Chapter Fifteen: Blood on the Hands
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Tony drove as fast as he could get away with; worried that he'd lost too much time already. Little bits of his conversations with Schultz today came back at him, like stings of dust carried by wind. All of us over-50s should curl up and die, he remembered her saying. Briefly he wondered if she could have meant that in a suicide mission-sense. Nah; that's not like Schultz at all. She's too practical for that…Though with her job gone, she might just feel she has nothing left to lose…
Pulling into Jesup Blair park in Silver Spring, he was surprised to find that Schultz' car was still there. That could have meant that she was walking around the area. Or that she's already in trouble…
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"No, Tony; Joe and Balere have not returned yet," Ziva said on the phone. "They called in about five minutes ago; said they were done processing the car and were waiting for our towing service. I thought you were ill and going home."
He ignored that last bit. "Did they find anything interesting?"
"They did not mention anything. We will have to wait for Abby to go over the car."
Tony hung up with a sigh. It was too much to hope for there to be an obvious clue to McGee, like a copy of Deep Six on the back seat. He didn't want to think about Abby finding things like blood in the car. Particularly if it turned out to be McGee's blood.
But if she was working for his kidnappers, and dispatched the commander, why couldn't she have done so to McGee as well?
And if she has—and Abby matches the blood—I'm not sure I want to be at NCIS then.
I hope this Lindholm woman didn't work alone. I'm really in a mood to pound someone. He normally didn't pay much attention to these threatening thoughts. They were usually just bluster.
Still, there was a first time for everything. Especially if they'd hurt McGee.
Schultz had kept the notes they'd made on the recent real estate transactions in Silver Spring that might point to places where Alvarez and McGee could have been held. Again he tried her phone, but again it went over to voice mail. Did she use an NCIS-issued phone? Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she had turned her cell phone in, or left it at home.
"Yes, Tony-who-is-not-really-home-sick. You have reached your remaining teammate, who is doing the work of three. How can I help you?"
"No one likes a wise ass, Ziva." He realized too late how that sounded, considering his past, even before Ziva's hoots of laughter. "I need Klara's personal cell phone number. Can you pull it up for me?"
She accessed Klara's employee file (the general portion, viewable by all personnel) and gave him the number listed. "Tony…do not do anything stupid," she added.
"No more than I ever do," he said cheerfully, and hung up, then dialed Schultz' personal number. It, too, went to voice mail. He tried it again, but there was still no answer.
Now he was officially worried.
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Tim was brought a mid-afternoon snack by one of the other Nells; a 30ish woman with dishwater blond hair, long and thick. "Agent McGee? I wasn't sure of what you'd like. Here's some iced tea and strawberry shortcake."
"That looks yummy. Thanks," he said, taking the tray from her and setting it on the coffee table. She smiled at him and left, locking the door behind her.
With a feeling of some despair, Tim turned off the fan that they'd had running for the last few days. There was no conversation to hide now. He sat down, and one of his Marthes scooted over to make more room for him on the couch. "That looks delightful, dear," she said to him, "only I'm trying to watch my figure. You'll pardon me if I stay away from temptation."
"Sure," he said politely, and dug in. What else could one say to a spirit who wasn't really there?
As he ate, trying to tune out the older ladies who perched at the edge of his vision, he thought. Nels hasn't come down on me yet for Baking Nell's absence…and believed that tripe I gave him about Enrique. He's either really busy or denser than a stone.
I only had Baking Nell's word that it was hard to escape. Maybe it's easier than she let on.
But there was still the matter of his quest to find out what Nels was up to. If he escaped now, it would be a purely selfish act. No, I owe it to my job to get the goods on Nels, so we can shut his operation down before anyone else gets hurt.
How to do this, though? Nels seemed to think he'd outlived his usefulness…'Outlived'. Now there was an interesting word. Did this mean that Nels was about to kill him? Or perversely watch him die a horrible death, like Lt. Dawn Peskarev's that had started all this back at Anacostia, in front of witnesses, days ago?
I am not going to die without a fight. There. He'd said it to himself. Now to make that happen.
With simple kitchen implements he had enough devices to undo the lock system on the door. After about five minutes' work, he opened the door slowly. The hallway was empty.
Confidently he strolled along it, headed for the second floor. He remembered a nugget from his FLETC classes: Don't want to be noticed? Act like you belong where you are. And he should indeed be able to get away with it without much effort. People were used to seeing him in the halls, on his way to or from Nels' lab. Sometimes he had had guards as escorts; yesterday he went alone, with only someone nearby to lock or unlock the doors.
He climbed the stairs to the lab, and surprised the Japanese-American Nell who was one of Nels' assistants. "Agent McGee? I wasn't told you were coming up this afternoon."
"I'm bored out of my mind," Tim improvised. "There's nothing good on TV right now."
"Oh. Well, let me see if Dr. Johansson has something for you to do." She went into the main lab, leaving Tim alone in the outer lab area. He quickly took advantage of his freedom, poking into things, and managed to look bland and bored when the Nell came back out.
"What did he say?" asked Tim.
"He says that if you'd like, you can look over the circuit diagrams, to see if you can spot any errors. The doctor's work is too important for him to fuss with such details, yet he knows that someone must do it, so the project doesn't fall apart before it gets started."
"Sure. No problem." A day or two ago Tim wouldn't have felt so confident, but either he'd learned a lot (possible) or increasing mental illness had made him overly confident (more likely). He didn't much care, as long as it gave him an in with Nels.
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Jenny sat in her office with the door closed, and directions to Cynthia to not put through anyone short of the level of the SECNAV. Her hands trembled as she poured bourbon into the glass. Being convinced that she had kept up a stoic front before the SECNAV, before his aides, before Gibbs and the rank-and-file agents did not make her feel any better right now.
I have blood on my hands.
Without initial thought she did look at her nicely-maintained hands; the nails cut and colored precisely. No blood there, but she thought she could see it nonetheless.
I have blood on my hands.
Timothy McGee's blood. What had she become that she would sell her soul to the devil? For a little job security, for a chance to placate droning reporters, and the SECNAV, even?
She thought back on her days as a simple agent, when she would have been outraged if a superior had done what she had done: abandoned one of her people, probably condemned him to death for political expediency. That was not the way NCIS was supposed to operate. They rescued their people in danger. They did everything they could do.
NCIS is a family, she'd often said. It was a damn poor situation if the family matriarch didn't act like a leader and protector.
Downing the bourbon and pouring herself another, she phoned Gibbs. "Jethro, leave control of the Lindholm woman to Frawley's team when they come on the evening shift. This is a change of plans. Put all of your people, including Klara's team, on finding McGee."
"You found your heart, Jen," Gibbs said softly. "Congratulations."
"Oh, get on with you," she said gruffly, and hung up, hoping this wasn't too late.
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"Yes, yes, yes, I'm coming!!" The stout little Nell called by the others Harried Nell ran to open the front door. They didn't get many visitor-type visitors, but there were always deliveries for the lab. Since most of her work was done on the first floor, she was often the one to answer the door.
"Yes, delivery for Dr. Johansson—oh, sorry. You're not making a delivery, are you?"
The salt-and-pepper haired woman smiled up at her, encouragingly; secretly glad that she'd tucked away in her car a dress to change into. "The employment agency said that Dr. Johannson might have openings for lab assistants. My name is Klara."