AN: Sorry this chapter took so long. I finished all my hours/days of call, but then spent the next 3 days fighting migraines. My migraine trigger is lack of sleep. I guess I didn't choose my profession very well considering that particular ailment. Anyway, on to the next chapter…
Hopeful this chapter begins to answer some of the questions you have raised in your reviews. I want to thank each and everyone of you for continuing to follow this journey. Whether good or bad, this story is FAR from done. And to those of you who continue to offer reviews, corrections and alternative suggestions, THANK YOU! Your kind words make my day, your corrections keep me vigilant, and your suggestions keep me on my toes. So by all means, keep them coming!
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Part 4
Some people confuse acceptance with apathy, but there's all the difference in the world. Apathy fails to distinguish between what can and what cannot be helped; acceptance makes that distinction. Apathy paralyzes the will-to-action; acceptance frees it by relieving it of impossible burdens. – Arthur Gordon
Change is the end result of all learning. Change involves three things: First, a dissatisfaction with self – a felt void or need; second, a decision to fill the void or need; and third, a conscious dedication to the process of growth and change. – the willful act of making the change, doing something. – Leo Buscagalia
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Late Monday Night
October 23, 2017
Miami International Airport
Miami-Dade County, Florida
Michael waited to de-board the plane, luggage in hand, as a line of passengers snaked ever so slowly along the aisle toward the exit. His head and shoulder still hurt like hell. He had hoped to catch a nap on the 10-hour flight over, but the bubbly English grandmother beside him hadn't given him a moment of peace. She was headed to the States for the first time to meet her new great grandbaby. Photographs in hand, she had talked for hours about her great granddaughter's pregnancy, the baby's birth, feedings, sleep schedules and everything imaginable, entailed in a newborn's care. Michael had endured the hours of chatter without a word of complaint, when all he really wanted was some quiet time to ponder his next step in the quest to find Fi. As he finally stepped out of the jet way into the terminal, he nearly tripped over an abandoned bag lying in the middle of the floor. He deftly swerved to miss the luggage, and instead nearly ran over its owner. The kindly grandmother from the flight was struggling to carry all her bags. He picked up the largest of her luggage, flashed her an indulgent smile and then escorted her toward the main terminal. Once they'd made it past security, the elderly woman was immediately ensconced in the waiting arms of her family. He handed off the remaining piece of luggage and waved a pleasant goodbye.
Drifting back into his own personal world of concern, Michael walked right past a waiting Sam, who was standing off to the side of a nearby escalator. As it was, Sam had to whistle twice, after shouting Michael's name failed to rouse him from his traumatized musings. Finally seeing his friend, Michael slogged Sam's way.
"What are you doing here? I thought I told you to stay with Elsa," Michael asked in a testy, bone-weary voice.
"Told ya, hospice was covering tonight," Sam pointed the way to the car. "After your insane day, I figured you'd appreciate a ride in the comfort of a caddy over some filthy Miami taxi."
"Thanks Sam," Michael managed to mumble around a heavy yawn.
"I take it you didn't get any sleep on the flight over?" Sam guided the way to the correct level of the parking garage and searched for the car.
Michael followed on his heels, barely taking note of his surroundings, "No, my seatmate was a new great grandmother," he yawned again and tried not to trip over his feet, "…I had to listen to stories about the new baby the entire trip over the sea, not to mention, admiring all the birthing photos."
"Ewww," Sam wrinkled his nose in disgust, "…can't say I envy you there." He hit the button on his key fob, locating his car by the beep, "Hey, you look pretty beat. I was going to suggest stopping for a bite to eat, but I suspect you're more interested in a bed and a good night's sleep."
"Cann't sleeeep," Michael mumbled again, slurring his words, as his head dropped back against the seat. "Need to…loooook…for cluuuess." He was asleep before Sam could maneuver the car out of the parking garage.
Sam let him doze the whole way home, stopping briefly at a drive thru to grab a sandwich and black coffee for the pair. Pulling into the drive of the Westen household, Sam noticed all the darkened windows. If Fiona had come home in the last few hours, there was certainly no evidence of her from the bleak abode. Of course, he reasoned, as he took note of the time, she could've already turned in for the night.
Taking a gander at the passenger seat, he called Michael's name, "Hey Mike!" His friend didn't even stir in his seat. Trying again, he gently shook Michael's shoulder, "Mikey! Hey sleeping beauty, we're home!"
Michael squinted his eyes against the glare of the car's interior lights, "Um, what'd you say, Sam?"
"I said, you're home," Sam stepped out of the car and reached into the backseat to retrieve the food, before glancing at his friend. "I picked us up a sandwich and some coffee, but maybe you'd be better off with a few hours of sleep first."
