DISCLAIMER: Please see all previous; no profits here, borrowed only!
THANKS for being out there. Would love to hear if this should keep going...
BRADENTON, FLORIDA: February 5, 2020 1:07 P.M.
The condominium wasn't large but was tidy, the living room cozy, inviting...homey. As Tony sat on the couch, waiting, he looked around, seeing photographs...old ones: of a child, of children, elderly parents ...and a formal Navy portrait, a dozen years old...Tony recognized the face from the files he'd reviewed before coming here...Denny Parks.
"I hope this is alright..." Gayle Parks walked back into the room, balancing the cup carefully, handing it to Tony and watching, with a hopeful look, as he took it. "I'm not much of a coffee drinker and when my coffee maker broke a few months ago..." A girlish blush colored her cheek, and Tony knew that yet again, a female was reacting to him, warming to him because of his appearance. It wasn't the first time he'd allowed a female's attraction get him what he wanted, on a case, or...otherwise. He showed her his wide, charming smile, partly borne of the satisfaction in knowing he still had it...
"This is great, thanks." Tony tugged at the tea bag, hoping he'd be able to drink the stuff, now as addicted to coffee as was Gibbs after imitating his mentor for so long. "I'm sorry to have to dredge all this up so long after Denny's death..."
"No, it's alright, but I don't really understand." He had been purposefully vague on the telephone, and, still wanting to be helpful but unsure what she could do, the widow looked at him in mild confusion. "You said...his team mates brought up something about him recently...?"
Tony shifted, wanting to take this carefully. He hadn't mentioned the homicides on the phone, not wanting to bring up potentially disturbing news until he'd gotten inside, had her face to face. "Ms. Parks... two of your husband's team mates–Jack Halladay and Cal Palmer–they were each murdered within the last couple weeks. With Denny gone, and two others who've died, unrelated to this...it leaves only three still living from the unit. Ma'am...we're worried that someone is targeting the men from your husband's unit."
"Why?" she breathed. "What did they do?"
"Nothing–" he frowned, not expecting her words. "Nothing we know of... But..." he paused, seeking his way, "one of the men–Cal Palmer–got a telephone call not long before he died, from someone he thought was your husband..."
"Well, that's impossible..." she blinked. "Agent DiNozzo, Denny's been gone all this time..."
"I know..." he agreed quickly, when he was not yet one hundred percent certain that Parks was gone. "Forgive me for asking, Ms. Parks, but...can you think of anyone this might be...?"
"No." She said firmly, eyes shut, shaking her head. "It must be some sick joke..."
"If so..." Tony pressed, sitting forward, "Why? Why now? Has anyone contacted you, anything come up recently involving Denny at all?"
"No, nothing." The widow opened her eyes to look back at the agent, steadily. "It's been..." She paused, suddenly less certain; it was as if she was suddenly unable to remember how long it had been, and that fact bothered her. "...so long..."
Her last words convinced Tony he'd been right, and he wondered briefly why that might be significant. "My file shows it as being right around ten years ago." He watched her, carefully. "No one has contacted you or made any reference to the fact it's just now been a decade?"
She sat a little straighter. "No" she said firmly. "Should they have?" The question was unexpected, and he shrugged slightly toward her, stating nothing. She elaborated, "I mean...does the Navy usually contact the family again, after...well, after the original notification, after the funeral?"
Tony's expression softened with his understanding. "Oh...no, not that I've heard of."
"...because he was killed in the line...but of course, you knew that too, didn't you?" At his nod, Mrs. Parks fidgeted with the napkin she still held from carrying his tea. At that moment Tony noted that she had not made anything for herself, and filed it away in case it wasn't completely useless. "I just thought ...maybe, because of that..."
"No, but it would be a nice idea, wouldn't it?" Tony didn't really expect anything from this small piece of bait he threw out, but he wanted to see her reaction–something here was amiss and he couldn't put his finger on it, but his years of experience told him there was more under the surface than he was seeing at the moment. Wishful thinking? No, more than that...but maybe just a lonely woman made a bit loopy from losing her husband when she was a young wife and mother...from what he could see, she was still alone. And though he did not have a lot of experience in dealing with young widows, he had known his share of loopy women—and had worked closely with a man who had a radar for them after four divorces and a recent separation...
