Sorry about the wait on this one; apart from the problems earlier, I had serious writer's block for this chapter. Not sure why...hopefully it's gone now ;)
The next person to suggest that a career in the US Army was a wonderful opportunity to Visit Exotic Locations and Learn A Useful, Well-Paid Trade was going to get his nose broken, Decker vowed as he picked his way along the filthy hallway. And that included recruiting officers.
Mind you, he supposed this place could be considered exotic...if by exotic you meant smelly, full of insects and disease-ridden. This was probably the only place in the entire US where you ran the risk of getting cholera. Decker had been on more hygienic bomb sites.
River Avenue. Some river.
Well, if the tip was right and Peck was here, then the others couldn't be too far away. Hell, even if they weren't, he'd be happy with just one of the A-Team. He could use Peck as bait for Smith, if it came to it.
He had encountered a slight difficulty, namely a certain reluctance of the people living here to open their doors to anyone wearing a uniform. Since he had no proof that Peck was actually there (and had no idea which apartment he might be in if he was) he couldn't just go kicking down doors with impunity, much as he would have liked to.
The first door he'd knocked on had had rock music blaring out so loudly that Decker wasn't surprised nobody heard him. The second had a screaming baby. The third had screamed at him that he'd already paid the rent and if he came back again, he (Decker) would soon be trying to breathe through a hole in the chest. The fourth had been opened by two kids who – Decker assumed – were brothers, and the oldest of which who couldn't be over seven. There was no sign of their parents.
Crane looked a little skeptical, but Decker – who had learned never to dismiss a potential source of information out of hand and, unlike a lot of adults, wasn't too arrogant to listen to kids – handed the Wanted poster down.
"We're looking for these men. We heard one of them had been spotted around here."
The younger child took the poster and examined it with a solemn expression that was only slightly marred by the fact that he still had his thumb in his mouth. Shaking his head, he handed it up to his elder brother, who frowned slightly.
"Hey, that guy looks like Mr Goddard!"
"No he doesn't! Mr Goddard doesn't look like that!"
"Does too!"
"Does not!"
"Does too!"
"Does not!"
"Does too!"
"Does not!"
Decker, realising that this brilliant debate was likely to go on indefinitely, raised his voice.
"Which one?"
"That one." The older boy pointed at the picture of Templeton Peck. "He kinda does, only...he kinda doesn't. Maybe if he shaved..."
"Mr Goddard's nice," the younger one informed an awkward looking Crane. "He buyed me candy."
"That right?" Decker glanced at his second in command, then back down at the child, who nodded.
"Whatcha gonna do to him, mister?"
His brother rounded on him. "You can't call Army guys mister, stupid! They're all called sir or General!"
"Ohhh." The younger one didn't seem too bothered by this and he returned his look to Decker. "Whatcha gonna do to Mr Goddard, Sir General?"
Decker unbent enough to smile very slightly. Cute kid.
"If he really is Mr Goddard, son, I'm not going to do anything to him. But I need to talk to him and ask him if he's seen this man. Where does he live?"
"Down there." The boy pointed carefully down the corridor; not, Decker was disappointed to note, back the way they'd come, but further down. "Number fifty three."
"Thanks, son." Decker jerked his head at Crane and they went on down, ignoring the other apartment doors until they came to number fifty three, which was already open.
That coupled with the stench and general neighborhood was enough to warn Decker what kind of place they were likely to find inside, and he wasn't disappointed. Had he thought the corridor was a hovel? He was wrong. This was a hovel. The stench was unbelievable, causing Crane to recoil and choke.
"Think Peck's here, sir?"
Decker didn't reply. The immediate answer was no; Peck would never have set foot in this building, much less this apartment, if he didn't have to.
Alright, genius. What if he did have to?
His colleagues often said that Decker had no imagination. This wasn't true. Decker had plenty of imagination; what he lacked was empathy. He could think up a complicated plan of attack, imagine most of the possible variables and work out a way to counter them; he just didn't bother caring how that plan would affect the people involved.
