AN: To the anonymous reviewer of 'Poisoned Poison… thank you so much; that was really kind!

More nasty Arthur in this chapter. Not much action, although we're getting closer, but a lot more info, and the last major new character. Hope you like him, TC!

The Rainbow Lake

Chapter 5

Keshowse sat in the small boat and looked back at the cliffs. The young man handling the dinghy didn't disturb his thoughts, since he reckoned he knew more or less what they were. If great-grandfather didn't want to chat, that was fine. Once a week, Shawn would make a point of bringing the mentally agile, physically creaking old man out in the boat to this exact spot, because it was what the Elder liked to do.

He was happy to do it; the old man had a store of wisdom, and the wisdom to know that young people didn't want to hear all of it all of the time, so when Keshowse did speak, Shawn, and many others, listened. Besides, the lad thought, it does me good to look at that land and remember. The old man shifted his position on the wooden seat, and Shawn stopped what he was doing and looked over.

"There are those who resist change because it is change," Keshowse said slowly. "Not all change is bad… but this…" he waved his arm regally at the steep green hills as they ran down into the sea, "This must not change." His great-grandson smiled, and looked at him fondly. "Wipe that grin off your face, you young whipper-snapper," the old man grumbled. "D'you want me to fold my arms and say I. Have. Spoken.?"

"Hah. You would if you thought the occasion called for it. But no, not to me, Gramps. You know that. I'm with you. I'd say most of the young people are. We don't want to see fancy houses up there."

"Even if they raise a lot of money?"

The boy shook out unruly dark hair, and his teeth gleamed against tanned skin. "Gramps, my pals aren't stupid enough to think that if that happened the tribe would see much of it. Anyway, I don't think money's the thing with us kids… we just don't want to see the land spoiled."

A slow smile crossed Keshowse's face. "Seems you youngsters have more sense than your parents, young Onxe… It's getting dark. Let's go home."

The Elder fell back into his own thoughts as the boat cut its way across the golden path that the setting sun made on the water. The problem wasn't sense, he thought sadly. So many of the older people had flung themselves vainly against the monolith of bureaucracy in the past, so hard that they still bore the scars, and preferred apathy these days. It wasn't that they didn't care; they just liked somebody else to do the work and make the decisions. Then if they turned out to be the wrong decisions, not only did they not get the blame, but they could say 'I told you so'.

He didn't know how long he had left in him before he went to the ancestors, but he had no doubt that his duty before he did was to act for the welfare of all the people, not just the few, and he believed that young Naantam's awakening had been a sign. There was a reason his brother had given the land to the boy and no-one else. If the Heritage Centre were built, its location would make it impossible for the would-be property developers among his people to realise their ambitions; and when Tam had shown him the painting, his old heart had leapt. It was symbolic, and the understanding of symbols was second nature to his people; it would become… his mind reached for the modern word… iconic.

He stared out over the bay, eyes not seeing the world for a moment. The artist had called Naantam a warrior, and so he was. The picture said that this warrior would become a great Elder one day, and be nothing but good for his people. Keshowse had seen so much change in his long life, and had tried to remember what he'd just told Shawn, 'not all change is bad'. But change, for his folk, usually meant loss, and it was time for it to stop.

Trevor Buckley sat in his pick-up truck, watching the kid's boat coming in towards the beach. He was parked between two sheds, thinking that this would make him unseen. (He was wrong; both the Elder and the boy knew he was there.) He observed how the young one jumped into the water, and dragged the front end of the dinghy up the shingle until it was stable, and the old man could step out without mishap. Everyone treated Keshowse with dignity; but not even his own nephew gave him the same regard. And now the crazy kid had killed someone. Things were going to hell, and he'd helped them on their way. He'd started four years ago, and it was because he didn't look like a Native American…

"What d'you want to hang around here for, boy? Thought you were taking a vacation!"

"The children are ill, Dad."

"They're injun children."

"They're children. And what they've got's infectious. Quicker we can find out what's wrong, the quicker we can put it right."

"They didn't ask you to help them!"

Patch Hastings had rolled his eyes. "That's only because they did't know I could. You can go home if you like, Dad." (It seemed to Trevor Buckley that the younger man, and the patient young woman with the shiny new wedding ring wished he would.) "We're going to fix this."

The older man backed down, and went off towards his car, parked on the jetty above the beach, not far from where Buckley was parked now. As the son walked back towards the small school, it was the father that held the watcher's attention. He stood looking at the steep, wooded green hill, with its small patches of level land, as it swept down into the waters of the bay, and he wasn't admiring the scenery. Trevor had overheard the man earlier, talking about real estate in that penetrating tone that suggested everyone within earshot should listen to him, and he just knew somehow what the guy was thinking. The devil was sitting on his shoulder; he wandered over.