"Maybe you could pass that on..." She spoke again. The calm was back, but now Tony wasn't as sure of the calm in those blue eyes...
"I will." He would just keep it on the burner, let it all cook a little. He really had nothing from her and he didn't want to start raising ghosts where there really were none... "Anything else you can think of that might give me some ideas? The three men still living were your husband's team mates. I'm sure he'd want us to do what we could..."
"Yes, I'm sure he would."
Tony wavered, not wanting to, but unable to ignore his cop's gut instincts: she had merely repeated his own words, not with any particular emotion, but not empty of it either. And it appeared to be the last thing she was going to say to his question.
He nodded, standing. "Well, I won't take more of your time, but I would ask that if you have any ideas at all..." He tried to give her one of his more effective looks, the 'only you can help me' look that he saved more for first dates than for perps...effective with both, nonetheless. "You have my card. We'd like to keep these guys safe."
"I understand." She offered a small smile, and let him go ahead of her toward the door. As he went to the hall, he noted the first apparently recent picture in her collection, and asked, "Who's this?" Actually, the resemblance was eye-catching.
Gayle followed his gesture to the sober face and cadet's uniform posed before a flag, and smiled for the first time in several minutes. "That's my son, Gregory. He's at the Academy."
"Annapolis..." Tony nodded, noting that the young man's photo showing so similar a pose to that of his father made him look as if he was a duplicate of the man. "Does he look so much like his father in real life?"
She looked back up to Tony at his question, curious, but no more than a mother's proud interest motivating it, as far as he could tell. "People say so." she smiled gently.
"When will he be out?'
She remained looking at Tony, again, without any animosity or scheme, as if just curious as to why he asked. He tried to look as if he were just being polite. "Oh...next year" she smiled, and he was left with the feeling she was purposefully being vague with him now.
As he walked to the rental car with which he'd been saddled, he reflected how that feeling was certainly apropos...because it was exactly how this part of his report was going to sound...
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON: February 5, 2020 5:20 P.M.
Fogle Towers
Logan's stubborn refusal to admit defeat, even a momentary one, was resulting in a wicked headache, both from hunger and from eye strain. This wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last, that he'd sat like this amid unconnected bits of information, not knowing what was relevant and what was just clutter, unwilling to leave the random clues as he tried in all the ways he could conceive to see a pattern. But this time he was particularly unsettled, given all the circumstances. It wasn't just that someone so close to him was likely a serial killer's target, but that his own remaining pet skeletons kept rattling, reminding him of his anticipated guest. His concentration wasn't only shaken by his selfish obsessions as they bobbed into view, unannounced moment to moment, but by his apparent inability to stop worrying about his own petty insecurities long enough to find the connection needed to keep Bling safe. The thought, even private, shamed him...
The phone rang, the sudden interruption at least pulling Logan back from the screen a couple inches. He breathed out the gasp he'd drawn as it shrilled, reached for the phone, and rubbed his eyes, wearily. "Yeah," he offered.
"So, my pager's been mighty quiet." Max's humored voice nudged at his mood, her appearance in the gloom bringing a tiny glimmer of peace onto his brooding. Max was having that effect these days, he noted yet again, just as if she was there, telling him things would be alright... "Thought you might have some big secret for me to suss out, some coordinates or headquarters or something..."
"No, not one damn thing, Max. Sorry to disappoint you." So much for her bringing him some peace. He glared again at the screen, stabbing at the keys to yet again run through the data, angrily...
"Look, Logan..." the teasing tone was dropped, now. Time was that she'd just be irritated by his pissiness, but this time, he'd let her in, at least a little. And because of that...because she was, every day, learning to know more about this complicated man... she knew full well he wasn't snapping at her, but at himself. "What can I do?"
"Nothing. That's just it; there's nothing to point to who's next...when...or even who this guy is...unless you believe in ghosts..."