But even with his imagination, even knowing Hannibal Smith as well as he did (and there was probably no one alive who knew Smith better or had known him for longer than Decker) the colonel couldn't come up with a reason or a plan that would require Peck to squat in this place. The A-Team did sometimes rent an apartment, particularly if there was no other accommodation available and they were going to be in town for some time, but this was Chicago, not some tiny little one-horse town in the middle of nowhere! Decker could name ten or fifteen motels in this city, and that was without thinking about it.
So why the hell would Peck be staying here?
He didn't think they'd find anyone in the bathroom – whoever had lived here had probably made tracks out of it as fast as they could and at the earliest opportunity, and quite honestly, Decker couldn't blame them – but military regulations required them to search it and so they stepped inside.
There was no sign of a struggle, but a blood-stained razor and reddish-brown stains were on the bathroom floor.
"Sir?" Crane sounded doubtful. "You think Peck would've..."
"I can't think why." Decker glanced around. Despite his personal feelings, even he could admit that the A-Team had to deal with the kind of pressure every day that would drive a normal person insane...except Smith and his cronies weren't exactly what you'd call normal. If their daily lives were going to drive them over the edge, it would have happened long before now. Granted you could never predict when these things were going to happen, but even if Peck had been here and had been depressed enough to bail on the world, Smith and his damn bleeding heart would never have let him do it.
But Peck knows Smith as well, doesn't he, Decker? Those two are like father and son, and if Peck really wanted to slash his wrists, he'd know that Smith would never let him.
The caller had only reported seeing one member of the A-Team, now that Decker thought about it, which was unusual in itself. Normally they stuck together like glue.
So the pressure becomes too much for Peck, he takes off to this squat and slashes his wrists.
But why come all the way to Chicago to do it? The A-Team didn't live together, that much was known about them. Why didn't Peck just cut his wrists in his own apartment in LA?
For that matter, what had happened to the body? There were no drops of blood on the floor, which meant that he hadn't stood up and walked out, and there was no trail of blood either, so he hadn't been dragged out by anyone.
Carried? That was the most likely explanation, but by whom?
Smith or Baracus, if it really was Peck. Either of those men would easily be strong enough to carry Peck, and they wouldn't have to carry him far; just down the stairs and into the van.
And then where? A hospital was out of the question; any doctor or nurse worth their salt would recognise injuries like that for what they were and call in the local shrink, and that would lead to questions the A-Team wouldn't want to answer.
"Let's move out, Captain. They can't have gone far, and they'll still be in that van. We'll check the motels around this area."
Crane hesitated. Decker's instincts verged on supernatural at times – like Smith, he had a tendency to hit the long shots – but his drive to capture the A-Team had been known to overrule his better judgment.
"Sir?"
"What is it, Captain?" Decker's voice was brusque; he was not an officer who valued unasked-for contributions from his subordinates.
"Permission to speak freely, sir?" That was always a good line to use on Decker, even if you were just asking the time.
"Be quick."
"Sir, with respect, sir, I think you're guessing too much here."
"Is that right?" There was a warning in Decker's voice, but Crane ignored it. He knew his commanding officer well, and he also knew that Decker wasn't the kind of man to dismiss a suggestion just because it wasn't his own.
"Peck is the most commonly sighted member of the A-Team, sir, and a lot of those sightings turn out to be fake. Smith's almost never seen at all, sir, and Baracus…well, it's impossible to mistake him. We have no confirmation that the person living here was Peck beyond the word of two little kids – and even they couldn't agree on it! – we have no confirmation of any other A-Team sighting in this area at all, but you've spotted a razor in the middle of a bloodstain and now you think that not only was Peck here, but Smith and Baracus snuck up here, grabbed him and took him away after he'd attempted suicide! And that's another thing, sir; there aren't any blood trails on the ground, so how do we know that attempt wasn't successful? Maybe whoever was here died and one of the neighbors bundled him up in some trash bags and threw him out to stop the cops coming down on them."
Decker was silent. Crane was right, of course; there was nothing beside his own instincts to suggest that Peck had been the one here or that the suicide attempt had been unsuccessful.
"Perhaps we should ask some of the other residents if they saw something, sir," Crane persisted.
