Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.
Author's note: I hope I'm not portraying the characters as stupid. I think they are kind-hearted people who are not used to dealing with a constant barrage of evil in their lives, and are trying to deal with it as the honest, loving people that they are. In due time, however, I know that particular dam would break for even the best people, but I don't think I have built up to that point yet. Thanks for reviewing- it does help me shift focus sometimes, to address things I haven't or explain better the things that I have.
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Colby slammed the car back into reverse, swearing profusely through his teeth. The late morning sun was blaring through his front window, making the strong air conditioning useless in preventing sweat from dripping large droplets down into his eyes and mouth. The bitter taste of salt on his tongue made him thirsty, but he had drunk the last of his bottled water over an hour before, and he was stuck with a slightly nauseous feeling in his stomach. Pounding on the gas, he swore again, as the car refused to move, its back wheels tossing another pile of sand onto the growing heap directly behind his rear bumper.
The previous day, Colby's two fellow team members had decided to divide their stakeout time between themselves, in order to allow him to follow up the lead he was currently trying to locate: the commune Thompson had stayed at while pregnant in 1970. Originally thankful for being given the task by Megan, Colby had left Monday evening, glad that for the next two days he would not have to be sitting in a car watching Don's house. Not that he minded that assignment; he obviously did not want Thompson to further aggravate his friend's precarious condition and was glad to provide the guard duty as a preventive measure. But he was a man who liked to keep moving, and traveling to the Sonoma Valley area was a much-appreciated alternative to the continuous stillness that comprised the stakeouts. In addition, it was wine country, and he had been sure that the trip amidst the exotic-looking vineyards would be quite pleasant. He had even rented a convertible to make the trip, figuring he should take advantage of the fresh air while he could. However, a part of him felt guilty for leaving his two comrades behind to sit in their stifling cars for twelve-hour stakeouts instead of their usual eight-hour ones. On the other hand, he had not obtained permission from Merrick to take the trip, so he had been forced to call off from work and use one of his personal sick days, which alleviated a portion of the guilt; albeit, a small portion.
His current predicament was clearing away all the previous feelings of thankfulness and guilt he'd had towards Megan and David. The car he had rented, and which was the object of his anger, had its rear wheels enmeshed within four inches of sand. And Colby could not figure out why he could not get out. He shifted gears again, trying to rock the car free, but only managed to further upset his stomach with the motion.
Having spent Monday night in San Francisco, Colby had gotten up early Tuesday morning and taken a leisurely drive along Highway 101, heading to his destination. Getting into Sonoma Valley had not been too difficult, though he had almost missed the turnoff. The first two hours driving had been wonderful, the scented air of the wineries intoxicating, especially in comparison to the toxic air of Los Angeles that he was so used to breathing. He had stopped at a small stand at the side of the road to check his directions, looking over the notes he had made about his destination, putting the top up on the convertible as the day had become too hot to do without air conditioning.
According to their resources, the commune-now-organic farm was nestled almost unseen between the outskirt lands of two large wineries. Both of the wineries had been trying for years to buy the owner out, but she had steadfastly refused. The stubborn woman's name was Caleb Whitehall, and by all accounts, she continued to live the simple life espoused by the hippies of the sixties and seventies, though she had caved when it came to avoiding electricity, at some point deciding the modern convenience was an acceptable luxury, and setting herself up with a generator by the early eighties. But she was still archaic in her farming methods, and eclectic in her beliefs, claiming a religion that was part Native American, part Indian mysticism, part political correctness. The woman was definitely unique, as was her organic farm. She mostly grew alfalfa sprouts, potatoes and baby carrots, and refused to sell her produce to anyone that did not accept her beliefs (which was essentially no one, as they were her beliefs and hers alone); but she generously gave the food- without charge- to anyone who would sit and talk to her for an hour. David had stated his professional assessment was that the woman must be 'loony'; Megan had refused to disagree.