"Mmm up," Michael stumbled from the car, grabbing his satchel and overnight case from the backseat. He stared at his house, "Doesn't look like anyone's home." His frown deepened with a mixture of frustration and worry. He murmured under his breath, "I was really hoping for that fiery welcome home."
"What'd you say, Mike?"
"Nothing," he hooked the satchel over his shoulder and dug through his pocket in search of his keys. Wandering toward the door, he pushed his key into the lock and depressed the handle.
Sam shot out an arm in warning, "Best be careful, brother…if Fiona's here, she might just come gunning for you…literally!" He tossed Michael a bemused grin, "After all, she's not expecting any company."
Michael tentatively opened the door and flipped on an adjacent light. Seeing no evidence of weaponry pointed at his head, he crossed the threshold and dropped his gear on the floor. Pausing a moment to listen for any signs of life, he turned back to Sam.
"Hey Sam, the alarm isn't set!"
"Oh damn, I forgot to set it again when I left the house earlier," Sam squinted an eye and stared upward in thought, "…come to think of it, the alarm wasn't set when I arrived this afternoon."
"What?" Michael declared more than questioned. "Fi never leaves home for a few hours, much less an entire weekend without arming the alarm system. Knowing our colorful history and abundant enemies, she's pretty obsessive about that particular detail, especially since she can't keep an arsenal in the house."
That little morsel of news had a similar effect to a splash of ice water in his face; he was suddenly wide-awake and on high alert. He leaned back to Sam, "Did you mention something about coffee?"
"Yes indeedy," Sam handed him a cup, "…it's black and extra strong! I stopped at a little fly-by-night place my police buddies like to frequent. I figured we could both use the jolt of caffeine." He also offered the sandwich, "Figured you probably hadn't eaten since this whole mess exploded in your face this morning. Plus, I know how you feel about airline food."
"Maybe later," Michael waved off the food and meandered back toward the master bedroom in a hopeful search for his beloved wife. Switching on a bedside lamp, he peered around the empty room. There were stacks of folded laundry on the bed and a clothesbasket nearby on the floor, but no sign of Fiona. "Hey, didn't you mention something about Fi coming to your house tomorrow?"
"Affirmative," Sam mumbled around a mouthful of food, "…she's supposed to be there around 8 a.m. to spend the day with Elsa. There are no hospice nurses available until tomorrow night," Sam paused to swallow the bite, "…so Fi was taking over the dayshift duties, so I could spend the day at the office."
Michael backtracked to the kitchen and turned on the lights, bathing the room in brightness. "Well, either she forgot or…ah…." He left worrisome thought unspoken, unwilling to voice the worst.
"Maybe she was coming straight to our place in the morning," Sam offered, searching for other alternatives, "…you know how Fi is, Mikey! She's probably off enjoying some little beachfront bungalow…or shoe shopping…or whatever else she does with all her free time! She probably couldn't be bothered to tear herself away!"
Michael pinned him with an incredulous glare, "She express mailed divorce documents to me and you think she's off celebrating her new liberated life?"
Sam flashed him an impish grin and shrugged, "What can I say? It's Fi!"
Michael rolled his eyes, "Look, the divorce documents were mailed on Friday, and we know she was at your house on Thursday."
Michael shuffled through the paperwork on a desk in the back corner of the kitchen. Coming across an invoice for AAA Garage Door, Inc. "Hey Sam, did you notice this when you were here earlier?"
Sam reached for the invoice, studying the details, "Well lookie here, according to this invoice, the repair service was here on Friday."
"Exactly, but you said the garage door still wasn't working."
"It wasn't," Sam headed for the service door leading to the garage. Stepping over the threshold, he punched the button for the opener, "See…nada…it doesn't work, just like I said."
Michael followed his friend into the garage and pointed to the invoice, "It states right here that they needed to order an additional part. From the recorded date for follow-up, it looks like the repairman was supposed to return on Saturday afternoon to complete the necessary repairs." Michael repeatedly poked the button himself for good measure, "It still doesn't work, so either the repairman didn't return or he couldn't complete the repairs."
Michael pulled out his cell and proceeded to call the business, but only succeeded in reaching voice mail, "Hello, this is Michael Westen. Someone came to my house last Friday to repair the garage door opener. It appears the repairmen scheduled a follow-up appointment with my wife for the following day, Saturday, October 21st. I've just arrived home and the garage opener is still not working. I would appreciate it if someone could call me as soon as possible with further details about the scheduled repair." He left the numbers for both his cell and home phones, as well as, the home address.
He punched the end button with more force than necessary, "Damn, guess we'll have to wait until morning to hear back!" Glancing at his friend, he tried to temper his mood, "Look Sam, it's already after one in the morning why don't you head home to Elsa and I'll keep looking around here for any additional clues of Fi's whereabouts."
"You sure, Mike? I mean, I'd be happy to stay."
