One Less - Part 16
by joykatleen
The sedan's tires skidded a little on the slick pavement as Gibbs stopped in front gate of Gallaudet University, the only liberal arts college for the deaf in the United States. The storm was in full rage now, showing no sign of abating. It had taken him almost 20 minutes to get this far on unplowed streets. Gibbs only hoped Nicky had waited.
The campus wasn't fenced, but all vehicle traffic had to pass through a gate which was closed this time of night. Beyond it, Gibbs could see spots of bright light lining the roads and walking paths, but the rest of the campus was lost in the blowing snow.
"Help you?" the gate guard asked as he stepped out of the guard shack and leaned down next to Gibbs' window. A wide awning kept the worst of the snow from getting to them. Still, rolling down the window made Gibbs shiver. The guard held a flashlight up next to his head and shone the light down onto Gibbs' face from above. His voice was slightly slurred and flat, a sure indication that he had either been born deaf, or had lost his hearing before he learned to speak. That explained the flashlight, too: the guard was illuminating Gibbs' face so he could read Gibbs' lips.
Gibbs turned slightly in his seat, stripped off his gloves, and brought both his hands to where the guard could see them. Many years before, he had learned to speak American Sign Language, and it came in handy more often than one would expect.
"Agent Gibbs, NCIS," he said, speaking as he signed. The guard nodded, then waited while Gibbs took out his ID folder and flashed it. The guard shone his light on it, then nodded again. Gibbs put the folder away as the guard tucked the flashlight into his coat pocket. There was enough illumination coming from the lights around the shack that they could see one another's hands.
"How can I help you?" the guard signed, no longer speaking.
"I've got a witness to a murder who called me from the Metro station, said he was being followed, and asked me to pick him up at the dining hall."
"A student?" the guard asked.
"No. Just one of the locals. He knows the area, said he'd be safe there."
"Not many people hanging around outside in this storm. But you can go look," the guard said.
"Thanks," Gibbs signed. "How do I get there?"
The guard gave him directions, then returned to the shack to release the gate. Gibbs felt the sedan slip sideways as he gunned the accelerator. He backed off and tried to slow down. Wrecking the car would not help.
He followed the guard's directions toward a large brown-brick building near the center of campus. He passed no one on the street, not surprising considering the weather, but he could see lights on in many of the buildings, lighthouses in the storm.
Gibbs parked in a fire zone, leaving the engine running. He kept an eye out for Nicky as he started around toward the back of the hall. Gibbs had barely left the circle of light that illuminated the apron in front of the building when a dark shape moved in the snow and Nicky appeared.
"Gunny!" A stage whisper. "Over here." Gibbs went to where Nicky was hunched over next to a large shrub. The snow was thick here, and Gibbs' boots sunk into it.
"Wow, am I glad to see you. They were chasing me, but I think I lost them."
"Who was, Nicky?" Gibbs asked in a normal voice, and Nicky cringed. He was once again wearing the ski mask and beanie, the NCIS hat DiNozzo had given him nowhere in sight.
"Sshh… they might still be around."
"Did they follow you on campus?" Gibbs asked, lowering his voice slightly. If the killers had actually come looking for Nicky and followed him here, he was going to have to warn someone.
"No, I don't think so. I think I lost them before the station. But I don't know. They could be anywhere."
"Alright. Come with me," Gibbs said.
With a furtive glance over his shoulder into the darkness, Nicky walked quickly away from his hiding place. Gibbs sighed a little and followed. Once they were safely inside the sedan, and Nicky had locked his door, Gibbs turned to him.
"Tell me exactly what happened," he instructed.
"Can we go? I don't want to just sit here. They might find us," Nicky said nervously.
"Sure," Gibbs said. He used a low gear and a light touch on the pedal, starting smoothly away. Nicky was silent until they were through the gate – Gibbs gave the sign for 'finished' to the guard as they passed the shack – then Nicky took a deep breath and let it out in a rush.
"I was in my room, trying to read a magazine I found with this great flashlight Abby bought for me, and I heard people talking on the stairs. I thought it was just other people like me, you know? So I didn't pay any attention. But then I recognized one of their voices, from when the sailor died. They were coming up, trying to be quiet, but sound travels. I heard them on the floor under me and I knew they were coming for me. I tried to sneak out, but sound travels. Did I say that already?" Nicky was frightened and sounded confused.