After reading his notes, Colby had bought some bottled water at the farm stand, and then had easily made his way through the eastern part of Sonoma Valley. But then he had headed toward the northern base of Sonoma Mountain, where the organic farm was located, and had gotten lost. Somehow, his directions had led him up a steep road that suddenly detoured to nowhere; the flat land around him went endlessly, with a couple deep dips here and there to make it interesting, its only nearby occupants seeming to be grass and an occasional tree. In was in the midst of turning around that his rear tires had gone off the side of the road and gotten stuck, each one spinning relentlessly in a thin but deep strip of dry sand that lay parallel to the weathered blacktop.
Swearing under his breath at a steady pace, Colby threw his door open and stepped out into one of those rare hot days, when the sun seemed to be settled on the earth and the air was fluctuating with the heat. Bending over, he was about to dig around his tires when a voice spoke from behind him, making the agent startle to his feet and reach for his gun.
"Got a shovel if you need one."
Colby released his grip from his gun. He put a hand under the bottom of the white t-shirt he wore and lifted it to his face, wiping away some of the sweat from his brow, momentarily exposing a tanned and muscular chest. Dropping the shirt back to his body, he swiped another hand through his damp hair while he tried to blink salty liquid from his eyes. He realized the shirt had been useless in drying his face; sweat had thoroughly soaked it within the few minutes he had stepped away from the car's air conditioning, and he was aware that the cotton fabric was now clinging wetly against his chest. Feeling a bead of sweat slipping down the back of his thigh, he swore at himself for having worn jeans when shorts would have been a smarter choice.
"Thanks. I would appreciate one."
"Got one back at the house, if you don't mind a little walk. I'm just ending my morning hike and was heading back that way."
"Might as well. Not going anywhere without it."
Colby shut off his car's engine, locked the door and then joined the woman who had approached him. They started through a narrow path, one that he would never have found on his own. He wondered where they could be headed, as he could not see a house anywhere in his line of sight, when the path took a sharp turn upwards and he was able to see a small farmhouse settled into one of the dips in the land, an old barn sitting behind it as well as about an acre of farmed land. It took twenty minutes to get to the house, as the path tended to wind back and forth instead of heading to its destination in a straight line. When they finally reached the house, Colby sat on a rocking chair resting on its front porch. Taking a deep breath, he was amazed at the view that was afforded to him. From his chair, he could see Sonoma Mountain, miles away, its shadow touching the tip of a valley laced with the vineyards of a winery. How he managed to slip past that was beyond his comprehension, as the magnitude of his current view prevented Colby from doing anything else but sit back in the rocking chair awestruck.
A tall glass of tea suddenly appeared on a stick table next to Colby. Grabbing it, he drank it down thirstily, ignoring the fact that it did not taste like any kind of tea he'd ever had before. For a split second, warning bells that signaled the presence of inbred people and chainsaws assailed his mind, but the peacefulness of his surroundings quickly put his generational fears to rest.
Licking a wet tongue across his top lip, Colby sank back into his chair. His eyes tried to follow the path he and the woman had taken, till he finally found his car. It had seemed like they had walked miles, but they had actually walked less than one.
"Thank you. I really needed that." Colby turned to the woman who sat next to him in another rocking chair. The agent guessed her age to be late forties, maybe early fifties. She had long brown hair held in a ponytail, a softly tanned face with just a hint of wrinkles and an endearing smile; and she was very thin, though she was almost as tall as him. Colby was pleased to see the woman had brought an entire pitcher of tea out with her, and he politely asked her for a refill. She put down her own glass and refilled both of their glasses, taking up her drink when she finished and swirling the ice cubes within as she addressed Colby.
"Of course. When you have plenty, you should give plenty, that's what I always say- uh, Mr.?"
Colby dried his hand on his jeans, and held it out to the woman. "Granger, Colby Granger, ma'am. Actually, I should say Special Agent Colby Granger. I'm with the FBI."