"It's okay, Sam," Michael shrugged with a weary smile, "…I'm not sure how much I'll find out tonight. Hopefully this AAA Garage Door Company will call back first thing in the morning. In the meantime, I'll keep trying to reach Fi and putter around here looking for intel. Besides, I want to give Sean a call."
Sam nodded, "Okay buddy, if you need me for anything, I'm just a phone call away!"
Michael walked him to the door, "Thanks Sam."
"Talk to ya in the morning," and with that Sam was out the door.
Michael glanced at his watch figuring it was just after six in the morning Dublin time. He decided to have a more thorough look through the house before bothering Sean. He carefully searched the house, top to bottom, looking for any hints about Fiona's schedule or weekend plans. Her study was spotless and her calendar for the upcoming week nearly bare, except for Tuesday with Elsa and Wednesday at the Women's Shelter. Heading back to the kitchen, he checked for recent leftovers and expired food, finding nothing out of the ordinary, he shuffled through the contents of the small desk once again. Nothing gave any indication of Fiona's weekend plans or current location, except for the invoice and follow-up appointment set for the previous Saturday.
He strode to his study and settled behind the desk. Flipping through his Rolodex for the desired information, he quickly located and dialed the number for Sean.
"Glenanne here," was Sean's curt greeting.
"Hey Sean, this is Michael. I was wondering…."
"Westen, what are ya doing calling at this time of morning? Don't ya bloody well ever sleep?" Sean fell back into his pillows with an aggravated sigh.
Michael massaged his temple, wishing for the ever-present headache to abate, "I'm really sorry, Sean, but this is about Fiona."
"What about her?" Sean's reply was instantaneous.
"I got word today from Interpol that Thomas O'Neill escaped from Whitemoor Prison."
"What? When?" Sean's short, no nonsense questions demanded an immediate reply.
"Ah," Michael fought to stifle a yawn, as he battled to stay alert, "…he escaped sometime last Friday morning. He had inside help and they've yet to locate him."
"Friday? How the hell did they let him get away?" Sean's voice raised several octaves.
"Like I said," Michael tried to calm his brother-in-law, " …Friday, early morning…He had inside help from two guards and an infirmary assistant. They caught the assistant driving through the U.K., and one of the guards in Cork after he jumped a freighter."
"What about the slimy bastard, O'Neill?" Sean's words were coming with punishing force.
"Interpol lost him," Michael tried to explain, "…he and the other guard boarded a cargo plane flying out of Colchester en route to just about anywhere…no one knows. The cargo company flies to the Middle East, Canada and the U.S. One of the flights that morning was headed stateside to the East coast, including…."
Sean cut him off, "Miami?"
"Yeah," Michael sighed in despair.
"So ya want me to come there and help protect my sister?"
"Well," Michael cringed as he delivered the dire news, "…I'm not sure where Fiona is at the moment."
"What's that ya saying?"
"Fiona's not home at the moment," Michael tried again.
"Well, where the bloody hell is she?" Sean's voice got impossibly louder, and Michael pulled the phone from his ear.
"Don't know," Michael spoke barely above a whisper. "I just flew in from London and have been trying to reach her all day."
"Great! You're off gallivanting all over the world and my sister is left to the mercies of the likes of O'Neill," Sean was seething.
"I've been reassigned…."
"Reassigned? To London?" Sean started pacing, his feet slapping hard against the old wooden floor. "So, let me get this straight, you're living in London and my sister is all by herself in Miami?"
"That's about the sum of things," Michael cringed at his phrasing, waiting for the anticipated outburst."
"When?"
"When what?" Michael asked in reply.
"When was the last time ya talked with her?" Sean growled out the words like a predator stalking its prey.
"Don't know," Michael fought to control his emotions and worry, "…about…3-4 weeks ago."
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON, MICHAEL?"
"We're having some…problems," the last word died on his tongue.
"So just when my sister needs your help most, ya up and abandon her? Sean pulled the phone from his mouth and let fly a string of foul expletives loudly into the room. "Ya know, Westen…if I were there right now, I'd kill ya with my bare hands!"
"Yooou'd," Michael's voice finally broke, "…have to stand in line."
"So, what are we s'posed to do now," Sean tempered his anger, as he sought for a reasonable plan.
"I'm searching the house for clues," Michael inhaled a deep trembling breath, clamping back his pain. "I've also got a call out to a repair company that should've been here on Saturday. I'll know more in the morning." Michael rambled on, "In the meantime, Sean…can you do some checking around your own parts? Last time O'Neill surfaced, his plan was to abduct Fi and take her back to Ireland. Since he's yet to be located, and one of his guards showed up in Cork, I just thought maybe…."
"Yeah, I'll get right on it!" Sean turned peevishly quiet.
"Sean?"
"Yeah?"
"Could you please call me back, if you hear anything," Michael swallowed back a cry of concern.