"Slow down, Nicky. It's alright. Tell me what happened then."
"They musta heard me, cuz they started running upstairs and so I ran to the roof. There's a fire escape on the back, it's still strong, and I ran down it to the street. I swear, they were right behind me. I didn't know where to go."
"Did you actually see them, or just hear them?" Gibbs asked.
"I only heard them. I didn't want to look. But they were right behind me, chasing me into the neighborhood. I lost them there, so I called you, only then I heard them again."
"How many were there?" Gibbs asked.
"Two, or three. I don't know. I heard at least two voices. Did I hear three? I don't know." He palmed his temples and pushed his hands into his head, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Relax. It's alright," Gibbs said as he turned in through the gate to the Navy Yard.
"No, it's not. How did they know to look for me? How did they know I saw them?"
Gibbs said nothing. He was trying to figure out if what Nicky had experienced had been real, or if it had all been a figment of his addled mind. Nicky had said that he often saw and heard things that weren't there. The whole event might have been a hallucination. But what if it hadn't been? That would mean that someone they spoke to in the last two days had told the suspects about Nicky. Mentally, Gibbs ran back through the interviews: the victim's brother, the ship's Captain, the Chaplin, the prior victims. The Agent Afloat.
"Damn it," Gibbs said under his breath, and Nicky's head jerked up.
"What? Are they here?" He looked over his shoulder, out the side windows, expression clearly frightened.
"No, it's fine. We're safe in here. You need a pass to get onto the Yard."
"But they're Marines! They can sneak in," Nicky insisted.
"Nicky, stop. It's fine. I swear," Gibbs said. He pulled into the parking garage and shut off the engine.
"C'mon," he said and lead Nicky into the building, Nicky looking over his shoulder the entire way.
They by-passed the metal detectors, coming in through the basement staff entrance. Gibbs stopped for coffee in the mess, getting Nicky a large with sugar. The ride up to the squadroom was made mostly in silence, except for a constant low mumble of Nicky talking to himself. Gibbs pulled DiNozzo's chair out next to his desk and told Nicky to sit, then sat at his own desk. He unbuttoned his coat and picked up his phone. He again went through the necessary steps to get the switchboard on the Roosevelt, then asked for the deck officer's station at the gangway. When Gibbs had the watch supervisor on the line, he identified himself and asked about sailors who'd gone off ship tonight. The supervisor gave him a little flack about releasing the information, but when Gibbs tossed in McNally's name, the wheels were greased. The supervisor told him no one who was supposed to be aboard had left the ship in the storm. Gibbs hung up and called DiNozzo's cell.
"Where are you?" Gibbs asked when DiNozzo answered.
"Hangar Bay, USS Roosevelt," DiNozzo replied, not in the least curious as to why Gibbs wanted to know. Gibbs always had his reasons.
"Fredrick with you?" Gibbs asked.
"He's in quarters, as far as I know. We had dinner, and he said he was turning in early."
"The suspects might have come after Nicky. I need to know what he's been doing today," Gibbs said. At the 'might have' qualification, Nicky started to object, and Gibbs held up a silencing hand.
"I've been with him since about an hour after I got here this morning until dinner wrapped around 1900. Unless he did something in the last hour, or slipped someone a message in the passageways, he hasn't arranged anything."
"Find out. If they know about Nicky, we've got a new problem."
"Understood."
"You talk to Holbrook yet?"
"He's on duty until 2300. I'll catch him then." Gibbs checked his watch: almost 8:30.
"Call me when you're done." Gibbs hung up.
"You don't believe me," Nicky said dejectedly.
"I believe you heard them," Gibbs said. "But you told me yourself you sometimes hear things that aren't real."
"Only when I don't take my medicine," Nicky objected, "and I've been taking it real regular since I found him. I swear it, Gunny."
"Alright, then you heard them." Gibbs sat back, drinking his coffee and thinking. At least his headache had receded to a dull throbbing behind his eyes. Nothing he couldn't ignore.
"So what are we going to do now?" Nicky asked. He'd rolled the ski mask up to drink his coffee and left it and the beanie on top of his head. His malformed face showed some fear, some worry, some excitement. He was afraid, but rising to the occasion.
