P A S S A G E
Sequel to Privilege
(temporary title)

A/N: YAY! They reran "From the Ashes" last Thursday! I taped it so I could rewatch it, which I did tonight with my sister. So here I am, writing another chapter in the very early hours of the morning.

C h a p t e r F o u r
Click

. - . - . - .

Danny was already at his desk by the time Vivian got into work. He replied to her greeting with a dead-sounding "g'morning," and rubbed his eyes.

"Long night?"

"All too short."

She paused by his desk, coffee cup in hand, waited for him to explain.

"Carolynn Casper."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. She tried to kill herself. Again. Last night."

Vivian shut her eyes, sighed; looked at Danny. "She okay?"

"Yeah, sure, for now."

Vivian gave him a sad smile and continued on to her desk, thinking about people and the things they hold onto. She glanced at Gregory Henley as she passed the whiteboard, met his eyes.

Dropping her bag beside her chair, she shifted the paperwork on her desk to one side, adjusted the photo of Reggie from last Christmas, set her coffee down on the mouse pad, and sat.

Danny was staring at the opposite wall.

Vivian shook her head and turned to study the open file on her desk. PHONE RECORD, it said, and she skimmed it. A call to a neighbor, two to a local hair salon. Four to various family members; one to a radio station. Ms. Henley wasn't home much, and apparently her father wasn't particularly into telephone conversations.

Near the end was a two-minute call to JOSEPH BENNETT, a name Vivian did not recognize. She entered the name into the database and printed the address the search returned.

. - . - . - .

The house Vivian now stood in front of was old. It was small and modest, and the white paint was peeling and tinged with yellow. But there were flowers in the window boxes, the yard was tidy, and the tired-looking Ford in the driveway displayed an NYU bumper sticker.

Vivian's knock was answered by a tall girl in a baggy sweatshirt with her hair carelessly pulled back to hang to her waist. Early twenties, Viv thought.

"Can I help you?" the girl asked.

"Maybe you can. Is this the home of Joseph Bennett?"

"I guess." Seeing Viv's enquiring look, she said, "He hasn't been home for weeks. Business trip to LA. He's my father," she added.

"Miss Bennett, Vivian Johnson from the FBI. May I come in?"

The girl tilted her head to one side, then stepped back to make room for Vivian to enter. "Rachel Bennett. What's this about?"

Vivian followed Rachel into the living room and took the seat the girl gestured to. "I was wondering what you could tell me about Gregory Henley."

Rachel screwed up her nose. "Who's that?"

"Someone who called this house last Saturday, about quarter of five in the morning."

Realization showed on her face. "Oh! That. I didn't know the man on the other end, though. I thought he was just some drunk guy or something, going on about the tree house, let's meet at the tree house. I thought he was crazy, 'til he said something about 'Lizzie Anne'. I know the woman who lived here before me was Elizabeth Anne Smith; I still get her mail sometimes. Just last week an old friend of hers died, I don't know who, but someone sent a fruit basket." She pointed to the counter where the basket sat, still in its wrapping. "Wanted to send it back, but there's no return address. Just doesn't seem right to open it, though. You know, with 'deepest sympathies' written on the card and all."

"Did he say anything about where the tree house might be?"

"Um… no, or at least I don't think so. He said… 'Tell Click. Click will be there.' Or something like that."

"Click?"

Rachel shrugged. "That's what it sounded like."

. - . - . - .

Martin looked up as Vivian reentered the bullpen. She seemed determined, and perhaps lost in thought. She walked to the whiteboard and added to the timeline: Tries to contact old friend about 'tree house' and 'Click'.

There's a story there, thought Martin. He looked over at Sam; she too studied the timeline. His gaze moved to Danny. Danny was not looking at the whiteboard; he was talking on the phone. "I'll come by tonight," he said. "I want her on the watch list. Okay, thanks. Yeah. Bye."

. - . - . - .

It was late when Sam left work. She shared the elevator with Martin on the way down to the parking lot. Neither of them said anything; they never did. They chose instead to bask in companionable silence. Martin flagged downa taxi for her like a true gentleman, and she smiled and thanked him.

She was half way home when her cell phone rang. She checked the display; the number was unfamiliar.

"Spade."

"Agent Spade? This is… This is Dina Kingston."

"Dina. What is it?"

"It's Kelly. I have to work tonight, and Emily just called – something came up, she'll be gone all week... I, I have no right to ask this, but I don't know who else to call."

Sam smiled. "You need a babysitter."

"Would you mind? I just – I can't afford to lose my job. Not now."

"I know. When's your shift?"

"Half an hour."

Sam glanced out the window and came up with an estimate. "Give me twenty minutes."

"Thank you so much."

"Sure."

They hung up.

Sam put her phone away and stretched. She had planned to get home, put something in the microwave, fall asleep watching reruns of Friends.

Wake up in the middle of the night groping for her gun, utterly alone in the dark.

Perhaps it was better this way. By the time she got home, she would be so tired that she might actually sleep through the night. Worth a shot.

Remembering the agents stationed in front of her apartment, she fished out her phone again to give them a heads up. When she got home, she asked the taxi driver to wait, then popped inside to change into jeans and a sweater. Setting her badge and her gun on the kitchen table, she left the apartment, locking the door behind her.