Tony and the Moose
AN: OK… the amount of research I've done for this chapter is immense, and I'm still not happy. Please be kind and accept that although I've tried to be accurate, there are things I've just plain made up. Best I could do. One F word. Sorry. Oh, and guess what? It's not the last chapter. Who knew?
chapter 5
As he walked back into the bull pen, Tim hit send with a happy smile. Sitting down at his desk, he dropped his phone back into his pocket, took the file that was wedged under his arm and opened it, then took out his lunch from his top draw, intending to read as he ate. A voice from the desk opposite cut into his thoughts.
"So, Tim – you were replying to a message from a young lady? You were smiling as you texted – it must have been someone special."
Tim looked up slowly from the file he hadn't even had a chance to begin, and said evenly, "Yes, Ziva, it was someone special." He offered no further information, and went back to the file. When Tony had teased him about a girl, he recalled, nosy as the Italian was, it had been in fun, if sometimes way too heavy handed for Tim's taste. He'd wanted to know, but if Tim wasn't going to tell him, he'd always let it go, with a 'don't worry, I have ways of finding out'. Tim was pretty sure that he did, and if he didn't think there was going to be a problem for Tim, he'd back off. Ziva's teasing was more spiky and disdainful, more 'so… Tim has managed to find a girl geek' sort of thing.
Here we go,' he thought, 'maybe this is it.'
'It' was a promise he'd made to himself several days before, after a day of enduring a particularly bad-tempered Gibbs, and recalling the advice that Tony had travelled all the way down to Norfolk to give him face to face. 'You'll either be his blue-eyed boy, or his replacement whipping boy. I just wanted to say – if that's the case, it won't change, don't wait as long as I did to cut yourself loose.'
Maybe thinking of cutting himself loose was a bit premature, but he intended, after years of learning from Tony, (by osmosis or more likely irritation half the time, as he'd told his friend,) to be a good Senior Field Agent, and he didn't intend to be the new target for Ziva's jibes or Gibbs' moods. Talking of -
"Who's texting?" The Boss stalked in with a coffee cup in each hand.
"Tim was texting just now, Gibbs; he had a smile on his face, so I think it was a girl, but he is not telling."
Gibbs threw himself down into his chair and glared. "Text your date on your own time, McGee. You've got work to do." He took a long swig from one of the cups.
Tim thought of his promise to himself. He tapped a finger on the open file. "I'm working, Gibbs," he said levelly, to the man who'd just been working hard walking down the block to feed his caffeine addiction. "I've collected the psych profile from Ducky."
Gibbs gave a 'good, that's that' sort of nod, but Tim went on. "Boss, do you really think that taking two minutes to reply to a good friend suddenly makes me a bad worker? After all this time?" He didn't expect anything more than a grunt, and only half expected Gibbs to have picked up on what he really said, but the man's head jerked up.
"Good friend? DiNozzo?"
Tim mentally squared his shoulders – he'd hoped Gibbs would spot it, so no more hesitating to utter a guy's name.
"That's right, Boss." For the first time, he decided to offer some information. "Tony's in Vancouver right now, while his bike gets a service. He's down at sea level reminding himself that being up in the mountains is best. His lungs are healing, but he breathes best at slightly higher altitudes. Says that'll be the same for a while."
Ziva said disbelievingly, "He has ridden all the way to Vancouver on a motor-cycle?"
Tim grinned. "Via Niagara Falls, all the Great Lakes, Michigan, Wyoming -that was where he was that night he rescued Hart Mackie, and you sent us Fornell to help, Boss - Yellowstone, Montana…"
Gibbs' face was an unreadable mask. "Huhmm… he's all right, then?"
"Says he's doing well."
"Um." Gibbs went back to his coffee, and sat with a look on his face that Tim tried to define, (as Tony would have done; 'reading the Boss is an essential part of SFA work, Probie-san',) as it was one he hadn't really seen before. 'Morose' was the only word he could think of.
"Tony rescued someone in Wyoming?"
"A friend who helped him and Gibbs once." He went back to his file and his thoughts, which right then were mainly of mountains
Ziva looked from one to the other of them, before huffing and going back to her work.
o0o0o
At the end of a quiet day, with a more or less silent and preoccupied Gibbs, Tim headed down to Abby's to update her on Tony's progress. She had a little figurine on her desk, a black-leather clad rider on a black motorbike; 'God Speed' was written on the plinth. Where she'd found it he had no idea. She saw him looking at it and smiled wistfully. "It's actually Wayne Rainey, winning in 1992," she said, "but I painted it all with black enamel, and added the message myself."