"No." One thing Decker knew for certain was that people who lived in a place like this never saw anything. He could kick his way into one of the apartments and blow Crane's brains out in front of whoever was there, and that person still wouldn't have seen anything. "No. But we'll check the hospitals, see if anyone from here's been admitted." If they had, then whoever lived here wasn't Peck. If not, Decker supposed the morgue was the next step, or the police, and if neither of those avenues turned up anything, then he'd just have to think of something else.
Once they were back in the car, though, he radioed out, ordering all units to be on the lookout for the A-Team van. Decker hadn't lived as long as he had by ignoring his instincts, and those instincts told him that the Team was somewhere close.
Very close.
If Hannibal noticed the bruising around Murdock's throat the next morning, he didn't say anything.
Face was up and about and if he didn't greet the colonel, at least he didn't storm out the room again. The lieutenant was still a little weak and his dramatic exit yesterday had taken more out of him than he'd realised; now all he wanted to do was to sit quietly and brood. Hannibal had more sense than to try and talk to him again, and apart from giving him a coffee (Face didn't thank Hannibal, but he didn't snap at him either) ignored him.
It wasn't until early afternoon that Hannibal got a chance to talk to Murdock, Face having fallen asleep on the couch.
"Is he okay?" The colonel kept his voice very quiet. Face was a light sleeper.
Murdock looked at Hannibal without any real expression. "He'll live, if that's what you mean."
"You know it's not what I mean!" Hannibal slumped down onto a chair and ran his hands through his hair, staring into his coffee. "I heard him scream last night." His voice was very quiet and Murdock felt a pang of sympathy. "Do you have any idea how damn helpless I feel right now?"
The pilot gave him a long look. "Yes, Colonel, I do. Because I felt exactly that same way after you kept me an' BA away from the Faceman an' he took off."
Hannibal closed his eyes, counted to ten and then opened them again. "Alright, Murdock, here's an idea. Why don't we pretend that I already feel bad enough over what happened and I don't need you rubbing it in any more! I just want to know..." His voice tailed away and Murdock finished the sentence.
"What he said about you? Well, he said you're too busy bein' on the jazz to feel guilty about what happened. He said he didn't want you to know 'cause he didn't think you'd understand. He said you kept houndin' him an' doubling the amount of pressure, since asides from bein' on the job, he had to worry about stoppin' you finding out. He said he thought he could trust you."
Much as they stung, Hannibal swallowed most of Murdock's remarks, but that last one hit home hard, and he jerked bolt upright. "He can trust me, Murdock, you know that!"
"To do what, Hannibal? Punch him? Throw him around a room and into walls?"
Hannibal got to his feet, moving slowly as he stared at the captain. "You forgot to mention that he had already tried to concuss and strangle me a couple days earlier, and that he was trying to rearrange my face at the time!"
"Colonel, I ain't sayin' you shouldn'ta defended yourself, an' I don't think Face blames you for that either. I'm sayin' you shoulda left well enough alone once he'd stopped tryin' to put your lights out."
Hannibal sat down again. An active man by nature, he wasn't used to dealing with problems that had to be solved by someone else, or by sitting and waiting.
"Yes, alright, but what now?" Hannibal shook his head. "You know him better than anyone. I'm trying to make it up to him, but he won't let me, so would you mind telling me just what the hell I'm supposed to do?"
Murdock shrugged. "Talk to him."
The colonel slammed a frustrated hand down onto the table. "What do you think I've been trying to do, Murdock? I want to help him. What's so bad about that?"
Murdock shrugged again and poured himself another bowl of cereal. "Sometimes the only way ta help someone is not to help them. Faceman don't want a lecture, Hannibal, an' he don't want advice. What he wants is someone who'll jus' sit an' listen to him."
"What he wants," Face said in sub-arctic tones from the doorway, "is for his so-called friends to keep their damn noses out of his business and quit trying to tell him what he does and doesn't want!"
There was a long, long silence. Even Murdock didn't seem able to think of anything to say.
"Face..."
"What? You gonna offer me another gun? Dare me to kill myself again?"
"Face, we were just—"
"Yeah, I can see what you were just doing! I'm not an idiot, although you guys treat me that way half the time!"
"Face—"
"Save it." It was a snarl, and for one terrible moment Hannibal thought Face was actually going to attack Murdock. "You know, I kinda expected this from Hannibal, but you? I thought you understood."
