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chapter seven

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so far, so good
you try to sing along to the radio
but it's not your language, not your song
it's from some other time ago

and you're thinking about how someone died that day
the you that was so carefully planned
but then again maybe this life is like a sleeping mountain
waking up to shape the land
-Vienna Teng, "Shasta (Carrie's Song)"

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Sam stretched out her finger tentatively before depressing the small button for the doorbell. She and Martin stood on the front porch of a very impressive Long Island home, waiting for one of the Burris' to come to the door.

They did not have to wait long, though. Within a few seconds, she heard scampering footsteps as someone bounded down a set of stairs, and a muffled "I'm coming!" that sounded like it came from a young boy.

About thirty seconds later, the door flung open and a young boy of about eleven stood, face flushed and slightly breathless. "Agent Fitzgerald!" He panted, looking up at the agents with hopeful eyes. "Did you find Natalie!?"

"Hey, whoa! Slow down there buddy," Martin said as the little boy let them inside. "Are you okay, Lenny?"

Lenny took a few deeper breaths, still gasping a little. He nodded and led them through the foyer, down several hallways, and into the kitchen. As they walked, Sam felt her eyes widen as she took in the obvious grandeur of the home - crystal chandeliers and extravagant gold-plated mirrors on display every way they turned.

In the kitchen, Lenny immediately went to one of the cabinets by the sink and bent over to open it. When he stood up, he held an inhaler in his hands. He held the small plastic contraption to his lips and exhaled forcefully. She heard the small puff as he depressed the small vial containing the medicine, breathing in deeply. After ten or fifteen seconds' time, he repeated the process.

It obviously helped. His breathing slowed and evened out, and it no longer appeared like he was gasping for breath.

"Sorry about that," he explained apologetically. "Mom forgot to get my Advair refilled and I'm all out of Xopenex. She's at the store now getting them refilled."

"That's alright, buddy. Don't apologize," Martin said.

Sam, meanwhile, found herself marveling at how even the kitchen was extravagantly decorated. She turned her attention back to Lenny just in time to see him look at them expectantly and say, "So, did you find Natalie?"

"We really need to wait until one of your parents gets home, Lenny," Sam explained, trying to mask the sorrow in her voice. Her heart broke for the young boy, who clearly adored his older sister.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Lenny, this is Agent Spade. She's one of my partners," Martin introduced her formally and waved his hands apologetically.

Lenny smiled. "You're pretty," he said. "Natalie always wanted to have hair like yours, but Mom told her she couldn't get it dyed unless she got an A in physics when we get report cards in June." Lenny's grin broadened. "I've never seen her study so hard," he laughed.

Sam glanced at Martin and then back at Lenny, giving him a weak smile. "Your sister is very beautiful," she said quietly.

Lenny motioned for them to follow him once again, and he led them down to the basement. They weaved through the room with the wet bar and the pool table and into what was obviously the den. Two large plush leather sofas sat facing each other, one on either side of the wall. A big screen TV sat in one corner, and the bookshelf appeared to hold more videos and DVDs than any Blockbuster Sam had ever been in. This was obviously the kids' sanctuary: one half of the wall space was lined with posters of Justin Timberlake and Johnny Depp and photos of Natalie with all of her friends; the other half was decorated with life-sized images of Tiki Barber, Derek Jeter, and Alex Rodriguez. Sam released a quiet laugh, immediately realizing how easily Martin must have connected with the young boy.

"It's more comfortable down here," Lenny explained and plopped himself down on one of the sofas. "We can wait here until my mom gets home. She said she'd come right home, this time."

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Sam swallowed hard, blocking out the memory as her fingers quickly tapped against her keyboard. In frustration, she hit the backspace key repeatedly until the last sentence she had typed disappeared completely.

She could not keep her focus long enough to type up a decent case summation.

"Hey, whoa!" A male voice behind her called out. "I know your computer has been giving you trouble, but save all that anger and rage for the real criminals." The voice laughed, comfortable and familiar as it rang in her ears. It was Martin.

She leaned back in her chair and pushed against her desk with one hand just enough for the chair to rotate. When she was completely turned around, she saw Martin place several cartons of Chinese food on the conference table.

"Dinner?" She asked, raising an eyebrow.