"I'm sure that's keeping him safe, Abby," he told her gravely, and filled her in on the latest adventures. "He says video link tomorrow night, so I'll come over, OK?"
Abby hugged him hard. "I miss him, Tim." All Tim could do was nod.
As he was heading for the parking lot, trying not to think about how he missed the irrepressible DiNozzo, his phone chirped. Des. "Tony! I was just talking to Abby about you."
"Nothing bad, I hope, McSFA!"
"Mostly not."
"Hey!"
"No… just updating. So… it looks sunny where you are – and where is that? Wait… you're in Whistler, aren't you? I can see the Olympic rings behind you. And…. No leathers, so no Destina. You've taken a trip up there."
"Excellent, McSleuth! Yep, Destina's enjoying a good rest and some expert pampering – the guy I bought her from found me the right place to take her. So I took a tour bus – really great Native guide, said call him Jeff. He told us his full name, after he told us we wouldn't manage it, and he was right."
"So why Whistler?"
Tony's shrug was obvious, even on the small phone screen. "Saw the advert. Liked it. So how are things in DC, as opposed to BC?"
"Finding my feet. Not letting either of them get to me. The team, I mean, not my feet." Tim told him about the day's texting incident, finishing with, "He was pretty thoughtful for the rest of the day. I wonder if he's realising a few things. Like how he could have killed you."
"Yeah. There's a flying flotilla of pink things whizzing by overhead, going oink. Hope they don't do what birds do. Anyhow, water under my personal bridge. And the only reason you need to bear it in mind at all is for watching your own back. So... how are you?"
"Honestly, I'm fine, Tony."
"That's my word."
"I know. And it covers a multitude of sins, doesn't it? But I'm taking your advice, and if I can't engineer a decent working environment, I'll go. I'm giving it a good shot first."
"Good… good. Sounds like you've already started. Hey, let me know if you need any advice on making a spirit journey… or maybe that's what you're doing sitting at your desk, doing that 'engineering'!"
Tim grimaced. "I'd hope to enjoy it more."
Tony sighed. "You're right. Sorry, being facetious here… " He took one of those deep breaths that they both did before trying to say something important, but then he let it out again with a whoosh. "Hey," he said brightly, "Let me show you something!" He turned round, and pointed his phone at the broad, paved square. Two brightly painted Adirondack chairs sat not far away. "See, those two – I reckon they're a breeding pair. Over there -" he moved the camera, "that's a family group. I don't thing the young ones leave home, even when they're fully grown, until they find their own mate. I think they pair for life, you know, like wolves, and live in colonies like penguins. I've only seen a lone one once, and it was so sad and dilapidated… I think once they lose their mate, they just fade away, you know? But the environment for them round here is pretty good, so they're really flourishing..."
"Tony! Tony…" By now Tim had reached his car and was leaning against the hood before he finally managed to interrupt the flow. "You're gabbling. The family life of the Adirondack Chair is fascinating, your research impeccable… you'll have to tell Abby – but what did you really want to tell me?"
Tony walked over to one of the chairs, (sunshine yellow,) and sat down heavily. "Ah… yes… well… I'm nervous, Tim. Scared, even."
"Go on..."
"You remember… Hazel said a spirit journey always comes to an end… I'm pretty sure she meant a positive end. But what if it doesn't?"
"What sort of doesn't?"
"I dunno. I've got one more day in Vancouver. Day after tomorrow I get on my freshly serviced bike and head off. To something. I know it's to something… soon… I'm trying to find doesn'ts to account for why I'm nervous! OK… what if my lungs don't heal? What if I don't find what I'm looking for?"
Tim suddenly felt bewilderingly old and wise. "Try 'What if I do find what I'm looking for and it involves doing something way different? Taking a huge leap of faith? You've spent almost three weeks just bumming around, shedding dead weight, you could keep on doing that, but that's not you. Tony, you get on that bike and ride, and face it, whatever it is, dead-on, make it come right. That's you."
Tony's rather gobsmacked face stared back at him from his phone. "Wow. Wow, Mc…" he shook his head ruefully. "Thanks, Tim."
Tim wondered if he should find something smart to say, but decided not to. He got into his car, saying a polite "Goodnight, Ziva," looking over at the woman who was hovering close by, as he did so. He didn't know or care if she'd heard that last comment, but he wasn't going to answer any questions.
"Ziva, huh?"
"She wants to know, but she doesn't want me to think she does, so she won't ask. So long, Tony. Take care of yourself."