Hannibal stepped forward. "Face, all we want to do is help—"
"I don't want your goddamned help, Smith! I want...I don't...I just...just leave me alone!"
He backed away from both of them, not stopping until he was inside his room and could slam the door again. In the ringing silence, Hannibal glanced at Murdock.
"Well, at least now it's not just me he hates."
The pilot shrugged. "You know how he gets with people talkin' about him like he ain't there." There was no accusation in his voice; it was a fact, pure and simple. "An' just because he's mad, that don't mean I ain't right."
Hannibal shifted his gaze to Face's closed door, then back to Murdock.
"Murdock, if he's still listening to you, then tell him I want to talk to him. I'll wait, if that's what he wants, but I want to talk."
Murdock nodded. "Sure Hannibal. But ya know...if you wanna talk to him, then you gotta pick subjects he doesn't get defensive about."
"Yeah. You know, Murdock, lately that's kinda like picking a fish that doesn't swim." Hannibal picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. "I'm going to get some groceries. Anything you want?"
Murdock considered. "Maybe a six pack a 7-Up? Or Dr Pepper for the Faceman? You know how much he likes that stuff."
Yes, Hannibal did know. In fact, like was too mild a word; despite his expertise and love of various wines and champagnes, Face had a secret passion for Dr Pepper that very few people outside the Team knew about.
"Alright, I'll see what I can do." Hannibal glanced at the clock. "While I'm gone, try and get Face to calm down, would you? I understand I'm not his favorite person right now, but what the hell does he think I'm going to do to him?" There was a bite to Hannibal's tones.
Murdock shrugged. "Well, Colonel, you did ram your arm down his throat an' rummage around in his stomach until you could yank his secret outta there."
"That's the point, though. What other secret could he have?" Specifically what other secret could Face have that was worse than the one Hannibal already knew?
The pilot regarded him for a few seconds, then said quietly, "You really don't get it, do you?"
"If I got it, Murdock, we wouldn't be in this mess!"
"Faceman always had walls up, Hannibal. You want him to talk to ya, you gotta get through those walls, now you know that. The difference between you an' me is that I knock on the door an' you break out the siege weapons."
There was a long, long silence. Then Hannibal said, "I'll be back in a couple hours," and walked out.
Left alone, Murdock wandered over to the couch. It was piled high with cushions, including one that was almost large enough to double as a beanbag. Murdock picked it up, holding it in front of him like a shield, and knocked on the bedroom door.
"Hey Faceman!"
"I said leave me alone, Murdock!"
"Face, open this door!" When nothing happened, Murdock rolled his eyes. "Faceman, I have got a big fluffy cushion here an' I am not afraid to use it!"
The door opened about six inches. "A...what? What are you going to do, pillow fight me into submission?"
"If I gotta! Now...open...UP!" Murdock threw his whole weight against the door, sending Face staggering back, and forced his way inside, holding up the cushion. "Faceman, don't you make me whap some sense into ya with this."
Face shoved him away. "So that's what it comes down to, after all these years? Do as you're told and you won't get hurt? I guess I shouldn't be surprised – it's how that damn orphanage was run, at least as far as I was concerned – but I didn't think I'd have to hear it from you as well!"
"Okay, that's it!" Murdock threw the cushion at a surprised Face, who caught it reflexively. "Time out! Whatever happened to ya, whatever's got you too ashamed to look at us, it's got you behavin' like the jerk of the century—"
Face laughed bitterly. "News bulletin, Murdock; I am a jerk! You're the only one stupid enough to believe otherwise! Stupid and naive and..."
"Go ahead, Faceman, say it. Stupid, naive, an' crazy, right?"
The lieutenant colored and looked away.
"Goddamn you, Murdock." There was none of the anger he'd shown to Hannibal, just a quiet despair. "What do I have to do to make you get out?"
Murdock eyed him for several seconds, then said very quietly, "Just ask. Ask, not order; we ain't in the Army now, Face, an' even if we were, I happen to outrank you, remember?"
"You also happen to be insane, so I don't think your rank counts for anything here, Murdock!" There was a short pause, then Face added, "Just...get out."