"I'll call, but I don't know why I'd bother. Clearly, if you haven't spoken to my sister in a month, you're not all that concerned about her well being," Sean's voice was frosty and curt.
"You couldn't be more wroooong," Michael's voice crackled with unrestrained tears, "…we've had our misunderstandings of late, but I still looove her. I need to get her back, Sean. Pleeease," he begged.
"All right, man…pull yourself together and get to work. I'll call ya back in a few hours." And with those final words of advice, Sean was gone.
Michael tossed the phone aside and dropped his head into his hands. He was physically adrift, torn somewhere between exhaustion and fear. Refusing to allow either to gain dominance, he stalwartly determined to keep a level head. He made his way to the kitchen to brew a strong pot of coffee. While he waited for the caffeine fix to finish, he pulled out his cell and the business card for Colin Neville. It was just past 7 a.m. in London, so Michael dialed the agent's number on the off chance Neville was one of those early-to-work types. The agent answered on the third ring. Despite a 5-minute conversation, he was no further ahead than he'd been yesterday. Interpol was pursuing every lead, but so far there had been no sightings of the Irish terrorist. Neville begrudgingly admitted there were few leads left to chase, short of O'Neill suddenly popping out from his current hiding hole.
Balancing the mug of coffee and a breakfast bar in his right hand, he made his way to the front hall to retrieve his overnight bag then headed back to the master bedroom. Pausing just inside the door, he studied the room trying to shake his overpowering sense of emptiness and loss. The room screamed Fiona in every sense of the word. He'd acquiesced to her desires when it had come time to furnish and decorate their house. The only room in which he held sway had been his study. As he stood in the doorway of their private retreat, he had to admit the room was warm and inviting. She'd done a wonderful job with the entire house, but this room especially had been the perfect sanctuary just for them. He tried to remember if he'd ever mentioned to her how much he enjoyed it.
"Probably not," he muttered in derision to himself. He was always too busy planning and executing the next mission to take note of such trivial and mundane things. Now, as he surveyed the welcoming space, he realized it was anything but mundane or ordinary.
"I need to remember to tell her," the words trembled on his lips, as he chastised himself. It was but one of many things he needed to share with his wife, if he could only find her.
He set the mug and snack bar on the bedside table then proceeded on to the master closet. Shrugging off his clothes, he carefully hung them on the vast expanse of open rods that had once been his side of the closet. Staring at his suit as it hung in the emptiness of the space, he couldn't help but notice how it symbolized his current life. Turning around to Fi's side of the cavernous space, he allowed his fingertips to trip gently over the clothes. The garments were all so soft and small just like her. He marveled at the paradox that was his wife. Delicate, small, dainty even, by all outward appearances, but thunderous and strong on the inside.
"Well, she used to be," his voice echoed back in the vast surroundings, "…before…." Before! His mind silently mocked him. BEFORE. Before the baby and all of her other losses, before he took everything from her life. He stepped closer and breathed her in. Her presence was everywhere in the space. Her dresses, her sweaters, her jeans, her shoes, her handbags, her jewelry. He dropped the silken sleeve he had been caressing and fled from the closet. Turning on the shower full-blast and scalding hot, he stepped under the spray, trying to erase all the painful memories, the shame and the worry. He reached for his shower gel, but came up empty. Eyes darting around the enclosure, he realized there was no part of him left in the space. He grabbed the only other available soap and poured it onto his heated skin, left ruddy and perspiring under the burning water. The fragrance overwhelmed him, weighing him down to the floor; he collapsed in a heap on the bare tile. She surrounded him, in the air, on his skin, dripping from his hair. She was everywhere, except the one place she belonged. In his arms, under his fingertips, and on his lips. It had been so long for them, he almost couldn't remember her touch or her taste anymore. Water droplets slid down his cheeks, cascaded from his chest and mixed with the shower spray from overhead. He reached up to swipe them away, but more instantly appeared, and it was then he realized they were salty tears rather than just water. As he curled into himself, their last words growled and nipped at his consciousness, like angry lions demanding to be heard.
"Look at me, Michael!" She had demanded, while standing before him, her nakedness in full view. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't look at her that way. She'd grown insistent, testing his will and desire, but he couldn't indulge. It just wasn't right.
"Michael, TURN AROUND!" She had screamed with insistence, but he couldn't move.
"So, this bothers you…but why?" Each plea from her lips killed another part of his soul, until finally her erroneous supposition spurred him to action. "Do I now disgust you so completely…you can't even look at me?"
"Fi, NO!" He finally found his voice, propelling himself toward her, but it had been too late. Her face was raw with fury, but her eyes were dead with pain.
"Get out, I said! Get out!" She batted away his meager attempts to assuage her, until he fled from the room like a coward.
