AN: Credit to my mom for one little bit of this. It never would have occurred to me that McGee uses his right hand for the mouse instead of his left, but after she pointed out that mousing is the only thing she does right-handed, I started watching for it on the show because I was curious.
Chapter 8
While Tony was in the downstairs bathroom tying his tie, Tim stuck his head in. "I'm leaving. Jethro's upstairs. Tell my dad I said hi and that I'll see him and Mom tonight if we can sneak over before the storm rolls in. Oh, and can you check with Brad to see how Dad's really doing? He won't BS you, and he knows you're part of the family."
Tony finished arranging the silk around his neck and turned to face Tim. "I'll get the details," he promised. "And you know Gibbs will let us go over if we're not chasing a hot case. Even Balboa can't stop him."
"I should be done with that work for him this morning, so it shouldn't be an issue," Tim replied. "I never thought I'd say this, but I wish I was working cold cases with you and Ziva."
"Speaking of cold cases…" Tony bit his lip as he considered the proposition he was about to make. "I was wondering if you were absolutely set on one of us staying home full-time with kids. It's just…" He forged on without giving Tim a chance to interrupt, "I know your mom did and Jackie does, but you said yourself that either of us would be likely to go crazy if we tried. And there are plenty of kids who grow up just fine in families where both parents work."
Tim leaned against the door jam. "The ticking of your biological clock keeping you up?" he asked in an attempt to inject some levity into the topic and hopefully ease the uncharacteristic nervousness he saw in his partner's eyes.
"Look, I know it's not like we're going to adopt a kid tomorrow, but I just thought –"
"It's okay. I wasn't trying to make fun." Tim reached out to hold Tony's hands in his. "So tell me what you're thinking."
Taking a moment to re-order his thoughts, Tony looked into those sea-glass eyes that were focused on his. "Okay. Here it is. We both agree that our schedules are too crazy to be good parents, but neither of us is really equipped to stay home full-time either. So I was thinking that maybe if one of us… if I were to look into transferring to, say, the Cold Case squad, I could at least work regular hours that would provide some stability for a kid. What do you think?" He held his breath and waited for Tim's reaction.
"I… Honestly? I'm stunned. You love the MCRT and working for Gibbs. It would make more sense for me to transfer back to CyberCrimes. Not to mention Vance is likely to kick me down there anyway at this rate," he said, trying to force down the bitterness at having the decision taken out of his hands.
"You hate it down there, and Gibbs isn't going to let Vance do anything you're not fully on board with." He glanced at his watch, realizing they both had to head out soon. Not to mention he wasn't ready to burden Tim with the idea that his own health was also a strong consideration in his idea of moving to the slower-paced Cold Case unit. "Don't worry, we'll figure it out." Tony pulled Tim in for a quick kiss. "Go on, get Balboa out of your and Gibbs' hair before he ends up winning the pool. Ducky's got next week; I'd much rather he win it."
"Considering Vance is a boxer, it's only fair Ducky benefits since he's going to have to patch them up," Tim said. "See you later."
Tony was out the door about 15 minutes after Tim, and he headed toward Bethesda. It should have been a quick trip even with morning traffic, but there was a wreck on East-West Highway, and traffic was backed up past Chevy Chase, where none of the side streets went anywhere. Tony resigned himself to sitting in traffic, at least until he got to Connecticut and could cut up to the hospital that way. He checked the clock on the dash and realized he might have to stop by to see Sean after his appointment with Brad, depending on how quickly the traffic jam cleared up.
Even with the radio going, Tony couldn't help but let his thoughts drift to Sean and what the future held for his father-in-law and for himself. He hadn't wanted to dump this on Tim, not with everything else going on, but seeing Sean reminded him that this wasn't as simple as a through-and-through or a stabbing. Those would heal, leaving only a scar behind. This, maybe not so much.