"Maybe the guy isn't really dead..." she said for probably what was the tenth time.
"Max..." Logan sighed. They'd been through this, and Bling had been clear: gunshot wound to the forehead, immediate range, significant caliber, even more significant damage; known victim, multiple IDs. The man with whom Bling served, with whom the unit was en route...he was most assuredly deceased. But Max had a point...he was the main connecting factor in the two homicides...
"Well, just...if you need some reconnaissance" she offered, lamely.
But the offer again soothed...he heard her support and felt its strength. Logan let his breath out in a long, steady exhale. "I know, Max; thanks..."
"Look, you're probably livin' on coffee again, and haven't eaten since yesterday." He hadn't. "I can stop by the Asian Market and bring some food..."
"No...thanks, but I'm kind of in the middle of things..."
"C'mon, Logan" Max protested, "Lo mein...subgum...kung pao chicken..." He heard his stomach growl, as if on cue, but drew a breath to protest yet again. Before he could, however, she insisted, "You know you're not going to work any better or think any smarter without some food to keep you going." She heard his thwarted response die, and suggested, "I won't stay unless you want another pair of eyes looking at things. But you need to eat, and maybe take a short break while you do..."
She was right; he knew it, she knew he did, too. Eyes closed, forehead propped wearily into his free hand as the other held the phone, he felt a small smile curl at his lips in spite of himself. "The Asian Market, you said..." The smile grew a little more, softening the harsh lines of his exhaustion. "Because they're not bad..."
"I can be there around 6:30." Max offered, "Can you make it 'til then?"
" I think so..." Logan straightened, the balm of Max's attentions and concern better than any drug. "Thanks, Max." He felt the smile still lingering. "It sounds like just what I need..."
JASPER COUNTY, INDIANA: February 6, 2020 1:00 P.M.
Interstate Highway 65
McGee glanced surreptitiously at the surprisingly sober face of the man with whom he'd worked for six years, before he left NCIS and went over to the Bureau. Tony had always taken the cases seriously, if not his approach to work, but now...was this just being team leader that quieted him? It certainly couldn't be that Peter Pan was growing up...
"So what do you think, McGee? You believe in ghosts?"
Tony's question was almost as much of a surprise in its suddenness as was his expression. "Haven't run across any yet. But I'm keeping an open mind." McGee offered a hopeful smile at the man who had made his life a living hell for those first few months on the team, unwittingly (so Timothy would always believe) toughening him up for the job, making him think faster, more competitively, making him more of a an agent than he would have been, without Tony riding him. At least, faster than he would have been, McGee smiled to himself. "It's probably more important to ask whether or not Cal Palmer did."
Tony chortled, not really with humor, more with admiration. "Good point." He sat up a bit straighter. "And from what his wife said, he wasn't the type."
They had spent ninety minutes with the crime lab investigators and their files before heading out to see Chris Palmer, the wife who initially made investigators aware of this possible SEAL connection with her mention of her husband's call from Parks, from beyond the grave. Tony had to hand it to her; even before he and McGee had appeared, their appointment had to be changed twice to accommodate Tony's flight changes; the first, moved up a day to allow for his connection from Chicago on to Seattle; the second, to move it back a day but earlier, to allow his delayed arrival into Indianapolis once he decided he needed more time in Bradenton to look into Gayle Parks' background. Mrs. Palmer had been gracious and as helpful as she could be; still grieving, she had nothing more to offer the investigation but patiently allowed DiNozzo and McGee to exhaust all questions and even ask her to join them in speculation before leaving her again to her mourning...
"Nope..." Tony heaved a sigh, frustrated. He knew that Chris Palmer had nothing more for them, and he felt some relief that at least until whatever prosecution might be involved it was likely she could be left in peace. "I don't think we'll find anything else from this one, McGee, but if you want to have your people take the processing of the information we collected I'd be happy to leave it all in your lap."
"Sure, Tony." In spite of the years, his sterling performance reviews and his own quick rise in the FBI, McGee still felt a flush of satisfaction that Tony asked him. "Do you have someone you want to get this to coordinate it with the other material you're receiving, or do you want me to send it directly to you?"