"It's 6:30," he shrugged and motioned towards the windows that revealed the dark evening sky. He sat and opened one of the boxes, biting off a piece of an eggroll. "You're not on call," he said, swallowing. "What's up?"

She turned her chair back around and spoke over her shoulder, "I just want to finish this up; I don't want it hanging over my head all weekend."

"Good idea," he agreed. He was silent for a few minutes, probably chewing, before speaking up again. "You hungry?" He asked tentatively, "Because I've got more than enough if you want to share..."

Sam stared intently at her computer screen for a few seconds, and took her mouse and clicked 'save.' Her chair spun back around and she pulled up to the conference table. "I could use a break," she said softly.

"Can't get Natalie out of your mind, either?" He asked in a hushed voice, even though they were two of the only people left in the office.

Sam shook her head 'no' and leaned forward, inspecting the cartons of Chinese food.

He remained silent for a few seconds and took a drink from the Dasani bottle that sat beside his stack of files. Then from across the table, she felt his eyes rise again to meet hers as she chewed carefully on some vegetables. "Do you think she knew?" He said quietly.

Sam paused thoughtfully, not need to ask what Martin was talking about...

Sam sat around the conference table with Vivian, both looking over files of insurance claims that their missing person, an insurance executive with extensive personal assets, had denied. Martin sat as his desk, talking brusquely to someone on the other end of the telephone.

"Alright. Well, thank you for telling us... Yes, we appreciate it... Thank you."

He practically threw his desk phone back into the receiver, causing both Sam and Vivian to look up at his sudden outburst.

Vivian raised an eyebrow, looking as though she was about to speak. But before she could say anything, Martin stood quickly from his chair and turned around to face them. "That was the coroner, calling with Natalie Burris' autopsy results," he explained and crossed his arms protectively across his chest. "Cause of death were the several stab wounds to the chest and abdomen, just like all of Tylman's other victims."

Martin paused and leaned forward against the conference table. There was obviously something more that the coroner had told him.


"What is it, Martin?" Vivian asked, closing the manila folder she had been holding to give him her full attention.

Sam followed suit, completely unprepared for what Martin was about to say next.

"According to the coroner," Martin said slowly, releasing a sigh and raising one hand just enough to massage the side of his neck, "Natalie was about seven weeks pregnant at the time of death."

Sam fought with all the strength she could muster against the violent urge she suddenly had to be sick.

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She placed her elbow against the wood finish of the table top and leaned her face against her hand, supporting her head. She replied pensively, shaking her head. "It's possible that she knew, but chances are she had no idea. She was only seven weeks along; at sixteen, it's not that unusual to still be irregular."

Martin nodded, silently accepting her explanation. "At least the DNA from the fetus helped us officially tie the case to Freeman; between that and the evidence they left in the room, we should finally have enough to bring Tylman down, too."

"Yeah," she breathed silently. Suddenly, the food seemed extremely hot and spicy, and she felt her throat go dry. Wordlessly, she reached out and grabbed his water bottle. She twisted off the plastic blue cap and lifted the bottle to her lips, seemingly unable to cleanse her palate. He looked at her questioningly, and she darted her eyes to the side as she replaced the cap on the bottle. She started to speak again, words flowing freely from her mouth. "It's a lot easier to ignore it when you just don't want to know," she explained quietly, and her voice broke and trailed off.

She heard Martin stop alternating between chopsticks and his white plastic fork and turn his full attention at what she had just said. Care and concern etched across his face, and his hand fell cautiously across the table against her arm. "Emily?" He whispered, and he squeezed her forearm reassuringly.

"A few days before she, uh, ran away," Sam began nervously, picking at a tiny thread loose on her blouse, "she had come down with some stomach flu. It had been going around school, so it was pretty easy to write off. But still, she was my sister; I should have known."

"You were 14, Sam. No one blames you for not knowing," he said softly, his lips curling up in a small smile. She knew she did not need to explain about how Emily had run away. She had given him vague details at one point in time and, knowing him, he would not have forgotten so easily.

She shook her head weakly, still unable to consciously admit that she blamed herself. But it felt surprisingly 'okay' to have someone listen to her just for the sake of listening, and she found suddenly that she did not want their conversation to end just yet. "I told myself that she just needed to get away from everything that had happened. When she came back, I didn't want to ask any questions that might upset her, and it just stayed that way. Until this week, I hadn't really talked to her since I was fourteen." She laughed bitterly and massaged her temple.