She hadn't understood. Those were her last memories of him, and she hadn't understood anything. He left her alone to deal with her humiliation and pain, as he hid in an upstairs bedroom. WEAK! The lions circled his mind one by one, swiping away his excuses. Pathetic, they snarled with teeth bared. Despicable, they roared.
It had all started out so innocently. He hadn't meant to intrude on her private moment, but when he saw her toweling off fresh from the shower, he couldn't look away. He should have left the room before she'd ever spotted him, but she was so beautiful. The drops of water gliding down her glistening skin. The perfect arch of her back. The sensuous curve of her thigh. The gracefulness of her every movement. It had been so long since he'd touched her in that way. As the towel slid over her shoulders and lower to caress her breasts, he wanted that towel to be his fingers and palm of his hand. The cascading water droplets, his lips on a meandering journey across her skin. The gasp escaped his mouth before he'd even formed it on his tongue. But he had no right to touch her, not until he had regained her trust. Never once had he been unfaithful to her in the physical sense; he had been honest about that. But the words he had spoken to her in that New York hospital room had driven a wedge between them as surely as if he had cheated. He watched the light go out of her eyes that day, as each cruel word struck its blow.
It had started after Venezuela; she'd been unsure and tentative from that point on. His homecoming was awkward and their reunion uncomfortable. He had made a promise to himself that very morning, while still intertwined in their bed, to work on regaining the relaxed and uncomplicated ease they'd shared with one another so early in their marriage. The loss of the baby had dealt them a significant blow, but it was the snuffing out of the actual dream, which had created a chasm between them. The events of Venezuela had eroded and nearly derailed their ability to bridge their divide. After their initial attempt at intimacy, Fi had been jumpy and uncomfortable in his presence. Simple gestures, like a stroke of his fingers or a guiding hand to her back, had caused her to flinch away from his touch. He was fairly certain she wasn't cognizant of her own reaction, but he took them to heart just the same. He knew he needed to rebuild her trust in him.
If Venezuela had impeded their bridge building, then New York had shot it to hell, as surely as a well-placed block of C4. He'd started the first few nights home in their bed, but his presence only prevented Fiona from sleeping. Whenever they drifted toward one another in their slumber, she would jerk awake at the very first touch of shared space or heat from his skin. After the third or fourth night of sleeplessness, she was exhausted and stressed by morning and testy throughout the day. In order to give them both a reprieve, he had chosen to take up residence in the guest room, hoping the separation would allow them the space to work out their difference. She was jittery in his presence, which only served to worsen his guilt. He couldn't tell her of his difficulties with the agency, and she could no longer trust him with her heart.
Two weeks into his self-imposed exile, they'd managed a tentative truce. He worked at being non-confrontational and respected her personal space. More and more he began referring to her by her proper name, Fiona, unable to suppress the emotional plea so evident in his voice at the soft utterance of his favored name, Fi. And as time passed, bit-by-bit, moment-by-moment, she seemed to become more at ease. At least until that horrible day, when fate crossed their paths just fresh from the shower. He hadn't meant to hurt her, even though his actions had done exactly that. He just knew in his heart and soul, he had no right to partake in her private moment. He didn't deserve to see her that way, or touch her that way, least of all love her that way. Not without first regaining her trust, her love, and her comfort. And so he'd fled like a coward, rather than try to explain.
Michael shook away the nightmares of that fateful last day. Shivering on the cold tile floor of the shower, he managed to push himself upright under the beating attack of the cold water. His muscles were stiff and sore, his skin pale and transparent as ice. His teeth chattered uncontrollably like a jackhammer, threatening to chip off the enamel in razor-thin shards. As he reached out to shut off the shower, his numb fingers fought to grip the knob. He stepped from the enclosure, grabbing an adjacent towel to wipe away the remaining moisture, then wrapped it tightly around his waist. Walking toward the bedroom, his gate was unsteady, his legs threatening to give out. He tiptoed past his overnight bag, opting for the warmth offered by the bed. He took note of the folded laundry, crossed to the Fiona's side and launched himself under the blankets. Her pillow released her scent as soon as his face made contact. He burrowed in deeper, reveling in the comfort of her smell. All the previous day's events coalesced and collapsed upon him forcing him into a deep slumber, before his fear could appeal to the logic of his more rational side.
Two hours later, he awoke to the sounds of rolling thunder and the pitter-patter of rain. His eyes cracked open still thick with sleep. His mind felt foggy and disoriented. He looked around the room trying to decipher his location. When he recognized home, he smiled and started to drift back to sleep, until he remembered Fiona. He sat up in bed, frantic and angry with himself for wasting time sleeping. He reached for the clock on Fi's nightstand, taking note of the time. It was already past five in the morning, and he'd yet to devise a plan to locate his wife. Setting the clock aside, he noticed her silver bracelet.