"Both, if you would..."
"Sure." He repeated. It was hard to tell if it was just the case, or this current Tony, or his own growth, but this peer-respect he sensed from Tony made McGee feel ten feet tall. He'd show Tony–hell, he'd show the agency–that they'd trained him well. "If there's anything there at all, Tony, we'll find it for you." McGee promised.
"I know you will, probie" Tony finally grinned his way. "Think I wasted all my time on you for nothing?"
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON: February 6, 2020 3:20 P.M.
"Ready to go?" Bling had come into the penthouse later than he'd planned; he sensed Logan's reticence the day before and had a feeling this was going to be another battle. He'd been with Logan long enough to know that the man's family was not only messed up, but they'd thoroughly messed with Logan's otherwise sensible head.
This cousin of Logan's, who was heading the investigation and who was making the trip to see him– everything Logan said–and didn't say–since mentioning Agent DiNozzo's coming told Bling that this would be yet another hurdle at which Logan would balk...the man held some special place in Logan's past which meant that his employer was going to fight the inevitable meeting...
"Look, Bling...
He knew it...
"I..."
Bling stood in the hall, looking calmly at the man before him, frazzled, ill-rested...Bling lifted his eyebrows, waiting. It didn't matter what excuse he'd try. They both know that Bling saw through them all, and that Logan was, yet again, unable to face real life, knocking at his door. What he hadn't expected, however, was the man's bare candor...
"I...uh..." He looked away, unable to look his friend in the eye. When he spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically flat, low. "I'd like to pass, this time. I don't know that Tony even knows about my being in the chair..." He paused, and managed. "So, for this first time that he sees me...I'd like it to be on home turf. Here. And..." he sighed, shakily; to his credit, it was the first time he'd faltered, "without having to witness a transfer..."
Bling paused only the barest moment, to then nod and agree, quietly. "Okay." Not taking his eyes off of Logan, he asked, in quiet follow up, "but you'll be here, when we get back?"
The flicker of light in Logan's eyes told Bling a retreat had been considered...but responsibility had won out, and Logan nodded, silently. Bling tipped his head, in challenge.
"Then you won't mind my taking the Aztek–I'm on empty and will be way too late if I stop..."
There was an undeniable ripple in Cale's eyes of his feeling cornered, trapped...but he swallowed, dropped his eyes, nodded...then looked back up. "Sure. Keys are on the table..."
"Okay." Bling's tone was actually gentle as he nudged, "He's your cousin, Logan, and from what you said, you were close, for a time. You know you'd regret not being here..."
"I'm kinda stuck here now, aren't I?"
The words were petulant, but the tone wasn't, really: Bling knew he wanted to stay, wanted to see this cousin. He shrugged. "It'll work out, man. It always does–especially with someone close to you. It has so far..."
Bling knew it had, and knew there was nothing Logan could say to contradict him. Logan clearly had the same thoughts, because he appeared to concede. "I'll be here..." he murmured.
And Bling nodded, saying nothing. The hand he clapped on Logan's shoulder as he passed said more than any words he could offer at that moment...
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON: February 6, 2020 3:25 P.M.
Sector 9; Fogle Towers
His phone had rung three times already in the two minutes since Bling had left for the airport; once Matt; twice, Max... He couldn't answer; the pain hung too heavily to speak, yet...this was the final hurdle, wasn't it, the last person in his life from whom he craved approval, maybe even pride. His parents were gone; others like Max, Bling...they knew it all, had seen it all, hadn't really known him any other way. And Bennett was okay with it now.
But Tony...? Somehow he'd believed this day would never come, and that he could pretend...
After a beat, he shifted, drew a deep breath. He'd wanted to avoid this, but Bling...always Bling...he had made him promise to face his cousin, had insured the promise by taking Logan's only avenue of escape. No escape, because they both damn well knew that no matter how much money he might have, it took forever and a day for a cab to arrive, even here in the moneyed sector...