He didn't look at Murdock and the pilot rolled his eyes.
"An' now you're ashameda what you jus' said an' you're tryin' to get me out so you don't hafta look at me an' be reminded of it? Well, guess what: that ain't gonna work this time!"
Face stared at him, then started for the door. "I'm not gonna stand here and listen to this, Murdock."
Murdock caught hold of him and pushed him onto the bed. "Then sit down! Or lie down, or kneel, or squat, or do a handstand; I don't care, Faceman! But you are gonna listen to it!"
Face curled his lip. "Right, Murdock. You know, last night you were my best buddy and it was all midnight feasts together. Now you're on my case too?"
Murdock rolled his eyes again. "Face, what kinda stupid, lousy friend would I be if I let you screw yourself over like this?"
The lieutenant raised his eyebrows. "Gee, Murdock, I don't know. What kinda stupid, lousy friend are you?"
Something long suppressed finally bubbled up in Murdock and he snapped, "I'll tell ya what kinda stupid, lousy friend I am; I'm the kind who sits back watchin' you guys have relatively normal lives while I spend year after year hidin' in a mental hospital an' swallowin' all that crap from BA because I don't wanna see any of you wind up in jail! Y'know, there're days in that place when I would love ta jus' go to the movies, or out to a fast food joint, or even out for a drive. Instead I gotta sit in that same room or those same grounds day in, day out, watchin' the world go by without me until you guys decide you want me for somethin'!"
The silence was long, and absolute.
"You mean...you're...not crazy?" Face's voice was very small as he stared at Murdock, his own problems temporarily forgotten as he tried to process this.
The pilot sat down beside him with a sigh. "Ah, Faceman...I don't know what I am anymore an' that's the truth. I been spendin' so much time actin' like a Looney Tunes that now I ain't sure I can break the habit. Part of me ain't sure I even want to, ta be honest. It's kinda liberatin', bein' loopy."
"But...all these years." Face shook his head, feeling dazed. "The...the breakdown, at the end of Vietnam...was that..."
"Oh, that happened. Or so they tell me. I don't remember much about it, to tell ya the truth. All I know is one minute I'm in Nam gettin' ready to fly an' the next I'm strapped to a bed in a VA hospital an' someone's tellin' me I've been there for about two weeks."
Face stared at him, things tumbling into place. "That time...you were going to be released and when we showed up...and Hannibal came out and said you'd had a relapse—does he know?"
Murdock hesitated before replying, "I think he suspects, or he did then. Now I think he's bought into it hook, line an' sinker." He twined and untwined his fingers in his lap, staring into space. "An' I'm not too sure that I ain't either."
Face stared at his friend, feeling wretched. He knew he ought to say or do something, to try and comfort Murdock – how many times had Murdock comforted him over the years? – but the words wouldn't come. Eventually he put an awkward hand on the pilot's shoulder.
"Why..." He coughed, tried again. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"
Murdock shrugged. "I didn't want to take the chance a blowin' my cover. If the military find out for sure I'm a member of the A-Team, you guys're gonna lose one a the only advantages you got. It's better this way." He reached up to cover Face's hand with his own, and the lieutenant wasn't sure if Murdock was looking for comfort or offering it. "An' I ain't blamin' ya, Faceman. Fact, I'm kinda proud. I mean, I know I done a good job if I fooled you."
"But...you and BA..."
"Aw, that big angry mudsucker's jus' a scared li'l teddy bear underneath. Jus' show him a little love an' affection, give him a cuddle—"
"—and he'll break both your arms," Face interrupted, only half kidding. "Where is he, anyway?"
"Drivin' over."
The lieutenant frowned. "What? From LA? Shouldn't he be here by now?"
Murdock shrugged. "Maybe he ran into Decker an' decided to lead him off our trail." He didn't say what they both knew; that any sign of mental instability, however small, would ward BA off like a chainsaw.
"Maybe we got lucky and Decker picked up Hannibal and threw him in the slammer."
Murdock looked at Face quietly. "You don't mean that."
Face averted his gaze. "No. No, you're right. I don't."
"An' speakin' a Hannibal, he told me ta tell you that he's asked me ta talk to you an' ask you ta tell me to tell him what you said when I told you that he wants to talk to you too."