Gibbs had been wondering the same thing. When he'd learned that Nicky had refused their offer of a motel room, Gibbs hadn't been sure that having his only witness to a murder out on the streets was a good idea. But he'd let it happen, knowing that Nicky was street-smart enough to take care of himself, and comfortable in the knowledge that Nicky was virtually anonymous. If the suspects had known he existed, they'd have taken care of him the night it happened or in the days since.
But now, with at least the possibility that the suspects were actively looking for him, Gibbs knew they had to do something else. With an internal sigh, he made up his mind.
"Let's go, Nicky," Gibbs said. He stood and started gathering the multiple reports he'd received that day and packing them into his briefcase. He made sure he had his glasses, picked up his gloves from where he'd tossed them, and turned to find Nicky still sitting in his chair, looking at him suspiciously.
"Where are we going?" Nicky asked.
"You're in protective custody, Nicky. You're going to my house."
"You don't have to do that, Gunny," Nicky said. "There's other places I could go."
"Like where?" Gibbs asked. He indicated Nicky should stand, and returned the chair Nicky had been sitting in to its proper place.
"There's lots of places a guy like me can hide in the District," Nicky said. "Long as those Marines don't know where I am, I'll be fine."
Gibbs started walking toward the elevators, confident that Nicky would follow.
"You're my only witness, and the bad guys came back for you. I need you where I can find you." The elevator dinged and the doors swooshed open. Gibbs stepped back to usher Nicky inside. Again, the older man was suspicious, but he was too busy working his mind around what Gibbs was saying to let the elevator take center stage.
"But my stuff. If I leave it there, without me, it'll be gone by the morning. My new flashlight, my medicine…"
"We'll stop by there first," Gibbs said. The elevator descended to the parking level.
"I don't know, Gunny. I don't like to take too many handouts, you know? I usually work for what I get."
"I'm sure I can find some things that need doing. Tomorrow. For now, it's late, I'm tired, and with that storm, you need a safe place to sleep anyway. Do me the honor of being a guest in my home, Corporal Masterson."
Gibbs' formal phrasing did it. "Well, okay then," Nicky said with a slightly embarrassed flush. They got off the elevator in the garage. "But if we're going back to the warehouse, shouldn't we take back-up or something?"
"Nah. They're long gone, I'm sure," Gibbs said. He ushered Nicky over to the sedan and unlocked the passenger door.
"But what if they're not?" Nicky said as he got in.
"I can be very persuasive," Gibbs said, and pulled back his coat to show his sidearm in its holster.
Nicky sighed and nodded. He pulled his ski mask down over his face. Gibbs slammed the door shut and walked around to the driver's side. He still wasn't positive that what Nicky had seen was real, but he liked to keep an open mind as much as he could. Never knew when someone might come along and drop a thought in it.
They drove carefully through the blowing snow to Nicky's warehouse. Gibbs parked and left the sedan's headlights on, shining toward the main man-door. He got the large flashlight out of his kit, a spare from the trunk for Nicky, and they went inside.
First thing Gibbs noticed was the floor. When they'd left the warehouse yesterday afternoon, the floor had been swept mostly clean by Metro's crime scene people. The dirt inherent to the area was there, and there were stains from years of use, but the floor was relatively clean and definitely dry.
Now it was wet, with puddles of melted snow dotting it here and there. The largest puddles were near the door, but there were others. Like someone had stood in one place for too long with snow melting off their clothing. Not long ago, by Gibbs' estimate. The dirt Metro had left behind had combined with the water to leave fresh muddy footprints leading out of several of the puddles. Gibbs shone his flashlight on the ground at his feet, then crouched to look closer. Large footprints, one larger than Gibbs' feet, one smaller, both waffle-sole boots. Treads only slightly worn. Like the prints Metro had recovered.
"Nicky?" Gibbs stood and turned to the other man, who raised his light to shine it on Gibbs. Gibbs squinted and raised his empty hand to shield his eyes, feeling the headache stab at him again.
"Sorry, Gunny," Nicky said with chagrin, and lowered the beam to the floor. Gibbs took his keys out of his pocket and held them out to Nicky.
"Go get my camera bag out of the trunk."
"Why?" Nicky asked.