And so cornered, reminding himself yet again that he always did the right thing, Logan dutifully lifted his phone to return the calls made in such quick succession...they all knew where to find him, Logan thought morosely...always here, safe; dependable...captive...
Before he could dial, the phone jangled again and this time it showed the number of the building's super, whatever about. Logan just stared at the jangling phone dumbly, the ache blanketing him and the sound reminding him that there was no escape, not from Tony's seeing him as he was now, not from the chair or the penthouse or the responsibility or the ever ringing phone from those who knew he'd be there, tied to the computer, tied to the chair...
When this call eased and the place was again silent, tomblike, Logan found himself putting the phone down in his lap and moving out of the computer room, back into his bedroom, toward his large, walk-in closet...
Walk-in, he snorted bitterly, remembering Bling's pronouncement of how fortuitous it was, that this was big enough for a roll-in, too...
Logan slowly turned toward the inner side of the large closet door and, almost as if in physical pain, let his eyes crawl up slowly to consider the image there that he didn't face too often these days–himself, floor to crown, in a full length mirror. It was the form that would greet his cousin when he arrived in a bare handful of minutes, his broken body encased in the chair upon which he relied...
With a shaky breath, Logan tried to assess fairly. His chest had broadened some as his legs had grown thinner...the cargoes he wore were loose, lectures from Bling insistent that the clothing he wore on his unfeeling lower half had to be loose and non-constricting, since he wouldn't be able to tell if his circulation was suffering...
Swallowing hard, Logan stared at the khaki trousers, baggy and awkward-looking to him suddenly, designer label notwithstanding, and for the millionth time wondered if the loose fit made his ever thinning legs look less shrunken, or more...and as his breathing quickened into shaky gasps, fighting the emotion overwhelming him, he felt the looming despair borne of this inevitable haplessness, his inability to even once show his childhood hero that he'd become a man of whom they both could be proud...
The phone, still in his lap, shrilled again, demanding again. And with a rage born of many months, Logan twisted sharply at the waist as he hurled the offending phone across the room, hard, to gash the wall and explode outward in a firework-shower of colorful plastic shards, raining down across a wide expanse of his bed and floor.
And once again, the penthouse was tomblike in its silence...
OUTSKIRTS, SEATTLE, WASHINGTON: February 6, 2020 4:20 P.M.
Sea-Tac Airport
Bling went alone to the gate where the flight from Chicago was beginning to disgorge its passengers. Standing back slightly, behind squealing children and emotional relatives calling to the some of those appearing from the passageway, he watched the figures emerge in a slowly moving line and scanned for potential candidates. Given the vague information he had for age, height, and appearance, he rejected many, considered a couple, until a face and form bobbed into view: medium brown hair tentatively sprinkled with grey, an athletic, fit build on a man not really all that far from his own father's age, with a dimple and a laughing grin for the flight attendant at the gate who turned to speak with him with more animation than just the usual business class faux-familiarity. Bling didn't need to hear the waggish comment to guess what was said, seeing the woman's face light up for the unmistakable green eyes that were alive and intelligent...
Despite himself, Bling grinned, shaking his head, unable to move just yet to break the spell, enjoying this moment of anonymity. Uncanny... Sure, there was some grey hair, and a few lines across the brow with the tiny crow's feet. But the fifteen years between cousins was nearly bridged into nothing by Logan's frequent exhaustion taking its toll, and his elder cousin's apparently lighthearted approach to life...
Same mold. No question. Must be the Cale genes, Bling chuckled to himself, as he finally shifted to move forward. And with his first tiny movement, the green eyes swung his way, assessing. If he'd had any question before, he no longer did: the playboy was a cop. The eyes missed nothing...
...xxx...xxx...xxx...xxx...xxx...xxx...xxx...
"Don't know why Logan didn't just tell me there was such a strong resemblance." Bling held out a hand in an offer to grab one of the man's bags–and with an appreciative grin he was given the smaller carry on.
"You think there is?" Tony's asked, distractedly, as he glanced around the place. "Never saw it myself."
"It's striking." Bling was still chuckling, still struck by the oddity of talking to such a completely different person inside such a familiar face. "You've heard it before?"
