Chapter 23

Brad headed for Autopsy first to see how Dr. Mallard and Jimmy were doing. They were two of the four he was most worried about. He found Dr. Mallard had changed into scrubs.

"Much more comfortable to sleep in, Dr. Pitt," the medical examiner said. But not even a hint of a smile graced his face. Instead, all Brad could see were deep creases, the signs of a long life that normally were invisible thanks to Ducky's cheerful manner and general animation.

"Director Vance asked me if he should bring in Dr. Cranston," Brad said.

"You told him you agreed, no doubt." Ducky moved the back cushions of the sofa to the floor and sank onto the ancient piece of furniture. "I believe that was the right decision, though you don't need me to validate that." He slumped, elbows on his knees.

Before Brad could answer, Jimmy came in, also dressed in scrubs. He carried a beaker of water and set it down on a hot plate on the desk.

"I figured you might want some tea before bed," the young assistant said. "Oh, Dr. Pitt. Do you want some, too?" Jimmy bustled around getting mugs and a tin from the desk. Brad was surprised to see he looked better than he had earlier.

Jimmy stepped around the cushions, then looked at them, then the sofa. "Dr. Mallard?"

"They will not be quite long enough for you, Mr. Palmer, but they will be better than that infernal floor," the ME said. "I appreciate that you do not want me to run the risk of being attacked in my own autopsy suite, especially with a killer who might actually take a leaf from Ari Haswari's book and come in as a corpse, but there is no reason you should suffer unduly for your protective instincts."

As Jimmy began to protest, Brad watched and saw that the tart rejoinder seemed to have brought Dr. Mallard back to life. Jimmy removed the beaker from the hot plate as the water began to bubble and asked Dr. Mallard to show him how to do it, stammering something about impressing his girlfriend's mother. It took just another minute or two to see his presence wasn't necessary, and that this probably should be Dr. Cranston's last stop when she arrived. Unless, of course, something were to happen to either man. They seemed to know exactly what the other needed, and be willing to provide it. Brad could only hope this break would allow the other members of the team to do the same for each other.

~NCIS~NCIS~NCIS~

Tony sat straight up, the lab dark around him, and winced. Sleeping on the floor never used to be this bad. He let his eyes adjust to the faint light coming in through the high windows and looked around. Ziva was curled up in a corner under one of the desks, her arms wrapped tight around her knees. He wondered if that was something they had taught in Mossad, defensive sleeping. He remembered from the married assassins case that she sprawled across the mattress.

Abby was over on her futon, McGee's arms wrapped around her. He was pretty sure they weren't sharing the coffin these days, but McGee was like her security blanket when things got insane. Gibbs, too, but there was no way he was sleeping down here. He wondered if the Boss was even asleep. After what Vance said, he wouldn't put it past Brad to slip Gibbs a sedative and deal with the pissed-off former Marine later.

But maybe he didn't want Gibbs trapped in nightmares. Tony cracked his neck and tried not to think about the images that had woken him. This sicko was finding all sorts of buttons to push with his sadistic killing spree, and Tony was ready for it to stop. Before anybody else got hurt, or one of them went off the deep end.

His skin felt like it was coated in sticky, clammy ick. He couldn't even muster up a smile at the idea he sounded like Abby. Tony pulled his damp undershirt from his skin and wondered if Vance would kill him if he headed for the locker room alone to change.

~NCIS~NCIS~NCIS~NCIS~

Gibbs stood by the window in the squadroom, the only light in the large space from his desk lamp and a few lights outside MTAC shining down from above. He looked out across the Potomac. The dirtbag was out there. Somewhere. Gibbs wondered if he was killing again. Would he return to stand-ins if he couldn't get at the team? Or would he lie in wait? Was he on the Yard? Was he within NCIS?

The team leader turned to scan the room. Nothing moved. He could hear a faint rumble from the space between DiNozzo and McGee's desks where Dorneget was stretched out. Leon was still in his office, probably on the sofa. Gibbs wondered how the director has explained this to his wife, and if the man's family was in danger.

Still, he looked through the dim room for something to explain the prickle of unease along his neck — beyond the obvious. Too much space. Too many places to hide. Too many suspects. Not enough certainty.

Gibbs headed back to his desk and looked at the lists and theories and potential suspects. All their skills, all the technology, and he was further from finding this bastard than he had been from catching Boone during his killing spree. He rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. Still, he needed to sleep. Especially since this was somebody who could get on the Yard. He needed to be alert when people started arriving at the building in a few hours.

~NCIS~NCIS~NCIS~

I was right. This was satisfying. Simple, much easier than the last several. Just as the next one will be simple. They will provide the necessary distraction to the almighty Leroy Jethro Gibbs and his band of followers. While they are looking in the direction I am pointing them, while they discover more of the early puzzle pieces I left for them to find, I will be finishing off my dinner and getting ready to enjoy dessert. Nine to go. My first nine took me five years. The final nine, just five days. And by the end of it, Leroy Jethro Gibbs will know he has been beaten, will know that I am the greatest. I cannot wait to see them tomorrow, failing miserably.