"Just go," Gibbs said, and Nicky took the keys. Gibbs shone the light around the receiving area. Both sets of boot prints went across the floor and up the stairs, fading as they went. The larger set reappeared coming out of the puddle nearest the bottom of the stairs and headed back outside. The prints heading up were at a normal pacing. The returning set was spaced much further apart. The larger-footed man had run back down the stairs and outside.
"Here you go," Nicky said as he returned, and he held out the backpack. Gibbs took back the keys and set the bag at his feet, careful not to tread on any of the muddy prints. He took out his camera and shot a few pictures.
"Stay here." He instructed Nicky.
"Where are you going?" Nicky asked.
"Not far. Wait here and don't move."
"You sure?" Nicky said. His tone showed clearly what he thought of that. "Maybe I should come with you."
"I'm not going far," Gibbs repeated. He left the pack where it lay and stepped carefully across the floor, taking pictures as he went. He moved as far as the stairs, stepped up to the first landing and shone his light around the corner. The prints faded out completely only a few steps up. He snapped one last picture and retreated.
"What do you see, Gunny?" Nicky asked nervously as Gibbs returned.
"The Marines were here," Gibbs said.
"Yeah," Nicky said, frowning. "I told you they were. They came upstairs and chased me onto the roof."
"I know," Gibbs said. He put his camera away and shouldered the bag. "Show me where you stay."
With Nicky leading the way, they ascended the stairs. Nicky's room was on the top floor, and Gibbs felt his knees start to complain at the second landing. It had been years since he could climb four flights without wincing, and once again Gibbs wondered if he wasn't getting too old for this.
The door to the room Nicky called his own was slightly ajar, opening out into the hallway. Gibbs was about to ask if Nicky had left it that way when Nicky spoke.
"I leave it a little open, so no one will think it's occupied. If you try to lock it up, they know there's something in it worth protecting." He bent over and picked up a golf-ball sized rock sitting against the door near the hinge. "If anyone opens the door, it'll move my rock. No move, no one's been in. Even though I was in a hurry, I still put it there. Just in case."
Nicky pulled open the door and Gibbs shone his light inside. The room was about five feet by eight, wider than it was deep. A row of cushions were lined up against the back wall, two gray blankets tossed on top. An upended milk crate made a nightstand, a battered camp lantern and a small, well-worn stuffed dog sitting on top of it. The short wall to the right was lined with milk crates, stacked with their open ends out. Clothing, books, a few food items and other personal belongings were packed neatly into the crates. The NCIS hat DiNozzo had given him was sitting on top of the lantern.
"It's not much, but it's mine," Nicky said from behind him.
"It's not bad," Gibbs said. "I've slept in worse places."
"Me too," Nicky agreed. He slipped past Gibbs into the room. Moving to the bed cushions, he reached underneath, pulling out a large flattened backpack. Gibbs turned his light toward the ceiling, bouncing the light so it illuminated the entire space. Nicky started gathering his things.
It only took him a few minutes to put everything from the small room into the pack. Nicky looked over his shoulder at Gibbs before snatching up the stuffed dog and stuffing it into his pocket, where it made a noticeable bulge. Finally, Nicky folded up the blankets and wrapped a belt around them, securing the bundle to the pack before shouldering it.
"That's it?" Gibbs asked. The now-empty crates, the cushions and the lantern were left behind.
"Yeah. It someone else needs this stuff, they can have it. I can find more."
"What about the lantern?" Gibbs asked.
"It doesn't work. It used to. It was a great lantern for awhile."
"What's wrong with it?"
Nicky shrugged. "Don't know. It's got fuel. It just won't light anymore."
"Bring it along. I might have something to fix it," Gibbs said. With a pleased smile, Nicky picked it up.
"You have your medicine?" Gibbs asked.
"Got it," Nicky said, patting his pocket.
"Alright then. Let's go."
They headed back down the stairs. The whole time they'd been there, Gibbs hadn't seen or heard anyone.
"How many people live here?" he asked. Ahead of him, Nicky shrugged again.
"It varies. Maybe five or six regulars who've been staying here most every night this winter. Another couple dozen that come and go. Some strangers, just passing through. It's warm and dry and pretty private."
Gibbs wondered if any of the 'regulars' had seen anything the night Ferrara was killed. He figured it would take a gentle touch to get anything out of most of the homeless, who understandably tended to be skittish around law enforcement, no matter the stripe.
"You think anyone else might have seen anything helpful the night the sailor was killed?" Gibbs asked as they arrived back in the receiving area.