"Yeah, most of the time we went anyplace together" Tony assured himself things looked unthreatening and quiet–though he rather wished Bling wasn't parading out in open places like the airport until they had a better handle on the SEAL killer. He set off beside Bling, who had started walking down the concourse at a serious clip.
"Any checked luggage?" Bling asked.
"No." Tony had no problem keeping up–yet couldn't help but wonder why Bling was here instead of Logan. In all the years he'd known Logan, he'd never known him to pull anything like the Cale 'send the minions' routine, so he didn't think it was that. Still...
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON: February 6, 2020 4:50 P.M.
I-5 Enroute; Aztek interior
Tony watched the man behind the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead, eyes that were trained, skillful. Tony had seen some cops that vigilant, but not nearly as many as the intelligence or military personnel who were. He tried, "I thought Logan was planning on picking me up."
"He was" the man answered immediately, "but at the last minute, his plans changed. He'll be home when we get you there."
Tony nodded, watching Seattle materializing outside his windows. He'd been to the place three or four times since the Pulse and knew it had been hit hard, as had most larger cities in the country, but he noted now that it didn't show any of the signs of recovery he'd seen taking place in the District, or elsewhere along the Eastern seaboard. Some of the smaller towns and rural areas across the country were crawling back too, from all reports. Maybe it was just making its way more slowly out west. Still...already the city looked even bleaker than he'd remembered, maybe just by comparison...or maybe because it was...
"How long have you worked for him?" He turned back to the dark face.
Tony saw a tiny chink in the armor, the slightest of twitches, in the corner of his eye. "Full time–or, nearly full time, about eight months." The man paused and added, information clearly significant to him, "I'd met him a couple years before that, though."
"What do you do?"
This time it was a small shift in the eye, as if something he'd said clarified an uncertainty. "I'm a physical therapist. I also work as a personal trainer, usually with people who have gone through some therapy and now just want to continue with physical training and fitness." For the first time since he started driving, Ingrum looked over at Tony and seemed to assess his reaction to the information.
Was he being assessed, too? It dawned on Tony, then...why the look..why Logan had a 'change of plans.' He hadn't spoken to Logan, Tony reflected guiltily, since he'd heard about the shooting. As far as Logan knew, he might not even have heard about it–it was only when he was home last time, when he happened to look at some snapshots Aunt Margo sent of Bennett's wedding. Apparently he was the only one to give them more than a cursory look, because he was the first to notice that the best man, barely visible in the one shot of the ceremony that included him, was indeed his cousin, grinning happily from a seated position. A second photo, from the reception at home, confirmed the seated position was Logan's–in a wheelchair. Within the day Tony had telephoned Bennett and had been told the bleak truth about his cousin. More than a month had passed since then, but he hadn't found the words that would let him pick up the telephone and talk with Logan...
Suddenly, the case–the murders–would change all that. Small world. And the man he'd come to see– or, one of them–was scrutinizing him, probably trying to decide if the reunion would be a shock to him. Well, Tony reasoned, this was the man to ask, if he was overseeing Logan's recovery. Although from the way Bennett spoke there wasn't much recovery anticipated...
Not sure of the best approach for this personal information on his cousin, he decided the straightforward, honest approach was best with this man–and he admitted his embarrassing ignorance. "Look, I... I should have called Logan before all this came up, but..." No acting needed for this one, Tony mused to himself. Not like undercover at all. "I didn't know that Logan had been hurt til just a few weeks ago, and then..." His pause wasn't that long, was it? He was aware of the tires' hum on the pavement... and suddenly, for whatever reason, it dawned on him, what the lever was, the one near the steering wheel that Bling wasn't using...
...this was Logan's car...
He swallowed. Some investigator, he grimaced inwardly. He was here for a case, not a personal visit...but some things he needed to know before they arrived, and by his best guess, with only one checkpoint to go, they could be at Logan's place in twenty minutes...
Tony drew a breath. "I didn't know what I would say. I put off calling, because I didn't know how..." he admitted. "When we spoke the other day, he sounded...good. Pretty much himself." Tony stared at the buildings ahead, unseeing. "Is he doing alright?"