The woman's smile slipped from her face as she barely shook his hand. She sat back in her seat and crossed her arms, her hand pressed so firmly around her glass of tea that Colby was afraid it would crack. "Really. And what brings the FBI all the way out here, to the middle of nowhere?"
It was apparent to Colby that she did not trust the Bureau, and that it was possible she did not trust law enforcement or the government in general. He thought it might be the reason she lived out in the middle of nowhere, as she herself had referred to her farm.
"I'm looking for an organic farm, and the woman who runs it. Her name's Caleb Whitehall. Any chance you know her, ma'am?" Colby took another gulp of tea, staring at the woman as she contemplated her answer. He was positive he had found the person he was looking for, but he did not want to be too obtrusive, afraid she would clam up and refuse to talk to him.
Working her jaw back and forth, Caleb finally admitted, "Yes. I know Ms. Whitehall- you happen to be looking at her."
"That so!" Colby said innocently. "I am so glad to meet you, ma'am." He offered his hand again. This time, she shook it with more strength, disarmed by his sweet smile and respectful manners. "I hope you don't mind, but I really would like to ask you a few questions, ma'am."
"No, of course not. But you have to understand, I'm not used to having people about, especially those representing the government, people such as yourself. I can not and will not answer any questions concerning my current political views, or any questions concerning my religious beliefs."
Colby grinned. "I understand, ma'am. I would not and could not ask you any questions concerning those things. My interest is in the commune that was run here from," Colby pulled out his notes and slipped a small nib of pencil from his jeans pocket, trying to read the smeared writing on the damp paper, "1968 through 1971. Specifically, I want to ask about one of the people who stayed here for a while- a Melinda Thompson."
Glass shattered on the porch as Caleb dropped her drink. Colby sprang from his chair and bent to his knees, quickly gathering the loose shards into a small pile. Caleb swept into the house and returned with a broom and dust pan, helping the agent clean up the mess. When all was cleared, Colby appraised the woman's appearance and was surprised that her tan seemed to have faded, leaving her with a pale and fragile look.
"You don't look well, ma'am." Colby led her back to a chair, and then offered her his glass of tea. She readily took it, sucking down the remains of the drink, and then panting heavily from having held her breath the whole time the liquid had cascaded down her throat.
Colby waited patiently for the woman to compose herself. When her breathing returned to normal, and she finally looked at him, he sat down in the rocker by her side, and then began his questions again. "I think, ma'am, from your behavior, that you may remember something about Melinda Thompson?"
Carefully putting down Colby's glass, Caleb looked out across her land, staring at something Colby couldn't see. Starting to rock gently, Caleb answered, "Yes, I do. But I'm not sure if it's something you need to know."
"Whatever information you have would be appreciated. There's a strong possibility it could really help a friend of mine, ma'am."
"This friend," Caleb asked, her gaze switched to Colby, "is he an FBI agent like you?"
"Yes, ma'am, he is."
"And would you say he is a good man?"
There was no hesitation in Colby's response to her question; he had learned the answer to it the first time he had worked on a case with Don. "Yes, he is a good man. He's an honest, kind, caring, honorable man."
Closing her eyes, Caleb mulled over all the praise Colby had said about his friend, a strong conviction obvious in every word he said.
Colby rocked in his chair, keeping the same gentle motion as the woman besides him. His instinct was to rush, try to push her into revealing anything she had to say. But their surroundings relaxed him, and he found it easy to let her set the pace, which was slow and languid. Reaching for his glass, Colby ignored the fact that a stranger had just drunk out of it and refilled it with tea, taking small sips while he enjoyed a tranquility that did not often visit his life.
As the sun began to move towards the western half of the sky, Caleb spoke, remorse in her voice, "Did you ever do something that you regret doing? Something that seemed like a good idea at the time, but ended up being a bad one." She opened her eyes and held out her hand for the glass Colby was drinking from; like buddies sharing a canteen, he passed it to her.