"Back atcha."
o0o0o
There were five main routes out of Vancouver. One took him to the big island, one out to Whistler, and he'd done that. One took him back east, and to the USA, and one up to Kamloops and into Alberta. That left Trans-Canada 1, which, if he kept north on highway 97 when it turned away east, would take him right up into Yukon Territory if he wanted to go that far. Not this time; maybe one day.
He made up his mind, as he explored the beautiful city on foot, visiting Stanley park and resting his feet during a ride on the horse-drawn tram. He took a selfie beside a waterfront sculpture, 'The Drop', which, once the guy in the coffee shop had explained it, looked just what it was – a slanting raindrop at the point of impact, blue like the harbour behind it. The barista chuckled. "We think it's a good laugh – Vancouver's one of the wettest cities in Canada." Tony raised an eyebrow; it was a beautiful, sunny day. "No, seriously."
That was it – his half-formed plan to just hole up in this lovely place and simply stay safe evaporated. Wet didn't equal safe. The next day he headed out. East at first, along the north bank of the Fraser, then north along BC1. He pulled over at one point to watch the Rocky Mountaineer train, in its splendid dark blue and gold livery, making its slow and stately way beside the river bank, carrying enthralled travellers on the trip of a lifetime; and wondered for the hundredth time what this was that he was doing.
He put on some speed, and after a while found he'd been riding for almost five hours, gently uphill most of the way, with no real sense of time elapsing. He was hungry, and saw a sign for a place called Cubbin, on a long loop road off the highway, on the edge of… Moose Valley Provincial Park. O…Kay… He could have stayed on the highway, but this had to be followed up.
He half expected loggers' dirt roads, and certainly hammered earth tracks branched off from time to time, but the surface he rode on was paved. There were deep blue lakes of varying sizes, a home or two set back from the road, a sawmill and a furniture company. (Mo's Rustic Pine; a smiling moose with a saw in its hand. Er… hoof.) No sign of the town yet… another hoarding coming up… Cubbin Airfield. Home of Strongman's Flying School. He slowed right down and peered across; the buildings were close to the road, with the runway behind them. There was plenty of activity going on, but he bet they didn't have a cafe. He was going to ride straight past, in spite of the intriguing sight of a shiny Bell JetRanger in the colours of the Canadian National Parks Service, half covered in a tarpaulin, but at that moment a moose cow and calf decided to wander out of the trees to the north.
Tony waited, thinking that when the angels decided to create the biggest deer ever, they used all the left-over bits. Angular, bony and ungainly, with a ridiculous nose… moose were everything that an animal shouldn't look like… they were amazing. Beautiful. The calf turned and looked at him, with big, fearless, curious eyes, until mom nudged its flank, and they disappeared into the woodland to the south.. Tony smiled inside his helmet, and was about to move off again, when a voice close by said, "They'll be back later on, those two. She prefers the north side of the road."
Tony flipped his visor up as he looked round; it was not only more polite, but you could actually have a conversation. A middle aged man carrying a crate of what looked like oily machine parts, had come up as far as the gate, and was grinning cheerfully at him. Tony carefully legged Destina back a few yards so he didn't have to twist his head round. "She knows this road, then. More than I do. My first ever encounter with a moose!"
"Not from round here, then. American, by your accent."
Tony could see the man wasn't prying, so he said easily, "Tony DiNozzo; from DC."
"Pete Strongman. Proprietor..." he jerked his thumb at the hoarding. "You'll be fine just doing what you were doing… driving slowly, keeping your eyes peeled." He paused. "I can see you wouldn't want to dent your bike… that's a sweet ride."
"Or the moose," Tony agreed. "Are you into classics?"
"Anything mechanical," Pete said. "But I appreciate good design." He didn't miss it as Tony's eyes went momentarily to the helicopter. "Yes, you're right," he said ruefully. "The Bell, that's a classic. First built in the 60s… That one's only a year old, and we've got to give it back to Prince George in two months if we can't find someone to fly it."
"No-one wants to be a pilot for the CNPS? I would have thought that's a cool job for a young man to brag to his girl! Or a kick-ass job for a girl," he added, not wanting to be sexist.
"Ack," the older man said, "the young people, they learn – then as soon as they've got the required hours, they're off to the city, for bigger bucks."
Tony looked round. "Me, I'd rather be out here," he said truthfully. "I've had enough of the city." Out of nothing more than curiosity, he asked, "How long does it take them to learn to fly one of those?"
"Minimum 40 hours, and they think they know it all, but they can't call themselves pilots even then! You never stop learning… Still…" he went on reflectively, "that one's a doddle to fly." His proprietary eyes twinkled for a moment. "Hey… if you're stopping around, come back out here and I'll take you up in one… maybe you might like to learn yourself!"