"I didn't see anyone on the stairs when I came down. If someone was coming in, they might have waited outside or came back later if they heard the Marines shouting. It's not smart to show up when someone's mad."
Ziva and McGee could look pretty harmless when they wanted to, Gibbs thought. Maybe he'd send them over in the morning. Unfortunately, they were just as likely to scare everyone back into the shadows as soon as they pulled up in a government sedan.
Gibbs put his pack and Nicky's into the trunk. Before getting into the car, he ran a hand over his hair and brushed the worst of the wet off his shoulders. Nicky just got in.
As they pulled away, Nicky spoke again. "How did they know to come back?" he asked.
This time, it was Gibbs' turn to shrug. "I don't know." He, of course, had been wondering the same thing.
"Did you tell anyone about me?" he asked.
"Not specifically. No one but my team."
"Could they have…"
"No," Gibbs said firmly, and Nicky nodded once, then turned to stare out the window.
"Must be nice to be able to trust people," Nicky said. Gibbs thought he heard a note of forlornness in his voice.
"It is," Gibbs said.
"I used to trust people. Too many people let you down, you stop trusting," Nicky said.
"I know," Gibbs said.
"It was that way in the Marines. You knew who you could trust, and you trusted them with everything."
Gibbs nodded. Nicky fell silent and almost a minute passed before he spoke again, his voice subdued.
"I think, sometimes, that it was pretty stupid of me, to go back for those guys in the barracks after the mortar attack. I know it's selfish. But I think about how different it would have been if I hadn't. I could have stayed in, kept working. I wouldn't have fallen so far."
"We all fall, Nicky."
"You too?" Nicky asked, and turned to look at him.
Gibbs mind involuntarily flashed back, a hyper-speed review of his failures. The men who'd died under his command in Panama and Kuwait, him powerless to stop it. His failure to protect his wife and daughter from the drug dealer intent on their deaths. His three failed marriages. Kate Todd, assassinated while standing next to him on a rooftop not far from here. The sailors on the Cape Fear he couldn't save.
"Me too." Gibbs said and cleared his throat. "Where is he today?"
"Who?"
"The guy you saved from the attack on your barracks."
"He died," Nicky said simply.
"From his injuries?" Gibbs was pretty sure that would have been in the citation.
"No. Couple years later. Killed himself."
A moment of silence followed Nicky's plain statement.
"We all fall, Nicky," Gibbs repeated finally.
Nicky sighed heavily and said nothing more.
Gibbs stopped on the way home for take-outs, and they ate Chinese at the kitchen island as the storm continued to blow. They made small talk: They'd been in different operational theatres in the same war, and their experiences had been similar. They knew some of the same commanders, shared some of the same frustrations over things that had never seemed to go right. They talked about the current Gulf war, about how it was so different yet so heartbreakingly the same. Once he was comfortable, Nicky turned out to be intelligent and well-spoken, with strong feelings about what had happened back then and the way the world was going now. Gibbs found himself opening up to this lost Marine in a way he had with few others in recent years.
By 10:30, Nicky was yawning and trying hard to pretend he wasn't tired. Gibbs set him up in the first-floor guest room and invited him to take a long soak in the upstairs bath. He also provided a set of sweats for Nicky to wear to bed, cautioning him that the old house sometimes got cold at night, especially when it stormed.
While Nicky played in the tub and the wind rattled the house, Gibbs spread out on the dining room table the reports he'd brought home. He started reading through them, taking notes as he went. He barely acknowledged Nicky coming in to say goodnight an hour or so later, and it wasn't until his cell rang again that he broke away. By then, it was nearly midnight, and he'd gone through an entire pot of special dark roast.
It was DiNozzo. He'd intercepted Lt. Adrian Holbrook on his way back to quarters after his shift was over, flashed the badge and taken him to the chapel to talk. The young officer had seemed immediately nervous. Maybe because he knew what this was about, but more likely simply because the cops made everyone nervous. DiNozzo had started out detailing the investigation into the death of Ferrara, staying far away from the issue of sexual orientation. Then he'd moved into the most recent prior attacks – Goetz, Brisbin, Hutchinson, Ortiz – before bringing up Demmings. Until then, Holbrook had been sympathetic, but claimed to be unsure of what any of it had to do with him. DiNozzo could see the lie there, but chose to ignore it. When DiNozzo mentioned Demmings, Holbrook's radar had gone off, he'd realized why he was here, and his level of nervousness had skyrocketed.