"Yes, ma'am," Colby responded quietly. "Sometimes I think half my life has been spent making decisions I later regretted, ones that adversely affected the lives of those around me."
"It sounds like your soul has aged faster than your physical presence, Agent Granger."
"Maybe, ma'am. War tends to do that to a man." Colby allowed a thin covering to fall from his heart, revealing a vulnerability he let few people know was there. "I try not to think of how many missteps I made during a battle, or even when planning an attack; the defenses that should have been in place, the approaching people I should have seen but didn't, the ones I clearly saw as I had to leave them behind, no hope of saving them…many of them friends, good friends." The taste of salt tinged the tip of Colby's tongue; with the afternoon sunbeams bathing the valley with tempered heat, he was able to fool himself into thinking he was sweating again. The afternoon glare made the vineyards of the distant landscape into a surrealistic lattice, and the agent found himself an unwilling witness to his own battle-torn past, unbidden images tearing up the tranquility of the land. As if from a great distance, he heard Caleb refill his glass, then a moment later it was propped in his hand, the frosty glass shocking his hot skin, whipping him back to the present.
One long draw of tea and Colby was able to continue speaking. "Did your mistake have to do with Melinda Thompson, ma'am?"
"Yes. You're too young to remember the Hippy Era, as it is so poetically called."
"My scars are from Iraq, ma'am, not Vietnam."
"Though some people get confused, it really was a different time, a different war." She stopped rocking in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. "We were all idealistic- maybe not the same ideas, but I think every young person had something they believed in, something they wanted to stand for. At least, I thought we did."
"So you started this commune?"
"Yes, as a way to stand for our beliefs that people should live as close as possible with nature- you know, grow our own food, be self-sustaining, and not rely on big corporations. At that time, it was not unusual to have these thoughts. Say something like that today and they want to send you to the loony bin."
Colby winced, remembering what David had said about the woman.
"So, was your commune popular, ma'am?"
"Yes, for its size, it was quite popular. I guess its location was a benefit, too. During the three years we were a commune, must have had hundreds, maybe thousands of people come stay with us."
"Was Melinda an important part of this commune? Our sources indicate she only stayed a few months in 1970, yet you easily remember her despite the large number of people who came here."
"No, Melinda was not an important part of this commune. But it was her presence during that summer that ultimately led to its demise."
"How could she be the reason for a successful commune to close down, ma'am?"
Caleb rose from her chair and took the empty tea pitcher into the house. When she returned, she had another glass and a plate along with a new batch of tea. She filled both their glasses with some of the fresh liquid.
"It's way past the lunch hour, Agent Granger. Would you like some cake?"
"I think it would be alright for you to call me Colby, ma'am."
"Then I think it would be alright for you to call me Caleb, and please, drop the ma'am."
"Agreed." Colby poked a finger at the cake. It was shaped like a loaf of bread, and for the life of him, the agent could not figure out why she called it cake.
Seeing his concern, Caleb explained, "It's wheat cake. Flour, eggs, milk…just your basic ingredients, no wicked potion."
"Just out of curiosity," Colby asked, sitting back in his chair after politely refusing a piece, "what makes this cake different from bread?"
"I added a teaspoon of honey to the mix, to sweeten it up."
Oh, he thought, of course.
Out loud, he restated his earlier question. "What did Melinda do to this place to cause it to shut down?"
"It was nothing that she did to this place. It was something I did to her. Remember when I asked if you had ever done anything you regretted? Well, I did one thing that I truly regret, and it was that one mistake that shut this place down. All the way back in 1970- I tried to live with what I had done, go on with my life, my ideas- but I couldn't face other people. I shut this place down a year later, and have been alone ever since, my only company guilt."
"What could you have done that was so horrible that you've hidden from the world for over thirty years?"
Leaning across to Colby, she gripped his arm, her fingers digging into his flesh.
"I killed that woman's child."