"Often thought it'd be good to build a house up there," he said casually, "If the plots of land were big enough." The man stiffened, then saw what seemed to be another tourist.

"Hell, I could build five or six up there." Buckley gave him a disbelieving look, that clearly needled the man. "Sure, I could. My company builds cantilevers, rock bolts, platforms… we anchor houses, military installations, observatories – to the sides of mountains. That –" he pointed to the hill – "That'd be a piece of cake. But I hear it all belongs to the injuns."

The way he uttered and pronounced the word made Trevor Buckley cringe, but he heard himself saying, "Yeah, and they don't want to change a damn thing." He almost expected to be struck dead on the spot for the casual denial of his heritage, but when the mountains didn't tremble, he went on, "I hear there's a few on the Tribal Council who'd like to make some white man's money…"

And from that small exchange had come great ambitions. Arthur Hastings still had no idea that he was dealing with two Native Americans; a wannabe Elder – who also wanted to be rich, and his hot-headed nephew. He thought that the guy who dressed like a fading cowboy star, and lived in a one- storey shingle a mile or two away from he cliffs, was a good ol' boy like himself, who just happened to have the ear of a few Howa-whatever they were.

Buckley hated the man, but he loved the idea of being rich. He'd approved of trying to intimidate the young artist into leaving his picture unfinished, but he was terrified now of the consequences of murder. They had to see things through to the end, all the same, since the rewards for success would be great, but he had his bags packed, and money in an account in an assumed name, ready to run.

Now, he watched as the boy that his great-grandfather called Onxe; Fox, pulled a cell-phone from his pocket, and the old man shook his head fondly. But as the youngster listened for a few moments, his face became horror stricken, before he disconnected, and spoke to the Elder. Keshowse raised both hands to heaven, then brought them down, pressing his fists against his brow in an expression of grief. Buckley snarled to himself, and cursed Gary, not for the first time that day; he had no doubt what was the news the Elder had just received.

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

Tam put his cell away. He looked drained, and younger than twenty-one; like a small boy who longed to burst into tears but didn't want to be a softie. The agents sat silently, letting him recover from the agonising task of giving the message to Keshowse that his friend, the artist was dead, and his painting gone.

"What are we going to do?" he asked in the end.

Gibbs thought for a moment. "We are going to follow the leads we've got. You… are going to go back to quarters, and report to Colonel Moss. He's worried about you."

"But I've got to go to Virginia… I have to sign the papers to give the land to the Tribal Council, before we deploy again…"

"Er… about that," Tim said quietly, in a tone that got all their attention. He put a document up on the plasma. "You shouldn't sign, Tam. Not yet."

"I shouldn't? Hey, where did you get that?"

McGee looked a little embarrassed, but unrepentant. "Prefer you didn't ask that, Tam… But I am doing this to help you, believe me. I checked it over because I had the feeling I should. Turns out I was right. D'you know who drew up this deed?"

"Er… a lawyer who does some work for the Tribal Council, I think. Why?"

Tim scrolled down, and then highlighted a sentence, and Tam read it aloud, his voice tailing away gradually in shock. "The purpose for which the land may be used, once given, may be changed if the Council deem this to be in the Tribe's best interest…."

"Tam," the young agent said urgently, "Do you usually read small print?"

"No," the Marine said, stunned. "I trusted them! I wouldn't give them the land if I thought they were going to do that!"

"Nice spot, McLawyer," Tony said wonderingly. "Guess some of them stuck that in when Tam and the others who want the centre weren't looking." He got up from his desk and went to stand by the Marine. "They had you pegged as a busy young guy, on the go, who wouldn't read the small print, who would trust them to take care of things, Tam. If you'd signed it, by the time your friends realised, it would have been too late." He paused. "The same people who were pressurising Jamie to destroy – or at least not finish – the painting, are going to be after you now to sign, you know."

Gibbs said firmly, "Which is another reason for you to be back in quarters, under the Colonel's eye. Don't go back to Virginia… and don't sign anything."

Tam passed a hand across his eyes. "I was wondering how I was going to get there anyway," he said forlornly.

"You can have Alberta back," Gibbs said, "if you give me your word as a Marine that you'll go straight back to Barracks – and if you pay the bill Metro send us for bringing her here. You're the one that abandoned her…"

The young marine managed a grin. "I'll do that. She's going to be pretty mad at me, Sir."

Gibbs wasn't prepared to let that go a second time. "Don't call me Sir. I was a Gunny."

"Would have bet on it, Si – Gunny. I give you my word – I don't want to sign now… and there's no point in going down there to punch someone when I don't know who to punch. Besides," he added bleakly, "If they're mixed up in Jamie's murder, I'll want to kill them." He thought for a minute. "Can't ride her anyway… there's a hole in her back tyre."

"Abby's fixed that," Tim said, putting the phone down. "One of us had better follow you back. To make sure no-one else does."

