Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night".
A/N: Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter: there will be more Stella/Flack to come. But now, back to Montana!
Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles.
It's A Long Journey Home
Chapter 25: Call Me on the Phone
Whenever I want you around, yeah.
All I gotta do,
Is call you on the phone,
And you'll come running home,
Yeah, that's all I gotta do.
Lindsay felt like she had spent all day waiting: waiting for results from yet more tests, waiting for Detective Evans to respond to any one of her questions and suppositions about the case, waiting for McKim to come back with something new in his search for some verifiable details in the wash of gossip surrounding the shooting thirteen years ago, waiting for evening.
For evening, when Danny would phone.
She didn't even consider the idea he wouldn't phone. She needed him too badly, needed to hear his voice too much, to even consider that the cool tone in his voice when she had last spoken to him was an indication that he was tired of the drama.
She was so tired. Sleep every night was a catch-as-catch-can proposition, as she tried desperately to get enough sleep in between nightmares that she could continue to function.
Even during the day, she felt as if she were walking through a nightmare –every so often photos like those taken at a crime scene would flash in front of her eyes briefly, then a face, masked, dark eyes staring into hers, then the barrel of a rifle, then nothing – and Danny's voice was the one point of light, the one thing she could cling to.
She had been home from the station for nearly two hours now. She had eaten dinner with her parents and they had caught her up on all the family doings, ignoring everything that had happened to her over the past few weeks to focus on smaller, more personal things. She had appreciated their reticence; she really didn't want to talk to her mother and father about the case again. Every time she did, their eyes changed: Diane's blazed with a deep, undying fury, while Ted's just went completely blank, as if he could somehow deny not only the original action, but everything which had come from it.
Lindsay knew her parents supported the work she did, understanding why she had felt called to go into law enforcement, but they would have been happier if she had stayed in the lab. She rarely told them about the dangers she faced in New York, knowing that they preferred to think of her safely behind glass walls looking in a microscope. Scientist, not cop.
But her team in New York knew her better. They knew that she thrived on challenge, on the danger in her job, as much as on the puzzles themselves. She had been terrified when she went undercover in the Hollies case, but at the same time it had been a huge rush.
She shook her head and dried her hands. Daydreaming over the dishes felt quintessentially "rural" to her, perhaps because she had spent much of her adolescence doing just that, dreaming about a more interesting, exciting life while she performed daily chores around the ranch. The only chore she really missed in New York was exercising the horses. She glanced at the clock; it wasn't even 8:00 yet. Danny was just coming off his 10:00 shift; if he waited until he got home to phone, it would be an hour or so yet. She thought she might have time for a quick ride.
It didn't take her long to get out to the enclosure where some of the riding horses were kept, and less time than that to saddle up Dusty, a sweet-natured bay. She didn't plan on being out for long, but she just couldn't sit around watching TV with her mom and dad again tonight. The moon was high, the night was cold but crisp, and she was going stir crazy.
She gave Dusty her head for the first part of the ride; Dusty was used mostly for trail riding, and had some pretty well-set routines in her equine head. Lindsay just went along for the ride, automatically adjusting her seat when Dusty climbed up or down. When her feet were suddenly wet, she woke up from her reverie and laughed. Dusty, bored with the lack of direction from her rider, had splashed into the middle of a small stream which ran through the back corner of the Monroe property, and was placidly drinking.
"Okay, Dusty, message received! Let's go," Lindsay urged the horse back up the bank and kicked her up to a trot. The luminescent numbers on her watch told her it was nearly 9:00; Danny may be phoning even now. Once she reached the moon-drenched meadow, she pushed Dusty into a gallop. They flew through the high grass; Lindsay knew there was some danger of uneven ground, but she trusted the sure-footed little trail horse to make her way even at this pace.
Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Lindsay saw a movement near the trees at the edge of the meadow. She was near the house now, but the Monroes didn't keep any staff on the property; gone were the days when ranch hands lived in. There was a person standing in the shadows; she saw the glint of moonlight on something that looked like a rifle barrel, and then she saw the gun jerk, and, incredulous, heard the shot.
Dusty didn't wait for her heels to dig in; the horse took off at a Derby winning pace almost before the sound of the shot reached them. Lindsay hunkered down to make a smaller target and made it to the enclosure in minutes flat. She flung herself off the soaked and shivering horse, and grabbed one of the rifles kept in a gunlock in the barn to protect livestock from predators. She was out the door, loading the rifle and running towards the shadowy figure before she had even thought about it.
When she came around the side of the barn, though, her father came running out and grabbed her arm. "What are you doing? Was that a shot I heard? What the hell is going on?"
Lindsay shook his hand off her arm. "Someone took a shot, Dad. I'm going to find out who …" she stopped as a car engine broke the still night air, and they heard a car peeling off into the distance.
"Lindsay, go into the house and call the police," her father spoke coolly, but she could hear the fear beneath.
"Dad, I am the police. He's gone. I'll report it in the morning." She turned back to the barn. "I need to rub down Dusty and settle her. Poor thing; she was so spooked."
Ted grabbed her. "I'll do it. Go into the house and report this now."
She was going to argue, but she looked at Ted's white face and bit her tongue. "You okay?"
He nodded, "A little shaken. Go in the house, please. Call John, if nothing else."
