive, intimate, and loving."

"Really? Does it tell me to whom I should be that?" Sam was back to her sarcastic tone. Rebecca ignored it and answered the question:

"Whomever you chose. Don't you see? The outcome of the choice is not important, because, in your heart of hearts, you already made it. You know it, you are just afraid to act on it. What the cards tell you is to chuck the fear and start acting. Be emotional. I sense that's a problem for you, at least outwardly. Be intuitive - you know how to do that, you just don't trust yourself enough to listen. Be intimate. In other words, don't disguise your feelings as something else: talk them out. Tell people how you feel. I'm guessing, it'll make it easier for you and all the 'Ms' in your life. Clarity over indecisions. Intimacy over fear. Love over safety. . . . That's what I'm getting and that's what the cards seem to be telling. But, ultimately, it's up to you."

Sam chuckled: "You say it like it's easy."

"It isn't. And people wouldn't need me if it were. Like I said, I can't carry you to your destination, I can only give directions. And you can take them or find your own way. But you wouldn't have conquered your mistrust and come to me if you were able to find your own way, right?"

"Sadly, yes." Sam shrugged, acknowledging this, but with less bitterness than before. "Or, rather, I think I know the way, but I don't particularly like it. . . . I guess what I was hoping for was for you to tell me, to reassure me that my way would lead me to the right place, the right decision, and that no one will get hurt."

Rebecca laughed suddenly. "You don't ask for much, do you? I cannot possibly reassure you of anything of the sort. I can tell you, from what little you hinted at, that someone will definitely get hurt, and that there is no possible way of knowing if your decision is the right one or not. Not even with all my powers. I can also tell you that you absolutely should follow that decision, because the way things are now everyone is hurt. If you know what I mean."

"I do." Sam got up, ready to leave. "You helped, you know," she said it like a question, as if surprised. Rebecca answered with a smile.

Sam walked toward the door and stopped. On a whim she turned around and came back to the table. She extended her hand and picked up a card on the top of the deck, turning it over.

"The 'Hanged Man'," said Rebecca, her voice careful and controlled. "Letting go, reversal, suspension, sacrifice."

Sam laughed dryly. "I knew it, and I am not even psychic." She wrapped her coat collar tightly around her throat, once again heading for the door.

"I can give you this: don't worry about your sick friend." Rebecca's voice caught up with her, "I sense a good outcome."

Samantha pushed the door to go out. She was worried, and she was still unclear, but, perversely, she felt better than she did in weeks.