He tried not to think of all the information he knew about pneumonia and its effects on the lungs, how other sailors under Brad's care fared when they got sick. Brad was among the best in the country at this, but he couldn't always overcome reality. And reality was that Sean, like many sailors his age, had badly compromised lungs. His quality of life had already been compromised, even before he ended up in the hospital. At this rate, he might not even pass his next fitness test. Before too many more years, he would have trouble living a normal life, and he would probably die long before Tim and Sarah were ready to lose their dad. Not for the first time, he wondered how his own father and grandfather — to say nothing of his uncle — could skate through life without a care while good men like Sean and Gibbs had suffered so much just because they chose to serve their country, not their wallets. Gibbs had turned his loss into something positive, though Tony knew he would give anything to have Shannon and Kelly back. Sean was still coming to terms with his new reality, and Tony hoped he would find as much value in his new path as Gibbs had.
Tony and Sean had grown close since Sean had started going to Brad back in the fall, and Tony knew much more about Sean's health than the man shared with either Tim or Eileen. And Sean knew as much about Tony's own health as Tim, Ducky and Gibbs. There was something comforting about having another person who knew firsthand what it was like, understood the challenges and the fears.
Tony shuddered as he remembered his own bout of pneumonia after the plague, the endless hacking and coughing, the struggle to breathe, the feeling that he was drowning in his own body. And afterward, living with the scarring in his lungs, the diminished capacity that he would always struggle with. Before the plague, he was in great shape. Maybe not his peak, not as good as when he was a I-A college athlete in a nationally ranked program, but in better shape than 90 percent of men his age. He used to have one of the best scores in the agency on the field qualifying tests, second only to that crazy triathlete in Florida who was on Burley's team. Now he was just middle of the pack, and he was pretty sure that when they did their requalifying tests next year, Tim would do better on everything except maybe the firearms proficiency test. Even Tim's score on that had improved the past couple of years. After Gibbs had to shoot Michelle with his left hand after the traitor controlling her shot Gibbs' trigger finger, Tim and Tony had spent extra time on the range working on shooting with both hands. Each was still better with his dominant hand, but Tim's right-handed shooting was a lot closer to Tony's than Tony's left-handed aim was to Tim's. Tony put it down to all the mouse work Tim did with his right hand — he had to have developed some level of control to be able to make computers sing the way he did.
When the traffic finally started flowing again, just before the turnoff for Connecticut, Tony made himself focus on the road. A quick glance at the clock showed him Brad was going to have to come first this morning. He could stop and see Sean afterward. Gibbs would understand.
Sure enough, by the time he got to Bethesda, he had to rush to park so he could make it to Brad's office in time.
Except Brad wasn't there. His office was locked, and there were papers and files in the outside wall pocket that hadn't been there over the weekend.
Tony walked down the hall to the corpsman's desk.
"I've got an appointment with Dr. Pitt this morning, but he doesn't seem to be in," he said.
The corpsman, a seaman, looked younger than Tim had when Tony had first met him in Norfolk. "He hasn't checked in yet, sir," the kid said. "He's usually in well before now, though."
Tony nodded. "I know." He had a thought. "Can I use your phone to dial another room in the hospital?"
The seaman's eyes widened, and he hesitated. Tony felt his gut churn and did what he normally wouldn't, pulling out his ID folder. "Agent DiNozzo, NCIS."
"Is Dr. Pitt in trouble?" The seaman pushed the phone across the desk to Tony.
"I hope not, kid." He dialed Sean's room number.
"McGee."
"Dad, it's Tony," he said. "Have you seen Brad this morning?"
"No. Why? Isn't he with you?"
"He's not here. The corpsman said he hasn't checked in. He knew I was planning to visit you before seeing him, at least until I got stuck in traffic, so I thought he might be up there with you."
"Sorry, Tony. Is everything OK?"
"I'm sure it is," he said, knowing he was lying through his teeth. "He probably just got stuck in the same traffic jam I did or something."
Except as Tony finished up the call with Sean, he knew Brad lived in the opposite direction of Bethesda, so he wouldn't have been affected by the tie-up. Pulling his cell from his pocket, he dialed Brad's work number first.
"You've reached Dr. Pitt. Please leave a name, number, and reason for calling, and I'll return your call as quickly as possible."
"Brad, it's Tony. Where are you? Are you OK?" He hung up and punched the speed-dial number for Brad's personal cell. This one went right to voicemail.