Tony didn't want to give a 'just passing through' spiel, so he said "Well, you never know. Right now, I need food!"
"Ah," Pete said… "you want the Centre… right in the middle of town. Museum of the area, information centre, art gallery, and a really good little cafe. Just keep on down the main street, past the CNPS office – police station on the left, blue-roofed building on the right. Tell Ben I told ya."
"Thanks," Tony said, as he put Destina into gear.
"My pleasure – and don't forget the offer!"
o0o0o
More houses, a school, some businesses, a biggish general store, but not big enough to be called a supermarket. A gas station, something that looked like a hotel, set back off the road, boarded up. More houses, side streets. A timber merchant, a sign for a doctor's surgery, and another for a hospital. Everything (except that sad hotel) looking tidy and cheerful. Nice town, welcoming feel to it, he thought. No… not going to wonder any further than that.
Th road widened out, and he spotted the place that Pete had described; both it and the police station opposite had ample parking, so he came gently to a stop, alongside a fairly new sports car. He attached his helmet to its thief-proof catch, climbed off, stretched, and went into the Cubbin Centre. No automatic door; he wasn't sure why that made him happy; perhaps it was that the 21st century wasn't trying to intrude too hard yet? Don't be patronising, Anthony… but hey, aren't you looking for a slower pace of life?
He looked around, orientating himself. To the left was a small, bright cafe, where a young couple were sitting, busy texting on their phones. The sports car people, he guessed. A gift shop was opposite the door, with a low divider separating it from the cafe; probably, Tony thought cynically, so that the barista could watch out for shoplifters. To the right, a tall partition isolated the art gallery, and just as Tony's grumbling stomach tried to steer him in the opposite direction, something caught his eye. He turned towards it, and ignored his tum's howl of indignation.
He stood for quite a while, looking at a group of line drawings; mixed media, shades of sepia. Two wolf cubs, an eagle flapping its wings to keep its balance on a snowy branch, a bear, an otter with beady, bright intelligent eyes, and a moose, of course. Three, actually. One picture was of a cow and calf, the other of a large bull-moose, looking directly at the artist. It stared at him with the same reproachful expression he got from Ducky, Jimmy and Tim when he said something Tonyish.
He really liked the pictures, especially that moose; the artist's style was empathic, without kitsch or any attempt at mass-appeal. 'Bull Moose, Green Lake Trail.' Waawaatesi, 2009. He practised trying to say the artist's name, whilst thinking the price tag of $175 Canadian was very reasonable. He was tempted, even though the frame and glass would make it awkward to transport. Raised voices in the cafe began to intrude into his thoughts.
"… all hand made, right from tanning the leather. The beads are glass or ceramic, or silver, not plastic. They're very reasonably priced for the quality." That was clearly the barista: his tone suggested this discussion had been going on for a while, and he was trying to keep his patience. Tony looked round the partition; the man was still behind his counter. The young couple had progressed to the gift shop, where they were absorbed in fingering everything. They'd knocked a few things off their racks and were making no attempt to pick them up.
"Way too expensive for a souvenir," the young man said disparagingly to his girl. "I told you we should have stayed on the highway."
"Well, let's go back to it, then, and we can stop somewhere else for souvenirs – Oooh, these are pretty!"
The girlfriend had picked up a dream catcher and was cooing over it. Her boyfriend shrugged. "Bring it then," he said impatiently, and started to walk away.
"Not without paying for it, you don't," the barista said sharply. The young man rolled his eyes, and turned to head for the door – only to find his way blocked by a tall, solid man in motorcycle leathers.
"What the fuck? Get out of my way!"
"Language… I will, when you've paid for it."
"None of your damn business. Get the hell out of my way!"
"Either pay for it, or put it back," the man in black said solemnly.
The girlfriend, standing to one side, could see a purposeful looking cop striding across the road towards them, and knew when to give up. She put the dream catcher back where she'd got it from.
The boy was clearly trying to decide whether or not to barge Tony, which didn't look like a good idea, when the door behind him opened and a voice laden with authority asked, "Is there a problem here?"
The boy, slippery as a snake, dived past both Tony and the policeman, and ran for his car. The girl squealed "Darren!" in outrage, and scampered after him.
Tony sighed and shook his head, watching them go with a jaundiced expression. He was about to make a rueful remark about the manners of young people these days, when the cop snapped, "So, d'you want to tell me who you are., and what you think you're doing?"
AN: I rode the Rocky Mountaineer with Proseac, last year…. Do it if you possibly can, it's magic.