The lieutenant drew himself up slightly. "Oh really? Well, you can tell Hannibal that..." He paused, replaying Murdock's message in his mind. "Wait...what? Murdock, can you repeat that?"
"I doubt it. But I'll give you the gist of it, Faceman; Hannibal wants ta talk to ya."
"What?" Face stared up, genuine alarm in his expression. "No! Murdock, no way, I can't do that! Tell him I don't want to see him!"
"Alright, Faceman, alright." Murdock patted the lieutenant on the shoulder. "Breathe. I'll tell him you wanna wait a spell."
"No. Murdock, I can't." Face stared at his hands. "Hannibal's...he just...I can't stand the way he looks at me...with his eyes..."
Murdock hopped onto the bed, cuddling the fluffy cushion to him and snuggling into it. "Well, how d'you want him to look at ya, Faceman? With his kneecaps?"
Face shook his head, still not looking at him. "Murdock...Hannibal got us out of that damn POW camp in Vietnam. He held it together, he was the first human being I'd ever met in my whole miserable life who didn't let me down, or try to use me or screw me over just for the fun of it—"
"What 'bout me?"
Face glanced at Murdock and managed a grin. "You were the second."
"Fair enough. Go on."
"It's just...he was always so clear headed and in control of everything and...all I ever wanted to be...was him."
Murdock looked at Face for a moment, and then pushed the cushion at him. The lieutenant glanced at him, surprised, then took it.
"And now he just...it's like he's ashamed of me. Like he can't stand to be in the same room as me. He won't even come in here any more."
Murdock raised his eyebrows. "I see. An' you don't think that might have somethin' to do with the fact that you keep tellin' him to get outta any room you happen to be in?"
Face opened his mouth, then shut it again, going red. "Uh..."
Murdock grinned broadly. "C'mon now, Faceman, you can't get angry at Hannibal for doin' what you tell him. 'Sides, how many people d'ya think he takes orders from? You're pretty special."
The lieutenant looked away. "Yeah. The local nuthouse is full of special people like me."
"Okay." Murdock reached down and caught hold of Face's elbows, pulling him to his feet. "That. Is. It! I do hereby decree that now an' henceforth from this moment on there shall be an end ta the mopin' of the Facial One! An' I further decree that the Facial One an' the Murdockian One shall now sally forth on a sacred pilgrimage to the mystical an' holy land of Kitt Chen to bake gingerbread men. C'mon, I think we got all the stuff we need an' Hannibal's out buyin' groceries so we got the place to ourselves."
Face stared at him, then managed a small smile. "Gingerbread men, huh?"
"Yep. Ain't nothin' in this world can't be solved by eatin' your enemies in effigy. I'll even let you lick out the mixin' bowl." Murdock tugged Face out of the bedroom. "Let's go."
They went. Memories of cooking therapy at the VA and also his own grandmother's way of coping with the blues (bake cookies and inhale the smell from the oven) had prompted Murdock to buy the ingredients while Face was still unconscious. Although he'd intended to make it a joint effort, in reality it was Murdock himself who did most of the baking, as Face claimed that his wrists were far too painful for anything as strenuous as measuring ingredients, mixing or rolling out gingerbread, but if Murdock wanted help cutting them out or eating the end result, he only had to say.
They'd put the tray in the oven to cook and were just getting started cleaning up the mess when the front door opened.
"Guys? It's me."
Murdock grinned. "Hey, Hannibal!"
The colonel strolled in, two grocery bags under each arm, which he deposited on the table.
"Something smells good."
"Sure does. We're bakin' gingerbread men! You want one? You can pretend it's Decker."
Hannibal looked a little dubious. "You've been doing most of the work, right Murdock?"
Murdock fixed Hannibal with a look. "Are you implyin' that my right-hand man Face here ain't a good cook?"
"Yes."
Face glared at Hannibal, but kept his mouth shut. Even with what had happened between him and the colonel, he couldn't justifiably have objected to the comment. Cooking was not one of his talents, and BA had often been heard to remark that the lieutenant would burn the breakfast cereal given half a chance.