She nodded back, and handed him the rifle. "Check to make sure I locked things up again, 'kay?" She turned on her heel and walked into the house, straight up the stairs and into the kitchen. It wasn't until she sat down at the table that she began to shake.
She buried her face in her hands and tried not to cry. She had had no trouble doing what needed to be done, but now a realization was starting to force itself on her. That hadn't been an accident. Someone had tried to shoot her.
She mouthed those words under her breath, and then reached behind her for the phone hanging on the wall. Ted was right; she had to report this. But she didn't want hordes of police and reporters on her dad's property; she wanted to deal with this as much as possible on her own. So she put in her call to McKim.
She was a little surprised when he didn't answer; they had made tentative plans to grab a bite to eat, which she had later turned down in favour of dinner with her parents. He must have found a substitute. Well, she thought, it made it easier to downplay this incident if she could leave a message on voice mail.
"Hey, John, it's Lindsay Monroe. Someone was on the property; he popped off a round while I was passing on Dusty. You guys should maybe be on the look-out; I don't know whether it was deliberate or just stupid. I'll process the scene in the morning, okay?"
She dropped the phone back on the hook.
She heard Ted coming in the front door and went to calm him down. His eyes were a little wild, and the first thing he asked was, "Are they coming out? Who'd you talk to?"
"Dad, I told you, there's no point in anyone coming out tonight; we won't be able to see anything. I'll process the scene in the morning. Let the dogs out; they'll keep anyone from coming too near the house. It'll be okay, I promise. It was probably just some stupid kid."
Ted looked at her sternly, "Lindsay, did you call?"
Lindsay grinned at the parental tone, but said authoritatively, "I left a message for John McKim; he wasn't in, but he'll get it in the morning and if I know him he'll be here by breakfast time. You should go get some sleep; tomorrow is going to be a long day."
Coaxing and comforting, Lindsay managed to calm down first her father and then her mother enough for them to let her go upstairs. She sat heavily on the bed and put her head in her hands. Suddenly, she was shaking so hard she thought she might just fall apart.
The phone rang, and Diane's worried voice called up the stairs, "Lindsay, it's Detective Messer."
Lindsay sucked in a huge breath and tried to calm herself. She didn't want to tell Danny, did she? Pretty pathetically girly, to unburden herself to a man, seeking protection. She was a cop; she was tough; she could deal with this herself.
"Got it, Mom," she called back down the stairs as she grabbed the cordless phone from the landing and took it back into her room, not bothering to turn on the light, "Hi, Danny! Thanks for calling!"
It was no good. The moment she opened her mouth, she knew she wasn't going to be able to pull this off.
"Montana? What's wrong? What's happened?"
Could everyone read her like that, she wondered, or was it just him?
"I was out for a ride, and someone shot at me." She tried to say it casually, but was not successful.
There was utter silence on the other end of the phone.
"Danny? You still there?"
"I'm sorry. Did you say someone SHOT at you?" His voice was pitched a little high.
"Yeah. He was waiting in the meadow by the barn, just under tree cover. Luckily, I saw a reflection off the gun barrel; it looked like a rifle. I went back out to find him after I got the horse in the barn, but we heard the car take off out of here, so I didn't go after him." Lindsay could feel herself calming down as she spoke. It was one effect Danny had on her.
"What the hell …? Did you call the police?"
"Umm. I left a message for John; he wasn't home. Then you phoned." And I would much rather talk to you, she thought.
"Lindsay, hang up and phone the cops. You need to report this." Danny's voice was harsh with aggravation compounded by fear.
"I will, but later. They can't do anything now, anyway, Danny. It's too dark to look for tire tracks; besides, ground's frozen solid up here. The guy is long gone; our ranch is nearly an hour out of town. By the time they got here, there wouldn't be anything they could do anyway. I'll go out in the morning and process the scene."
"Are you okay? He didn't hit you, did he?" The shock and panic in Danny's voice had not subsided.
Lindsay sat down on her bed; she had been pacing around her small room, but suddenly her legs couldn't hold her up any longer.
"I could use a hug." She closed her eyes and felt his arms around her, holding her, checking to make sure she was in one piece after she had dropped the flash bomb to distract the diamond smuggler. That moment had helped her through innumerable nightmares.
"I wish I could be the one to do that for you," he said softly.
She laughed shakily, "You're the only one whose hug would make a difference."
"You sure about that?" If he had meant that to be a teasing comment, it failed miserably. He sounded needy and a little worried, and it thrilled her.
"Hmm. If you were here…I'd feel safe." She could feel a curl of heat in the pit of her stomach. Safe wasn't exactly the word leaping to mind in connection with Danny Messer.
"Safe? What makes you think I'm safe, Montana?" She could hear Danny settle back, in bed, she wondered, or on the couch? She tried to picture him, but all that came to mind was heat: his hands on her body, his body against hers. She was swamped in sensation.
When she spoke, the quiver in her stomach echoed in her voice, "You make me feel …" Deliberately, she paused.
"What?" His voice was low and a little husky; she could feel it rasping up her spine, making her shiver.
"Strong," her voice whispered over the phone line.
"And…?" He was going to start begging any moment.
"And safe." She grinned at his huff of annoyance. Then she heard him chuckle a little wickedly.
"Well, Miss Monroe, let's see if I can change that up a little on you."