Jenny sat up groggily; her hand at her sore jaw. Gibbs crouched beside her, and steadied her. "What happened?" she mumbled.
"A meteor hit the building," he answered, and was glad when she glared at him. Her thinking was intact.
"Klara Schultz socked me," she then said. "I can do worse to her than that." She let Gibbs help her to her feet.
"Outside the court system, I doubt it. She left you her gun and her badge."
"Damn.. I don't have time or this nonsense. All right, Jethro; you're on your own in this. You've still got the teams. I'm counting on you."
Teams, plural. Oh my God… He nodded, and left.
- - - - -
Klara Schultz answered the banging at her door a few hours later with a glance through the peephole and then a glare at Gibbs. "I should have known it would be you, on this perfect day," she groused. "Come on in."
"You sure you want to be drinking…scotch?" he guessed, seeing the glass in her hand. "Drowning your sorrows?"
"My sorrows are Olympic-level swimmers, thank you, and no, I'm not sure I want to be drinking scotch. Champagne seems more appropriate, don't you think?" She poured him a drink; knowing his tastes, she didn't have to ask.
"Why'd you do it, Schultz? You know how Jenny is. I don't think she really meant what she said about McGee."
Crossing the room, she paused; looked at a photo on the mantelpiece of her and her team."Oh, she meant it, all right. I guess you don't get to her position without being willing to drive a tractor over a few peasants who happen to be in the way. Even if, or especially if, they're only doing their jobs."
"She was stressed. Later, she'll regret it. She's not really that callous…" He looked into his glass of scotch. "…but, thank you for standing up for McGee. I really appreciate that."
Schultz did smile then, a little half-smile; regret strengthened by purpose. "Our teams are worth it. He's worth it."
"You're right...what are your plans, job-wise?"
She paused. "I'm going to think about it. I have something else to keep me busy at the moment…now that I don't have all that cursed red tape to distract me. I, ah, don't suppose you could print out some stuff and bring it to me…?"
He stared at her for a long minute. "You're going to keep trying to find McGee!"
"And the commander. I figure they're a twofer."
Gibbs slapped the arm of his armchair. "You didn't plan this Tell me you didn't plan this!"
"Fine. I didn't plan to punch out my boss; honest. I have a temper; you know that. But since this morning, I could tell which way the wind was blowing. She's blinded by this need to find Alvarez, and thereby make her boss happy, Gibbs. And while I want Alvarez back, too, I can't let her throw McGee away. It goes against everything I thought we stood for."
Gibbs finished his drink. "I'll get you those print-outs, and keep you informed. Thanks…Klara."
"No need for the thanks…Jethro."
- - - - -
That evening, Alvarez returned from a session with Nels, shaken. "He's trying to fix a code name in my mind, that bastard."
"What's the name?"
"Well, I'd thought he'd try to do this, after what you told me about your grandmother's name. So I chose a name that doesn't have an emotional tie to me, though. I said it was an uncle's name: Fidel."
Tim smiled in grim understanding. "So you think there will be a lot of Fidels around you?"
"I hope not. Maybe if there's no emotional tie, that will prevent that part of the madness from developing. I just hope it isn't replaced with a different kind of madness. Now your grandmother's name is Martha?"
"No, Marthe. The 'h' isn't pronounced in Norwegian TH compounds, so it sounds more like 'Mar-ta.' I don't know anyone else by that name."
"There are Martas in my family,it's a Hispanic name, but this name is your delusion, not mine. I hope you don't start seeing Marthes around you."
Tim sighed wearily. "Me, too. How many Nells do you see now?"
Alvarez looked surprised. "Why, Tim; I don't just see them. They're right here with us!" He surveyed the flock of attractive women who stood or sat around the room; some in street clothes, some in Navy uniforms. "Let's see…eight right now."
"Too bad one isn't the baking Nell. I liked those brownies she made."
"Are you still having paranoid thoughts?" Alvarez asked shrewdly, ignoring Tim's little jibe.
"I don't have paranoid thoughts!"
"Yes, you do. You're still scared of what Gibbs, Jenny, and Dr. Mallard will do to you. You've said so a dozen times."
"Only because I mess up everything I do." Tim sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry about all of this, Enrique. I got you into this fix. I'm a special agent; I should have been able to prevent this from happening."
"If a peculiar set of circumstances occurred, maybe. Tim, one thing I've learned in my years of commanding is that no one, no matter how skilled they are, can anticipate everything. This includes special agents with 20 years in. And I also believe that, if caught off-guard, what one does next is just as important."
"Yeah! You tell 'im, Sweetie!"
"Woot! Go, 'rique!"
"Honey, honey! Lookin' good!"
"What did you say?" Tim looked at the commander, puzzled.
"Hmmm? I said that one's actions subsequent to being taken by surprise are—"
"No, after that."
"I didn't say anything after that."
"But I thought I heard…" Tim let it trail off. He didn't want to say what he was thinking: women's voices.
- - - - -
Nels kept creeping up behind Tim while Tim continued his reading of the electronics texts. Tim would turn his head, and Nels would be there, only to slide away on some other mission. It became unnerving after awhile.
Finally Tim said, "What is it you want, Johansson?!"
"Nothing at all, Agent McGee. I am sorry for the intrusion." But he didn't stop.
Tim felt his tension growing. His head ached, his ribs hurt, he became afraid—of what, he couldn't say. An image of Granny Hansen came into his mind. Marthe… The name echoed in his mind. Marthe Marthe Marthe Marthe…
"I don't know what you think you're doing," he snapped at Nels. "This was supposed to be a mutually-beneficial approach: you would get a lab assistant; I would get to learn electronics. Why are you sabotaging this?"
"Am I, Agent McGee?" Nels turned predatory eyes on him.
"Yes, you are. Marthe would say the same—" In horror, Tim threw both hands over his mouth. Nels only smirked.
- - - - -
Alvarez was dozing when Tim returned to the in-laws' apartment late that night. Tim scanned the room, but couldn't see anyone there other than the commander. Standing still, though, with his eyes closed, he was sure he could hear the rustle of fabric, perhaps as legs shifted in sitting, along with murmurs and random, softly-spoken words.
Enrique wouldn't, said one voice. Left behind, said another.
Marthe, his mind hammered at him. Marthe Marthe Marthe…
Marta? said one of the voices. Do we know any 'Martas'?
Tim sank onto the couch, and would have sworn he heard fabric rustling again, and quiet steps as of high-heeled shoes, moving away from the couch. I'm losing my mind. This isn't real; it can't be real. I'm not hearing what I think I'm hearing. It's an audio hallucination…
…just like the hallucinations Lieutenant Peskarev had before she died…
- - - - -
To be continued…