"Should be done in about twenty minutes," Murdock announced.
"Good. Well, while we're waiting—" Hannibal reached into his jeans, pulled out a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Murdock— "what do you make of this?"
Murdock took the paper and unfolded it, revealing a Missing poster. Frowning, he studied the picture.
"Ain't that the girl we were hired to rescue in Sacheton? Chrissy Allen?" It seemed a lifetime ago now.
Hannibal gave him a rather twisted smile. "Is it?"
Murdock looked a little closer. It was the same girl, there was no doubt about that. Same photo, right down to the small mole on her upper lip. There was just one small difference.
"Missing...Jolene Hanson? What?" He stared at Hannibal, then back at the flier again. "But...how...who..."
Hannibal sat down at the table. "Yeah. That's pretty much what I said too."
Murdock turned the flier over and over in his hands, as though he thought Hannibal had stuck a picture of Chrissy Allen over another girl's Missing poster.
"Hey Faceman, take a look at this."
The lieutenant took it gingerly, as though afraid it might bite, and examined it, then frowned.
"So...who is she? Chrissy or Jolene?"
Hannibal shrugged. "No idea." He paused, then a slow grin appeared on his face. "But I know someone who might be able to help us."
Murdock stepped forward just in time to stop the colonel picking up the phone. "An' who might that be? 'Cause if you're tryin' ta pull another scam over Decker's eyes—"
"Murdock, that happened once and it worked to perfection."
"Perfection bein' the four of us gettin' chased by twenty military cars an' havin' ta crash through two roadblocks?"
"To someone who needs the jazz like the rest of us need oxygen? Sounds pretty perfect to me." Face didn't quite look at Hannibal as he said this, and the colonel wasn't sure whether he was kidding or not.
"Are you saying you don't approve of my liking the jazz, as you call it?"
When the lieutenant didn't seem inclined to answer, Murdock spoke up. "It ain't a question a likin' it, Colonel. You're completely addicted to it."
"Murdock, that is not true!" Hannibal bit off the end of a cigar, spat it into his hand and dumped it in the trash, then lit up and inhaled, taking care to keep away from the kitchen. "I'm not addicted to the jazz."
"Oh really?"
"Of course. I mean, I could give it up any time I liked. It's just not a good time right now."
Face glanced at Murdock. "Denial?"
"Uh huh."
In spite of the situation, Hannibal grinned. If Face was ribbing him about the jazz...well, he wasn't naïve enough to believe that this put them back on their old footing, nowhere near, but it was a step in the right direction.
"Murdock, you spent a couple days at Tawnia's place, right? When we were hunting for Face?"
Face looked sharply at Hannibal, but there was no anger or reproach in the colonel's tone and so he looked at Murdock instead. "You did?"
"Days, Faceman, not nights. An' yeah, Colonel, I did. Why?"
"Do you remember how long she's staying there?"
Murdock hesitated. "Yeah, she's, uh, she's here for a while. But Hannibal...I ain't sure Tawnia's gonna be able ta help us."
Hannibal shrugged. "It's got to be worth a try. At the very least, she'll know if the paper did a story on either of these girls."
Picking up the phone, he dialed Tawnia's number.
"Tawnia? It's Hannibal."
He winced and jerked the phone away from his ear until the echoes from Tawnia's shriek of astonished delight had died away, then brought it back.
"Yeah, kid, it's good to talk to you too. How's tricks? How's that husband of yours?"
The sudden silence on the other end of the phone coupled with Murdock's frantic shutupshutupshutUP gestures on the other side of the table told Hannibal he'd picked the wrong subject.
"Tawnia?"
More silence. Hannibal got the message.
"What happened?"
He was half expecting it, but Tawnia's reply, screamed down the phone at the top of her lungs, still startled him.
"YOU AND EVERY LYING, CHEATING BASTARD WITH A DICK OUGHTA BE PUBLICLY CASTRATED AND FED TO RABID PIGEONS, SMITH!"
The line went dead and Hannibal stared at the phone in his hand, then at Face and Murdock.
"Rabid pigeons?"
Okay, so that's it for this chapter! Next one's half done, so it should be up a little quicker :) Anyway, hope you liked it and if you read, please review!