He lifted the shiny object from the nearby nightstand and studied it in the faint early morning light. A loud clap of thunder followed by multiple streaks of lightening illuminated the room, causing the bracelet to sparkle in the intense light. Twisting the bracelet around his fingers he pondered the cherished heirloom. It had been given to Fiona by her favorite grandmother. Fi told him it held special sentimental significance when he'd inquired about its origin years ago. She wore it most everywhere and was very rarely without it. In fact, the only time she left it at home was when they were dressed for a formal occasion. He caressed the large heart-shaped charms, then turned on the bedside lamp to examine them closer. He'd only remembered one heart dangling from the bracelet last time he took note. It was engraved with the letter "C." When he asked Fi about the significance, she's simply stated it was a remembrance and offered nothing more. He had assumed the heart-shaped charm was for Claire. Now, as he examined the second charm with the letter "B" engraved at its center, he wondered about its meaning. There'd been no recent family losses, except for their child. The only explanation he could surmise for the letter "B" was "baby." They'd never discussed a name for their daughter, but it made sense the charm would represent their lost child. He placed the bracelet back on the nightstand still pondering the idea that Fiona hadn't taken it with her.
Fiona!
Realizing he hadn't tried to call her since arriving in Miami last night, he quickly grabbed the portable phone off the table and dialed her cell. Waiting for the call to go through, he prayed she was on her way back to Miami to spend the day with Elsa. As the bedside phone began to ring, he heard the sound echoed back within the confines of the house. Jumping from the bed, he followed the ringing sound, until it stopped and rolled over to voice mail. Disconnecting the call, he dialed her cell again and followed the responding ring to the kitchen. He found the cell phone in her purse, which had been discarded on a kitchen chair and pushed under the table. Rifling through the purse, he located her keychain with both her house and car keys.
The discovery sent him into a panic. He ran to the bedroom throwing on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He grabbed his cell from where he'd abandoned it on his nightstand and quickly punched the number for Sam. As he waited for his friend to pick up, he jogged out the front door, scanning the distance for any sign of Fiona's car. Finding the street empty, he raced back inside just as Sam answered the call.
"'Lo," was Sam's mumbled reply.
"Sam!" Michael yelled into the phone trying to rouse his sleeping friend.
"Mmmm," was the muttered reply.
"Sam, wake-up!"
"Mmm up," Sam yawned loudly, as Michael heard the rustling of sheets. "Whaaat time's it?"
"After 5…come on, Sam…I need you!"
That got his friend's attention, "Did you find Fi?"
"No!" Michael shouted, as his adrenaline kicked in, "…but I found her purse and cell phone! Her keys are inside, Sam! She couldn't have gone anywhere, at least not without her purse and keys!"
"Maybe she went with a friend," Sam offered in his groggy state, as he almost tripped, stepping into his pants.
"But why would she leave her purse and cell phone home?" Michael asked, as his mind jumped several steps ahead.
"Ah," Sam stumbled for an explanation, as he reached for his shirt and shoes. "I'm sorry, Mike…I don't have a better answer. Look, I'm on my way. I'll call my police buddy from the car, see if anything's turned up."
"See ya when you get here," Michael shoved the phone into his pocket, as he searched for more clues.
He ran into the garage and began exploring every surface, corner, nook and cranny. He berated himself for not being more thorough in his endeavors the night before. His workbench was clear, except for Fi's gardening tools. Her car was missing, as previously noted, but his was parked in its usual spot on the far side of the garage. He dropped to his knees, scanning the floor. His eyes immediately caught sight of a metal toolbox on the floor behind his car. He jumped up to retrieve the box, taking note of the company emblem decaled on the front side.
"AAA Garage Doors…damn it! How did I miss that?" I really am off my game, he silently muttered to himself. As the fall storm raged outside the house, a flash of lightening illuminated the early morning sky and brightened the window, drawing his attention to a glint of silver beside his rear tire. Kneeling down to inspect further, another flash of lightening broke through. He sighed in distress, as he picked the syringe up from the floor.
Carrying the toolbox and the syringe into the kitchen, he placed them both on the table. Opening the toolbox, he found a half empty vial of midazolam, along with additional syringes. Hands shaking, he swallowed hard against the sensation of nausea, which rapidly rose in his chest. He retrieved his satchel and booted up his computer. Bringing up the browser, he quickly searched for AAA Garage Doors and clicked on their internet link. He found the owner's name and traced it back to a home phone. He punched in the number, waiting for someone to answer.
"Hello," the voice was hoarse with sleep.
"I need to speak to the owner of AAA Garage Doors," Michael spoke with an authoritative, demanding voice.
"This is he," the response was more coherent.
"You sent a repairman to my home…."
"Do you know what time it is?" The man yelled into the phone, threatening to hang up.
"Wait! Please, my wife is missing and I need your help," Michael softened his tone, his voice breaking under the stress.
