Chapter 10

"I'm telling you, Boss. This guy knew exactly what he was doing. It wasn't..." Tim trailed off as he had so often during his narrative. It was as if he was losing his train of thought, only it was that he didn't want to be thinking about it at all. Paradoxically, he couldn't think of anything else. "He didn't care about me, about Sarah, not even about the guy he was going to kill. It wasn't personal to him. It was like..." And then, a rueful expression came over Tim's face at the comparison which had come into his head.

"What was it like, McGee?" Gibbs asked. Any expression was an improvement over the blankness that had dominated so far.

"He was like Bruce Willis' character in The Jackal," Tim said, flushing. "Don't tell Tony I said that." His gazed shifted away from Gibbs and around the room, never settling on anything. "This was just a job to him. It wasn't that he enjoyed tormenting us. He acted as if he was doing the things that were needed to get the job done."

"So what did he need? Why did he go to your place?"

It was as if Gibbs hadn't even spoken. "You know, Tony made me watch that stupid movie with him a couple of weeks ago. It's actually a remake of an older movie which is based on an even older book. The Jackal dies at the end. Richard Gere's character, who's Irish by the way... I've never really seen Richard Gere as a convincing Irishman. Anyway, his character saves a little girl at the end and he kills the bad guy. He's the hero."

"What are you talking about, McGee?"

"I still remember that scene in the subway or wherever it was. The Jackal kept telling the girl to shout for Declan to save her. He made her scream it over and over."

"McGee!"

Tim just cleared his throat. His eyes flicked back onto Gibbs briefly before roaming around the room again. "I think he needed me to help him get into the Naval Hospital. Any federal agent would have done, but why he picked me, I have no idea. We-we didn't get far enough for him to tell me where exactly we were going, but I'm pretty sure it was the Naval Hospital. It had to have been a place that he couldn't just sneak into."

Gibbs nodded. It made sense. "What made you decide to crash your car?" He kept his voice carefully neutral. This was the part he knew Tim didn't want to talk about.

Tim avoiding making eye contact as he tried to explain thoughts that had taken seconds to form and didn't mention the emotions behind his decision. "He said that I had to choose who would live and who would die. If I didn't help him, he would kill Sarah and then kill me. If I tried to get help, he'd kill me and then go and kill Sarah. I could let Sarah die or some stranger I had never met. I didn't have my phone. I didn't have my gun. He was sitting in the back seat with his gun. I couldn't chance doing anything that wouldn't end up with him incapacitated. I didn't know what to do, but then, I heard him talking on his phone, and I realized..."

"What?"

"He wasn't trying to disguise himself in any way. I told you that he was a professional. He wouldn't have risked letting us see him if he hadn't planned on killing us anyway. If he succeeded in reaching his target, he would have killed me, and then he would have killed Sarah so that there were no witnesses. I couldn't let that happen."

"So, you decided to use your car as a weapon?" Gibbs prompted.

"Yeah. It was a weapon." For a moment, Tim looked ready to dissolve into tears, but he forced them back and continued in the same dead voice. "I had planned it out in my head. There are all these barriers along the highway and sometimes there are gaps. I-I figured I could swerve into one of the gaps and wreck the car. He wasn't wearing his seatbelt. At-at best, he'd be knocked out. At worst, he'd be dead. Either way, Sarah would be safe and I wouldn't have to help him k-kill anyone else. I had it all planned. I saw the gap, and space opened up in the left lanes. I swerved and sped up, but-but he-he grabbed the wheel." Tim stopped talking. His emotions were running too high. It felt as though his throat was closing up.

"You could have been killed, too, you know."

"I know. I could have been." Tim forced the words out and shook his head at the irony. "But I was dead anyway. I might as well have died on my own terms, instead of his."

Gibbs was interrupted by the entrance of another doctor; this one was not in scrubs.

"Hello," the doctor said vaguely, looking down at his notes. "I'm here to speak to a Timothy McGee. That would be you?" He pointed to Tim.

Tim just nodded.

"Great. I'm Dr. Tanner. I just need to ask you a few questions, and then you can be released." Dr. Tanner turned to Gibbs. "We'll be needing some privacy, sir."

Gibbs looked frankly skeptical of this doctor. He had obviously been sent down from Psychiatry without any background of what had happened. He also looked like he was in a hurry and not much interested in the problems of his patient. Still, he was a shrink. Gibbs shrugged and left.