As Demmings had warned them, Holbrook denied knowing anything about Demmings' attack. Sure, they'd known each other, might have even been considered friends within the structure of allowed fraternization between officers and enlisted not in the same chain of command. No, Holbrook hadn't been anywhere with Demmings that night, didn't even know he'd been injured until the scuttlebutt surfaced the next day.
It had taken the full weight of DiNozzo's considerable talent for persuasion to get Holbrook to fold. But once he did, he was a fount of information.
"He still feels really bad about what happened, that night and since," DiNozzo said. "He was two years in, signed up after 9/11, but deferred entry until he finished college. Used the GI Bill. Theoretically, he owed the Navy 160 grand for his education, which he'd have to pay back if he got found out and was discharged.
"He admitted to being out with Demmings that night, said they were walking back to the carrier separately. Saw the suspects approaching Demmings, saw the flash-bang go off, saw Demmings go down. When he heard what they were shouting at Demmings, he started to run away. But he saw how hard Demmings was being beat and came back. He's apparently some kind of semi-pro fighter, and he got a few good hits in, knocked one of them out for a minute. His buddy dragged him away, he came around, and they took off. Holbrook made sure Demmings was breathing and conscious, made a payphone call to the local ambulance, and left him there. Never saw him again. Followed his progress through the grapevine, but never asked directly.
"He's been waiting three and a half years for the call to the Captain's office. Thought that's what I was doing tonight. He's actually gotten a bit paranoid, which I'm sure you can understand. I mean, think about the axe that kid's had hanging over his head all this time…"
"DiNozzo, it's late. Can you get to the point?" Gibbs interrupted.
"Sorry, Boss. He wants to help."
"What?" Gibbs said. That jump was a little to wide for his exhausted brain to follow.
"When he finally believed I wasn't here with his discharge papers, and that I didn't really care who he was sleeping with, he asked how he could help. I mentioned that we were running into brick walls because of the secrets the victims were keeping, and he offered to ask around. Even offered to bait a trap if we were thinking of going that way," DiNozzo said. "He asked if we might be able to establish some cover for him if it gets out that he's gay, so he can stay in the Navy anyway, but I don't think that's a deal breaker. He feels guilty for abandoning Demmings, for making him lie on the report. Really wants to make it up to him somehow. I think they were actually in love." DiNozzo sounded a little surprised.
"He ask about immunity?" Withholding information in a criminal investigation was a court-martial offense. So was being gay, for that matter.
"Nope," DiNozzo said. Gibbs' eyebrows rose in surprise.
"So let me get this straight," he said. "Holbrook knows you're with NCIS, admitted to being gay, admitted withholding information, offered to help out the cops, and he doesn't want immunity or a guarantee of protection? What does he want?"
"A clean conscience," DiNozzo said. Gibbs shook his head. Rarely did people surprise him anymore.
"Tell him to stand by. We'll get back to him. Your cover still good with Fredrick?"
"Yep. Haven't seen him since dinner. He doesn't know I met with Holbrook."
"Who does?"
"Couple of senior officers we passed in the passageway on the way here. The Chaplin poked his head in just as we were wrapping it up. No one knows what we were talking about."
"The deck logs say Fredrick was on board all night the night Ferrara was killed, and tonight. So he's not one of the players. But if he's running this thing, he wouldn't have to leave the carrier to make it work. No one was logged off ship tonight when they came looking for Nicky."
"So our suspects aren't from the crew who's already reported aboard," DiNozzo said.
"Not tonight's suspects, anyway," Gibbs said.
"Odds are getting better, Boss. Only about a thousand sailors and Marines still to report as of curfew tonight. And everyone's to be on board by 1600 Friday. That's less than 48 hours."
"At least Nicky will be safer after that," Gibbs commented, and that twigged something in his brain, too. "Stay on Fredrick tomorrow. If it's him, he's running out of time to take care of the witness before the carrier group sails. He'll have to arrange for another move on Nicky soon."
"About that, Boss. She's scheduled to shove off at 1600 Saturday. Are you sure I can't…" Gibbs hung up, cutting DiNozzo off mid-sentence.