"It's Brad. I'm out with Angelina. Leave me a message, unless you're a Buckeye. Go Blue!"
Tony couldn't suppress his usual snort at the doctor's voicemail. "Hey, Wolverine. What are you doing, ditching me for Angelina? Call me ASAP, or I'll kick your ass as hard as we did in football this year."
Hanging up, he felt his gut twist again. It wasn't Gibbs' gut, but after almost a decade of working with the man, it was almost as reliable. He looked over at the corpsman. "Can I use your phone again? Just for an on-base call."
The kid nodded.
Tony dialed the number for base security. As he'd thought, they hadn't checked Brad through the gates that morning. Frowning, he thought about his next step. He didn't want to worry Tim if this was going to turn out to be nothing. He had enough on his mind between Balboa and his dad. Instead, he dialed Abby's lab and asked her to trace Brad's cell phones.
"Don't tell anybody, Abbs. If I'm making something out of nothing, I don't want to get everybody bent out of shape for no reason," he said.
He could hear her music blaring in the background while he waited. When she finally told him what she'd found, he thanked her, hung up, then called Gibbs.
"Yeah, Gibbs."
"Boss, we've got a problem. Brad's missing."
"What do you mean, he's missing? Like kidnapped missing? From Bethesda?"
"He never made it here this morning. I can't reach him on either cell, and I had Abby run a trace. His work cell went in the opposite direction of the hospital early this morning. After about 15 minutes, he dialed my desk phone, but the phone shut off before it went to voice mail. His personal cell hasn't left his house."
"We'll be right there, DiNozzo."
Tony would have thanked the team leader, but he had hung up too quickly. Instead, he turned back to the corpsman. "Who's the CO for this unit?"
"That would be Rear Admiral Collins."
"Is he in? I need to speak with him. Official NCIS business."
The seaman nodded and dialed a number. After a brief explanation and a few "yes, sir" replies, he hung up.
"The admiral can see you. His office is down that way." Tony made a mental note as the corpsman explained how to navigate the hallways, then he took off. Within minutes, another seaman was showing him into the rear admiral's office.
"How can I help you, Special Agent DiNozzo. I wasn't aware of an NCIS case that involved this unit." The career officer was a tall, thin man, but instead of the lanky impression both McGees gave off, he was more wiry, a coiled spring of energy.
"We're just starting our investigation, sir," Tony said. "Dr. Brad Pitt."
"One of my finest doctors," he said. "He's considered one of the finest in his field in the country, and not just among military personnel. I can't imagine he's done anything wrong."
"We're not investigating him," Tony said. "And I'm well aware of his skills. He's been my doctor since he saved me from the plague five years ago."
The rear admiral raised an eyebrow. "You're that agent?" he said. "You realize that was the case that made Dr. Pitt famous?"
Tony nodded. "We've become friends over the years," he said. "That's why when Brad wasn't here for our appointment this morning, I got worried. He doesn't miss appointments, and since my father-in-law, an Academy professor, is here with pneumonia under his care, I figured he'd be here well before I arrived. When we stopped by to visit Sean last night, he mentioned Brad was planning on coming in early to work on a report before my appointment today."
"Yes, he has one due to NIH tomorrow," Collins said. "Do you suspect foul play?"
Tony nodded. "The rest of my team is on the way now."
-NCIS-NCIS-NCIS-NCIS-NCIS-
"My dad?" McGee said, turning to Gibbs.
Gibbs shook his head. "Brad." He was relieved to see the tension ease out of his young agent's shoulders for just a moment.
"Who would kidnap Brad?" he asked, tensing up again.
"DiNozzo is sure Pitt's been kidnapped?" Vance said.
"Looks like," Gibbs said. "He's UA, and there's suspicious cell phone movement. DiNozzo had Abby run a trace before calling us." He started to leave, but a word from Vance stopped him.
"Gibbs, I know Pitt's as close to your team as Fornell, but unless we have proof he's been abducted, you know we don't have jurisdiction for 48 hours."
Gibbs glared at the director, who met his gaze evenly.