"How are you feeling, Timothy?"

"Fine."

"You were in a car accident?"

"Yes."

"Was it a bad one?"

Tim winced, but Dr. Tanner didn't even notice. He was looking at Tim's chart. "Yes."

"You were lucky to get out alive it seems."

"Yes. Lucky."

"So, how are you feeling?"

Tim shrugged. It was becoming a habit. "Fine."

"No problems with road rage?"

Tim looked incredulously at the psychiatrist who had not once done him the same courtesy. "No," he said tightly.

"I see that a few other people died."

Tim said nothing.

"Any lingering feelings of confusion?"

"No."

"No missing blocks of time?"

"No." The last few minutes before the accident were a bit confused, but Tim didn't think this man really cared. Not that it surprised him. No one really cared.

"Any problems with agnosia?"

"I don't know what that is."

"Oh, well. Not important. Hallucinations?"

"No."

"Uncommon mood swings?"

"No."

"Disassociation?"

"No."

"Sleepwalking?"

"No."

For the first time, Dr. Tanner looked at him, but still he didn't really see Tim. He saw him as bits of information to be recorded on a form, not as a human being. "You're looking a bit scruffy."

"I didn't have a chance to shave this morning."

He looked down again. "Tattoos?"

"What?"

"Do you have any tattoos?"

"Is it important?"

"You never know."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Yes. One."

"I see. Well, I'll put you down as taciturn." He quickly ticked a few boxes on his paper. "Any phobias?"

"No."

"Any manias, delusions, or pre-existing mental disorders?"

"No."

"You seem quite conscious and coherent. Any aphasic disturbances?"

"I don't know. What is that?"

"No, you don't seem to. History of violence?"

"No."

"Amnesia?"

"No."

"Any plans for a funeral?"

"No." What was this man talking about? Tim watched as Dr. Tanner went down his list of possible mental conditions and checked a couple of boxes. Then, he scribbled his signature in the box on the second page. Tim got a glance at the form he was filling out: Mental Status Examination: Rapid Record Form. It figured.

Dr. Tanner was in full automatic drive. He rattled off the next few sentences with all the concern of a statue. "Okay, you're free to go. According to your chart, you can't stay alone tonight in case of a recurrence of the concussion symptoms. Other than that, you seem fine. If you have any problems, just give us a call."

"Okay."

Dr. Tanner added the form to Tim's file and, without a backward glance, left the room. Gibbs returned in his wake, and looked at Tim.

"I've been released," he said tonelessly.

"Really?" Gibbs was surprised. Dr. Fowles had intimated that Tim would have been admitted at least overnight for observation. He picked up Tim's file and looked. Sure enough. Dr. Tanner's signature was on Tim's release form. "Okay, then. You're staying with me for tonight."

A gamut of emotions flitted across Tim's face ranging from panic to embarrassment. It finally settled on an expression of chagrin. "That's not necessary, Boss."

"Actually, it is. It's in your file. You're not to be alone for the next 24 hours. Tony and Ziva are busy with our other case; Abby is still at that forensics conference; and your sister's dorm would probably not be a viable solution. So, unless you would rather stay with Ducky and his mother, you're coming home with me."

"No, Boss. I don't... It's not... I... fine." Tim stood slowly and picked up his bloodstained jacket.

Wordlessly, he followed Gibbs down to the main entrance. After he checked out, he and Gibbs started out the doors when a veritable cloud of people rushed in from the street all shouting that they needed to see their parents who had been in an accident. Where were they? How bad was it? When could they see them? A few were crying. Gibbs glanced over at Tim, but beyond his clenched fists, Tim gave no indication that he'd made the connection. He kept walking without turning his head to look at them. He didn't want to see the people whose lives he had destroyed. Even though he made no overt acknowledgment, Gibbs noticed that Tim seemed to get smaller, as though he was huddling in on himself, which was trick considering he was taller than Gibbs himself was. Still, he kept walking. He said nothing when they got into Gibbs' car. The silence as they drove to his house was deafening. All the while, Tim was replaying the accident in his mind, seeing the people he had killed, the lives he had wrecked. What had he done?

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A/N: That form really does exist. I did not make it up, although I'm sure that Dr. Tanner was not using it correctly.