"Ziva'll do it," Gibbs said. "Still need you on that computer, McGee. Get gone, Marine. We'll keep you in the loop, that's a promise."

Tam nodded. "Thanks, Si – Special Agent Gibbs." He couldn't say anything else, and Ziva led him off towards the garage where his faithful Alberta was waiting.

"DiNozzo – "

"Never assume. Alibis for both Sunny and Tam. Already on that. Information on the lovely Aslan O'Hare, Elders and lawyers of the Howakhan Tribe. Find out from Jamie Hope's landlord about other visitors; any relevant CCTV… see if Abby's got anything from his phone… and phone out for pizzas. There's something I'm missing out… maybe food will jog my memory."

On cue, Gibbs' stomach growled. "Pizza first, then."

Both young people had rock solid alibis, they discovered much to their relief, without having to ask them. Jamie's landlord and his wife, and a visiting electrician all confirmed that Sunny had been no further than the pigeon hole for her boyfriend's mail. And Tam had any number of young Marines to confirm that although the unit was on stand-down, when he wasn't in Virginia Tam remained in quarters, and had done so until he'd received the dreadful news from his CO.

The landlord also confirmed that Jamie Hope had had no visitors apart from Sunny.

"He went out very early, though," he confirmed over the phone. "I heard the front door, so I looked out of the window, and saw him driving off. What direction? Er, north I guess. Not towards the Navy Yard, anyway."

Local CCTV showed Aslan O'Hare's powder blue Merc driving past twice on the day before the murder, but it didn't stop. They'd have to ask him why, though. Gibbs read over the young artist's will again, but there was nothing there… the few paintings that were individual bequests, including one to the Colonel, a charcoal drawing of a Humvee with Marines kipping on top, inside, across the hood, and under it, were all accounted for in their custody.

Ziva returned with coffee; she was pink cheeked, and explained that as it was a very short distance from NCIS to the Marine barracks, she had ridden pillion on Alberta, a very nice bike, she said, to which Tony agreed. "VT750S, Boss. Very nice." She'd walked back, and picked up the coffees on the way. The pizzas arrived a few minutes later, and after a while, fed and watered, they felt ready to go on again – but where?

After phoning Polly to see how Sunny was doing, and looking over the time line for the day, Tony realised that the murdered Marine had left his apartment far too early to have gone straight to Ohio Drive, to meet his killer. He tried following him on traffic CCTV; Tim saw he was struggling and came over to help him, but even with McSpycam's help, he lost him. Just to make things worse, there were no cameras at all on Ohio Drive.

"Damn…," (sigh) "Thanks anyway, McGee… but where the hell did he go?" If he knew that, he'd be out of here. He'd only been in the bull pen since getting back from the Hastings place, but he felt as if he'd been here for humdrum hours, achieving nothing. There were random dots in Tony's mind, and they were refusing to connect, in spite of the pizza.

Abby clumped in at that moment. "I can't tell you where he went, Tony… but I can tell you who he spoke to." She picked up the remote for the plasma screen, and brought up the feed from her lab. "And in some cases, who he didn't speak to. This one belongs to an art dealer called Aslan O'Hare – can you believe that name? Can anyone be that pretentious? I mean, somebody was, because his parents gave him that name… unless he gave it to himself, of course, which is twice as pretentious…"

"We met him." Ziva's tone said it all. "Does NA mean not accepted?"

"It does. You can see how many times poor Aslan wasn't accepted."

"Sunny didn't like him, and that's good enough for me," Tony said, and that was that for Aslan O'Hare for the moment, although Tim did amuse himself by imagining the guy driving up and down outside the apartment, vainly waiting for an answer. Something for a future book maybe; he could imagine Agent Tommy interrogating him…

"All the other calls are to, or from, his mates, or Sunny. In the hour before he died, he didn't phone anyone at all, not even Sunny. He never heard a friendly voice," Abby said sadly.

"Protecting her," Gibbs said. "He didn't want her to worry."

"There's only this one," Abby went on. "Incoming, eighty minutes before he was found. It's a pay as you go, unregistered, and it's the only thing that's different. I am so sorry, you guys… I know you were hoping I'd come up with something! Not a lot of use, unless you come up with something to match it with."

"No problem!" Tim suddenly shouted. Then he sighed and subsided. "Well… it's only one name…"

"One more than we had two minutes ago…," Tony said, trying to sound encouraging and not morose. What have you got?"

"I'm into Jamie's diary. This morning, there's that number, and beside it, just 'Gary."

"Hmmm. Nice work, people. Our killer has a name." They looked at the Boss in astonishment. Praise, this late at night. Gibbs threw his pen down, and smiled.

AN: If anyone's curious, the Native American names I used are borrowed from the Powhatan language. Howakhan means 'mysterious voice', and Keshowse is 'sun'. Sorry for any typos… I have read through, but I'm tired.