"Well, you have to start somewhere, right?"

"I guess so." She shrugged her shoulders and sighed quietly. Her body still tense and wracked with guilt.

Martin sat back against his chair for a few minutes, giving her tentative looks that she knew meant something was pressing on his mind but he obviously did not know how to ask her. She nodded her head to prompt him.

"What I don't understand," he said slowly, "is how Jeff Henry got it in his head that Emily was somehow involved in his father's disappearance. You said you never really saw many of your mom's boyfriends, so how would Emily have been involved?"

Sam bit her bottom lip, briefly considering giving him a half truth. 'Jeff Henry was crazed lunatic' would probably have done the trick, and it would not have been a lie either. Instead, she squared her shoulders resolutely and knew that what she really wanted was to tell him the truth. "Emily didn't tell me everything," she started quietly, then cleared her throat and began to speak with more confidence, "but I would guess that he put the pieces together when Emily came to him to ask if he would get blood drawn for the bone marrow test." She paused, seeing the silent question reflecting in Martin's face as to how the two things were connected. Before he got a chance to ask, she met his eyes - no longer afraid - and answered. "Jeff Henry wasn't Randy's father; Joe was."

Martin cast his eyes downward momentarily, then returned to lock his eyes with hers questioningly. "You're sure?"

Sam closed her eyes and nodded. "Yes, I'm sure. The second I found out she'd been pregnant, I knew. She didn't list him on the birth certificate, but can you blame her?"

Martin frowned, confused. "You knew, too?"

"I knew something wasn't right with her, and then one night I realized that he had come by and my mom wasn't even home. She worked every Monday night, so it was weird that he was there. When I realized Emily wasn't home either, I took off looking for her. I was in the woods that led up to the old cabin that Joe's family owned, and I found the headband Emily had been wearing. So I biked back home and found a shovel. When I got back, I found them -- together. I don't think I really even knew what I was doing, but I took the shovel, and I killed him." She leaned back in her chair, and felt the tension in her shoulders begin to dissolve. Across the table, Martin appeared to have been rendered temporarily speechless, obviously unsure of how to respond although empathy radiated from his face. He seemed to know, instinctively, that she did not want pity; that she just wanted somebody to listen. "I'm sorry," she apologized quietly, "I didn't mean to dump all of this on you."

"Hey," he smiled and reached out to squeeze her hand, "We're still friends, right?"

She squeezed back and forced a smile through her heavy heart, "Always."

He nodded, returning her smile in earnest. "That's what I'm here for."

"But still, thank you -- for listening."

"Anytime," he grinned easily and turned his attention back to the food, sensing the conversation was ending.

She watched him eat for a few moments, one weight lifted from her shoulders and, for the first time, it allowed her to feel a smaller weight that must have been present all along. So many things had changed, for all of them, but underneath it all he was still the same man she had never fully allowed herself to see.

She rose from her seat at the conference table and took a few steps towards her desk. "There's no way I'm going to finish this report tonight," she said thoughtfully, clicking off her computer monitor and collecting her things. He looked up from the Chinese food and file folders, and she smiled. "Have a good weekend, Martin. Don't work too hard."

"You know I won't," he laughed. "I'll see you bright and early Monday morning."

"Oh --" She released a short breath, realizing what she had forgotten to share with him earlier. "Actually, maybe a little later rather than earlier. I have an appointment with the transplant center at Mt. Sinai on Monday morning; I probably won't be in until 10:00."

He tilted his head inquisitively, eyes scanning for a sign. "The transplant center? Does that mean --"

"Yes, it does," her eyes shone with cautious excitement, and she absent-mindedly ran her left hand over the crook of her right elbow where a small bruise still remained. "Preliminary tests look good, they're going to go ahead and start me on transplant protocol on Monday."

"Wow," he breathed. "Sam, that's ... that's great news."

"I know," she said softly as her voice caught in her throat. She felt as though she was slowly healing and taking small steps, confiding honestly in someone who would respect her trust. She knew it was far too little, too late, but it was the only thing he had ever really asked of her.

And she wondered why something that had at one point seemed so difficult, had come to her so easily.

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