"Leon, you know as well as I do that the first 24 hours are critical in a missing persons case. DiNozzo knows Brad pretty well — if he says something's wrong, it is." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw McGee nod.
"Beyond being his doctor, Brad's a friend. If a family emergency or something had come up, he would have called Tony to tell him. And it would have to be something major, because Brad's on a deadline this week to finish a report for the NIH study my dad's in. We've seen him at the hospital every night this week when we've stopped by after work to visit my dad."
Vance just looked at the two men. "You've got four hours. If you don't have more evidence of an abduction by then, we need to wait."
Gibbs didn't even nod, just left the room, McGee right behind him.
"Boss, if we've only got four hours, maybe Ziva should drive the truck to Bethesda."
Gibbs frowned. McGee's suggestion made sense, but given the young agent's motion sickness, he always fought against Ziva driving. Somehow this worried him even more than Tony's call. "Grab your gear."
"On it, Boss."
At the bottom of the stairs, they split up. Gibbs went down the back way so he could call Abby without McGee overhearing.
"Abbs, tell me about the phone traces you ran on Brad for DiNozzo."
As he listened, his gut started churning, especially when Abby reported that before being turned off, Brad's cell phone had been moving slowly for several minutes, more like a pedestrian than a driver, before staying stationary for about 10 minutes. It had just started to move again when he dialed Tony's number and the phone was turned off.
"Abbs, call Metro and the area hospitals, make sure he didn't get brought in because of an accident." He got Brad's home address, explained the time limit Vance had given to them, then hung up. He didn't need to wait for her to agree; he knew she was working as quickly as she could to get answers.
He met McGee and Ziva in the parking lot and handed the sedan keys to Ziva. Her eyes widened, but she didn't say anything.
Once in the car, Gibbs dialed Tony and put him on speakerphone. "DiNozzo. Vance pointed out that until we have evidence of an abduction, we don't have jurisdiction until we hit 48 hours. He's given us until 1145 to find evidence or he's got to pull us. We're on our way to Brad's. Meet us there. Ziva's driving, so we'll probably beat you."
"On it, Boss."
-NCIS-NCIS-NCIS-NCIS-NCIS-
When Dr. Brad Pitt regained consciousness, he found himself staring up from the carpeted floor at a counter that ran the length of an otherwise empty room. Sun streamed in the tinted window glass. His hands were bound in front of him with twine, and his ankles were duct-taped together. He could feel the stiffness in his muscles from not having stretched after his run, and the dried sweat on his skin made him itchy. His head ached, and as he rolled to one side, he felt a sudden pain above his left ear. Lifting his arms, he reached back and felt a tender swelling on his head. He tried to sit up, but the movement made him dizzy. He remembered the feeling from his football days and knew he had a concussion. Not a major one, but enough that he needed to stay awake and not give in to the urge to fall back to sleep.
Brad tried to remember what had happened. It had still been dark when he left his house to run, dressed for the winter chill and wearing reflective gear to lessen the chances he would get hit by some inattentive driver. He normally ran after work, but the weather reports indicated the big storm coming through the area might start as early as that afternoon, and he didn't want to chance it. He'd already missed two runs this week trying to get all his paperwork done, and he didn't want to miss another, especially if he was going to be snowbound for a few days. But all he could remember was running down his street. He knew it was traumatic amnesia, fairly common in head injuries, but that didn't help him figure out what was going on.
He looked around to see if there was anything that would tell him why he was here or why somebody would bother kidnapping him. There were discolored rectangles on the walls, as if pictures had hung there at some point. He tried to wiggle further upright, pressing his bound hands into the industrial-grade carpet. Once up, he lifted his hands and tried to pull them apart. He felt a little give and forced again. He didn't have the muscles he'd had during his football days, but the Navy fitness tests and his own desire to stay in shape meant he wasn't weak by any standard. The bonds loosened a bit more, but still held, and the waves of dizziness washing over him tugged him back toward unconsciousness. He tried to stay alert, but the achingly bright sunlight and throbbing where he had been hit sent pain throughout his head as his stomach churned violently. Brad closed his eyes, promising himself it was just for a minute, but soon everything went black.