"What?"
"I need your help!"
"What can I do for you?" The voice responded to Michael's distress with a gentler tone.
"My wife," Michael cleared his throat and tried again, "…my wife is missing. You had a repairman here on Friday to fix our garage door opener. He left an invoice and made an appointment to return on Saturday with a new part."
"Okay," the owner interrupted trying to follow Michael's train of thought.
"The opener is still broken, but I found one of your toolboxes in my garage along with a syringe and a vial of a powerful sedative." Michael waited for the owner to respond.
"You think my repairman took your wife?" The owner's voice was incredulous, "Look son…."
"Sir, I don't have time to argue with you!" Michael took the offensive, "All I know is I've been unable to reach my wife for over 24 hours, her car is missing and her purse and keys are still here at home. Then I find one of your toolboxes with a medicine vial in my garage. I'd like for you to explain…."
"Wait a minute, do you know the name of the repairman?"
"Yeah, just a minute," Michael reached for the invoice, "…his name is Justin Baker."
A heavy sigh filtered through the phone, "Justin didn't come to work yesterday, nor did he call in sick. We were unable to locate his company van, so apparently he didn't return it after his shift on Saturday."
"So, you have no idea of your employee's whereabouts?"
"No, I'm sorry I don't," the man sighed again, "…but this isn't like Justin at all. He's a great guy and a really responsible worker. In fact, he's one of my managers. We were short on Friday and Saturday, so he offered to fill the Saturday shift for extra money. He's divorced and works hard to support his three kids. I can't imagine him having anything to do with your wife's disappearance."
Michael cringed at the owner's glowing description of his worker, "Do you by any chance have Justin's home number."
"Yes, I'm almost certain I have it in my cell phone directory."
"Could you give it to me?" Michael begged over the line.
"Um," the owner stammered, "…I'm not sure it would be wise to give out an employee's personal information."
"Then could you please call the number to see if he's home?" Michael pleaded with the man, "Pleeease, I'll take any information he can provide…it's important!"
"Okay," the owner acquiesced and took down Michael's name and number with a promise to call back.
As Michael disconnected the phone, he poured a large mug of coffee to reheat in the microwave. Pacing the floor, he gingerly sipped the hot caffeinated-brew, hoping it would impart a serious dose of clarity to his sleep-addled mind. Just as he was about call Sam, the phone rang.
"Westen residence," Michael answered promptly.
"Ah yes, Mr. Westen, this Sam Drower…owner of AAA Garage Doors."
"Thank you for calling me back, Mr. Drower," Michael set aside the mug of coffee to concentrate on the call.
"I'm sorry I don't have better news," Sam Drower paused to inhale deeply, "…um, Justin Baker didn't answer his home phone."
"I see," Michael's voice dropped, disappointment evident in his tone.
"I ah," the man swallowed, "…I called his ex-wife. She said," another nervous sigh, "…Justin was supposed to…have his kids on Sunday…."
"Let me guess, he didn't show," Michael's reply was monotone.
"No, I'm afraid not," Sam Drower cleared his throat, not wanting to go on. "She, his ex-wife, is quite worried. Justin's never missed a day with his kids, except for rare extenuating circumstances. He always calls if he's unable to make it."
"I take it, she's not heard from him?"
"No," Mr. Drower paused again, longer this time. "You know, I don't know what to think. Justin has worked for me for 15 years, and he's never…I can't imagine him doing something like this to your wife. I mean I've never had a complaint filed on him…15 years."
Michael's gaze rose to the ceiling, as he studied the plaster design. "Mr. Drower," Michael tried to control the tremble in his voice, "…I'm not sure Justin actually took my wife…."
"Excuse me?"
"Um, he may have been the victim in all this," Michael closed his eyes, "…you see, there was a prisoner who escaped…."
"What?"
"He's ah…he's a very dangerous man, and…."
Sam Drower interrupted again, "Are you saying Justin might have been injured…."
"Yes," Michael chose his words carefully, unable to give voice to a far worse outcome, "…I ah, wouldn't necessarily assume the worst, but…."
"But?"
"Have you or his ex-wife contacted the police?"
"Actually," Mr. Drower answered, "…she was calling them, as we hung up. Oh boy, maybe I should head on over to her house. Their family has been a loyal member of my business for years. It would be heartbreaking if…." The business owner was unable to go on.
"I think that might be a good idea, Mr. Drower," Michael tried to comfort the man. "Thank you for getting back to me so fast. Let's hope the best for all involved."
"Yes, thank you, Mr. Westen," Sam Drower hung up the phone.