With another glance his way, Ingrum's eyes now softened into an understanding look, and one that appeared to be an acceptance of sorts. This man was more than a trainer or therapist, Tony knew at that moment. He was a protector, a gatekeeper...a bodyguard? He certainly had the training for it, according to his file, and the muscle for it, according to his build...but it wasn't all. There was intelligence with the brawn, and it was engaged as well. Whatever this man was to Logan, Tony realized, his cousin was in the best of hands. Strength, intelligence...allegiance. And a fourth prong, concern, led Bling to speak, now... "He's doing alright" the soft baritone replied. "He's a fighter. Sometimes he fights himself..." he mused, more to himself than to his passenger, "sometimes fights the reality of the situation. But mostly..." A small, wry smile began, "he's fighting what he always fought– greed, abuse of power...corruption..."
Tony leaned his head back, more relieved than he thought he'd be to hear Logan was himself. "That's Logan, alright." He sighed, and after another moment or two of silence, tried, "I wish I didn't have to ask, but...what do I do? What do I say?"
"Whatever you would have said or done if he hadn't been shot." Bling shrugged. "Ask him what you want to know, if you want to know about anything. He'll probably answer, but...he has a right to clam up...just like you have the right to ask." The man glanced over to the agent, and offered, "It gets easier. And, with Logan, it will be easier pretty quickly." There was a smile of encouragement with the words, then a chuckle, "Especially if you threaten to kick his ass."
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON: February 6, 2020 5:25 P.M.
Sector 9; Fogle Towers
He'd heard the door, swallowed hard, his throat dry. He turned away from the window where he'd been brooding and faced the entry from the hall, hoping merely to maintain at least a casual expression...there were sounds...steps on hardwood...and suddenly the years telescoped back. He was face to face with Tony DiNozzo...
"Dr. Doom, just like always..." The voice was as big as the grin, Logan marveled...
Tony grinned widely, looking honestly pleased to see him, and held out his hand, his arm, really, toward his cousin. Blinking a little at the sight of his childhood hero in the flesh there front of him, already accepting him on wheels, Logan raised his hand as well to have it grasped strongly. In the next moment Tony had thrown his arm around Logan's shoulders, his height bent over a bit awkwardly like first-timers always did, but to Logan it was the welcome he'd craved, a welcoming in his own home by his guest. Crazy world, he heard himself laugh in an emotional hiccup, as he threw his free arm around his cousin's neck. "I swore I wouldn't believe you were really coming out here til I saw you." Logan laughed, still emotional.
Tony pulled back a little to look at the strain on his cousin's face, hoping he hid the guilt he felt for it. "Has it been that long?" When Logan nodded silently, his eyes too shiny, Tony reflected that it had never occurred to him that he'd need all the skills honed as an undercover officer to hide from his cousin...to hide the shock he felt at seeing Logan like this...
Logan looked gaunt, as compared to the last time he'd seen him, the intensity that had always burned in his eyes seemed to burn even brighter–and the contrast of the two extremes gave him a haunted look. Always serious, at least Logan used to be better able to balance his projects with something to let his mind and body catch up–he'd been wicked at basketball and tennis, Tony remembered–and understood the need to give himself a break sometimes. Tony wondered if he'd forgotten that lesson...
Well, he'd be damned if he'd start this visit by hovering. "Mea culpa." Tony's grin was as easy as he hoped it would be, and he tossed his bag carelessly on the floor near the coffee table to plop himself down into the chair near Logan's. "Well, I know the reason for this visit is the last any of us would want–but maybe in between the work we can catch up."
Logan blinked a little, nodding silently, still not trusting his voice yet. He wasn't sure now what he expected, but this was Tony, the Tony he remembered and followed around like a wet puppy, the cousin who, no matter how insistent or pesky he was, no matter the girl or the game vying for the teenager's attention, always let his tow-headed cousin tag along, never unkind or impatient...
What the hell else should he have expected from this man?
...TBC...