Gibbs wasn't comfortable with the idea of setting Holbrook up to be exposed and possibly attacked. It would be one thing to send in an agent: if rumors started that an agent going undercover as a gay sailor was really gay, it wouldn't be a career ender. But this kid could really lose out. Besides, he was an unknown. But maybe Holbrook could get other potential victims to open up about who they might suspect. Because if there was one thing Gibbs was absolutely certain about, it was that there were more gay sailors aboard the Roosevelt. Which meant the crusade wasn't over yet.
If the Marine in the Quantico brig was part of this, he might be able to point them toward the leader of the conspiracy. Which would at least give them a solid line of investigation. Getting the bastards who'd actually done the dirty work would be good. But if they didn't get the leader, the whole thing could just start up again somewhere else. The leader was the key. And if it was Fredrick, Gibbs would take great pleasure in taking him down. Bad enough that Navy sailors were involved. That it might be being led by an agent of NCIS made Gibbs see red.
Gibbs finished reading the reports around 1 a.m. and went to bed. His headache was back with a vengeance, and even a hot shower and more of the pills Ducky had given him hadn't helped. He lay in bed for what seemed like a very long time before finally drifting off, only to wake hard half an hour later, a scream dying in his throat. Again, that feeling of foreboding. Like had had barely escaped death. This time, it was about Kate. And Ari.
It had been almost four years since Kate Todd was assassinated, four years since Mossad/Hamas double agent Ari Haswari had died, shot by Ziva, his handler and his half-sister. To this day, everyone believed Gibbs had killed Ari. In fact, Gibbs had dared Ziva to prove her brother wasn't planning on killing him by backing Gibbs up when he and Ari met. Gibbs had not expected the meeting to take place in his own basement. When Ari had spelled out his plan to fake Gibbs' suicide, then raised Gibbs' own Marine sniper rifle to take the shot, Ziva had beat him to it. It was important to her future in Mossad, and to her own emotional well-being, that no one know she had killed her brother. Gibbs had been happy to take responsibility for eliminating that threat to his family.
After Kate's death, he had often seen Ari's face in his nightmares. The man was dead, Gibbs knew that. He'd cleaned Ari's blood off the basement floor himself. But his subconscious behaved otherwise. Ari had starred in every night terror he'd experienced for months after that horrific day. It had happened less and less over time, and now Gibbs couldn't remember the last time he'd dreamed of the terrorist. But that's what he'd seen tonight: Kate's face, the bullet hole suddenly appearing in her forehead, her final fall, Ari's grinning face in his basement that last night.
Gibbs squeezed his eyes shut in the darkness and tried to clear his mind. He took a couple of deep breaths and felt the tension behind his eyes ease a little. As he had last night, he got up and washed his face, made coffee in the kitchen, then descended to the basement. The storm had begun to abate: It was still snowing, he noticed as he passed the windows, but the house was no longer shimmying under the wind's assault. Gibbs had no better idea tonight than last why he was having nightmares. Usually, if he tried hard, he could find something, some reason why his subconscious would be tormenting him. But there had been nothing. Just the usual, run-of-the-mill bastards trying to change the world for the worse. And one homeless Marine.
As he picked up a sanding block and adjusted his work light, Gibbs wondered if Nicky's appearance might have something to do with it. The nightmares had started the night they caught this case. If it wasn't the crime, maybe it was Nicky.
There was no doubt Nicky had gotten to him. He rarely brought guests home these days, and bringing someone into his house the day after meeting him was certainly unusual. But there was something about Nicky. Gibbs felt like – if the situation was different – they could have been friends. They certainly had enough in common, or had had before Nicky's accident. They'd both been from small towns, using the Marines as an escape. They'd had similar experiences at war, and they were only a few years apart in age. While reading the reports tonight, he'd found his mind returning over and over to Nicky's story. How could it be that two men could come from such similar backgrounds, start out in the same career, end up in the same place, yet be living such different lives?
With a sigh born of the futility of trying to figure out fate, Gibbs went to work.
to be continued...
Okay, I know this one was a little long. But I wanted to get you to this point, dear readers, because tomorrow (their tomorrow, not ours, sorry) we're going to meet someone new who might - just might - hold the key to the whole thing. Maybe.
Oh, and feedback - good, bad, indifferent - is always welcome.