Michael dropped into a nearby chair, unable to fully process the latest news. He reached for Fiona's purse, pouring out all of its contents onto the table. He felt guilty for going through her private things, but he hoped against all odds it held a clue to her whereabouts. He found the aforementioned keys and cell phone. Pulling up her missed call list, he found the 30 or 40 calls placed by he and Sam, and a couple from his mother. Outgoing calls had been scant with the last placed to Sam a week prior. Her wallet contained the usual collection of money, ID, license and credit cards. He took note of each particular credit card, finding them all present. He tossed aside a packet of tissues then sifted through a thin pile of paperwork. In the midst of the stack, he found two small photographs, one of him and Fi, and the other a duplicate to the photo in his office drawer. He studied the photos, running his fingertips over the surface, caressing her face. On a whim, he stuck the pictures into his pocket. He rarely carried photographs with him unless they were part of his cover, but at the moment he wasn't Michael Westen the spy, he was just Michael, husband of a missing wife.
Looking over the paraphernalia scattered across the tabletop, his eyes caught sight of a simple tube of lipstick. Removing the cap and rolling the tube up, he leaned closer to study the pale shade of the lip color. He recognized it as her favorite, soft and unassuming as her gorgeous face. She didn't need the brash and garish colors of bright red and fuchsia pink to call attention to her beauty. Hers was a natural and elegant look. He smeared a stripe of the soft coral across the tip of his index finger then lifted it to his nose, he realized it smelled exactly as she tasted. Closing his eyes and inhaling deeper, he could detect a light floral scent mixed with honey and just a hint of citrus. He touched his finger to his lips and memories came flooding back. The night he proposed, they'd celebrated into the early morning hours; she'd tasted like this. A long weekend to the Virgin Islands, a secluded villa with private beach access, she tasted like this. A quiet anniversary dinner over candlelight in the privacy of their new home, she tasted like this. A thousand other times over the last 10 years, in each of their heartfelt greetings, adventurous celebrations, quiet times and intimate moments, she had tasted just like this. Tears dropped from his lashes, one by one, trailing down his cheeks, as he savored each of those moments. He had to get her back.
The ringing of his cell phone drew him back from his memories to the current reality of his life. He swiped away the tears and swallowed down the emotions, as he answered the phone.
"Yeah."
"Hey Mike, I'm sorry this is taking a while…."
"Sam, I found a toolbox from the repairman in the garage, there were syringes and a vial…."
"Ah yeah, about that…."
Michael continued undeterred by Sam's voice, "…a powerful sedative. I caught up with the owner of AAA Garage Doors. The repairman…."
"Mike, listen buddy…."
"…hasn't been seen since Saturday. He missed an outing with his kids and was a no show on Monday…."
"Mike!"
"Mr. Drower, the owner, says he's a very reliable guy and has been a model employee…."
"Mike, listen to me…."
"…for 15 years. Sam, I'm worried! What if O'Neill got them both…."
"MIKE!"
Michael stopped talking when Sam's scream finally penetrated through his frenzied narrative, "What Sam? I just wanted to tell you about the repairman…."
Sam tried again, "Mike, I know all about Justin Baker."
"What?" Michael was confused, "How do you know about Justin Baker?"
Sam released a weary sigh, "Because I'm staring at him right now."
"You found them? Is Fi with him?" Michael's voice rose with excitement.
"No, buddy…Fiona's not with him." Sam paused to let that news sink in.
Michael jumped to the next conclusion, "Well, does he know where she is?"
"Mike, I don't know how to tell you this, but…." Sam inhaled again, "…Justin Baker is dead."
"Dead?"
"Yeah, the police just located the van after his ex-wife called it in. He's been dead at least a couple of days." Sam paused waiting for Michael's response, but heard only silence. "Hey Mike, you still there?"
"Yeah," Michael's tears flooded back.
"Justin…he uh…he was shot in the head, but not before they stole his work shirt and toolbox."
"That's how they got in," Michael's emotionless monotone voice cut in.
"Looks like it," Sam hated to deliver the next bit of news. "Mike, you still there?"
"Mmmm…."
"There's something else," Sam paused as he sought for the right words, "…they uh…they found Fiona's car."
"Wha…what? I don't understand…I…how," Michael stuttered over his thoughts, as he picked up her key ring, "…her keys…I have her keys in my hand."
"Yeah, about that," Sam shook his head, "…the key in the car…it looks like a spare ring."
Michael stood up and robotically walked to the kitchen desk. Opening the drawer, he searched through the container of extra keys. Hers was missing. "Key…missing," was all he managed to speak.
"Mike, you still with me, brother?" He could hear Michael's heavy breathing through the phone. "Um, there's a little good news…at least, there's no sign of Fiona in the car, so uh…so they must have taken her with them."
"Where's the car?"
"There are several blood smears in the backseat, so I suspect she's putting up a good fight," Sam grasped at any small bit of hope.
"Where?"
Sam paused before delivering the bad news, "A, ah…small beach inlet with a, ah…with a boat dock leading to the, um…the open water."
'***'
To be continued