AU: Guess who's back... back again... Petey's back... tell a friend...
FYI... in Pete's mind, Samantha is Major Sam Carter and she loves him, she just needs to realise that... apparently.
Chapter 7: Stakeout
Thursday, 11th March 2004 – Cascade House – Pete Shanahan
The alarm on my phone sounded shaking me out of my half doze, half food coma. I had been here for almost two days, and nothing had happened. The old woman hadn't left the house – well not through the front door – and her only visitor had been the proprietor from the local shop that I had frequented a few times to buy snacks. My off-duty days were almost up, and I could not afford to be late for my shift.
Not again.
The chief had gotten right up me three weeks ago when I had been spotted following that jackass O'Neill to this very suburb. Watched as he drove down this street, paused out the front of this very house, then drove away again. I had hoped to catch a glimpse of my Samantha, but she had not been with him. His behaviour was the strangest thing that left me wondering the identity of the woman who lived in that house and what he – of all people – was doing here.
When I had returned to the station the next morning, the Chief summoned me to his office and chewed me out for my 'obsession' with the blonde Major – though I had no idea what that house had to do with Samantha at the time. He hadn't bought my story about the secret military base in Cheyenne Mountain or aliens and finger laser guns. It was during that dress down that he threw an anonymous obituary at me.
Her obituary. Dated February 9th, 2004. Ten days prior to my impromptu stakeout, with her memorial scheduled for later that same day. She was dead. Major Samantha Carter was no more. Although disappointed that I never hooked up with her, I couldn't stop the little pleased smirk from forming. The big bad Colonel had lost his lap warmer – oh well – I'm sure a seasoned fly boy like him would be able to get another young hot blonde zoomie in his bed.
Plenty of fish in the sea as they say.
Though I still yearned to put that smarmy fly boy in his place, without the end goal of getting the hot babe, it seemed a pointless venture. That was until I walked out of my favourite taco shop the following week to find an envelope on my driver's seat. The envelope contained a typed letter promising the world, and a card with nothing but an address. Words to the effect of 'Samantha is alive', 'she could be mine if I wanted', 'O'Neill would be dead or in prison', and I'd have all the money I wanted – enough to retire on a farm in the middle of nowhere.
Sounded good. Too good.
And a complete and utter lie.
Mark had confirmed Samantha's death for me in an emotionally charged phone call. He had been at her funeral. All he had wanted was for her to be happy. He'd hoped that I would be the one to do that. I had rolled my eyes. Sure. I could have pulled that off. Make everything look fine and dandy. Get her out of the military, into a house and pregnant so that she would never leave. No chance of that if she was dead.
So, I had folded up the note and shoved it in an endless abyss reserved for paid bills, performance reviews and faded receipts to be forgotten about.
Until a week ago.
I had been following a 'lead' at the Colorado Springs Zoo. Nice tight jeans accentuating what looked like legs that went on forever, a tight cashmere sweater hugging toned abs and to die for boobs, wavy strawberry blonde hair – you get the picture – when I saw her.
Samantha.
Her hair was slightly longer, and she was wearing a modest dress instead of the hot halter neck piece from the coffee shop, but it was her standing at the kiosk. Buying ice cream for herself and a little girl. A friend's daughter, I figured. Well, I had thought so until he wandered up behind them. The gleeful squealing laughter from the little girl as he tickled her crying "Stop, Daddy! Mummy, tell Daddy to stop!" had rung in my ears as had the image of him snaking one arm around my Samantha and kissing her as she presented him with a double choc-dipped monstrosity.
O'Neill. That bastard!
They had lied. All of them. She wasn't dead. She was alive and had a child.
With him!
Stupidly, I had followed them which landed me a bout of unconsciousness, a mega headache from hell and another arse kicking from the Chief when I finally made it back to the station almost three hours later than he had expected me. In my stupidity, I had called Mark back and insisted she was alive. That went down well.
After that, my drive home had been swift. Rummaged through several drawers – forgetting which one I had put the letter in – eventually I found the crumpled piece of paper with the almost blank business card attached.
The address had been an old telephone box in less than stellar condition on some obscure road in a ramshackle part of the city that barely qualified as being Denver. Another card had peaked out of the top of the tatty telephone book. Opening to the page marked, I noted the card had the words 'watch her' in stick on letters.
It was all very bad murder mystery. Obviously, this person hadn't been told about computers.
Trailing my eyes down, the highlighted name Carter, SJ at the same address I had seen O'Neill cruising past sat under the glaring bright yellow ink. From the sheer number of names listed, Carter was a relatively common name, especially in this part of Colorado – but the fact that this woman was an SJ Carter had me intrigued.
So here I was. Again.
Watching.
Waiting.
For the last 27 hours. Give or take a few for sleep and snack runs. And just like last time, nothing interesting had happened other than the odd glimpse through her windows. She hadn't even checked the mailbox despite its proud red flag sticking up announcing the presence of mail.
Straightened up in my seat, the sound of my back cracking and the subsequent pain told me I had been here too long. I had to go home. Have a shower, and get some sleep, or suffer the wrath of the chief. I could return in a few days. From what I could tell, she looked like she was nearing a hundred years old, so probably wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon.
With a groan, I leaned forward to adjust my seat into a position that I could comfortably drive in. Reaching for the keys, I was just about to turn them in the ignition when a silver Volvo pulled up into her driveway and a young man stepped out. He looked straight at me before slipping on a set of dark aviators, then walked around the back of his car and up her front steps via the mailbox.
It wasn't much, but it was something. I couldn't leave now. But he had seen me, so I couldn't stay. Shit. Turning the keys and roughly releasing the park brake, I gunned the engine and took off down the street.
Driving for a few hundred meters, I found a vacant block. Making a last-minute decision, I slowed the car and pulled up the sloped kerb to park before hoping out and donning my winter jacket complete with hood. While I probably would not need my piece or cuffs, going without them just seemed like bad idea. So, without further ado, I buried my hands in the oversized pockets and sauntered back down the street toward the target location.
As I approached, movement around the side of the house had me hiding behind a tree as the young man left what looked like a covered wood pile and walked up to the front door. It was hard to see since the setting sun bouncing off the windows of her house. Barely a minute later, he was walking inside. Perhaps he was her grandson coming home from school, though at quarter to six, it seemed a little late to be getting home from school. Then again, maybe he had an after-school job. That was fairly commonplace these days.
Pulling out a scratchpad, I made a note about the kid with the surname Carter and question mark. While it was unlikely that his last name was Carter, if he lived here, it wouldn't be hard to find out his name, school, birth date and pretty much everything else there was to know about him. Even with Farrity out of the picture, I still had friends tucked away who owed me whether they knew it or not.
"Howdy, friend!" A voice said, making me jump and turn around to find a portly old gentleman straddling a bicycle that was way too small for his bulk wearing a light windcheater and shorts. If it wasn't 28 degrees Fahrenheit, I'd have felt overdressed. How he could ride in this weather wearing so little boggled my mind, but whatever floated his boat, I guess.
"Evening." I responded.
"Err, can I help you?" He asked, his midwestern accent pegging him as being a long time local, eyes flicking over my shoulder to my quarry's house. Pulling out my badge, I flashed it quickly enough that he could not see the Denver insignia.
"Just some surveillance, Sir. Nothing to worry about. Say, how long as the occupant lived here?" I asked the man who was likely a close neighbour.
"Oh, probably about two months or so. Owned the place for years though. Been sitting empty for a while. A shame really for such a nice place. Her son bought her here in that big noisy truck of his." He replied as I took notes.
"Her son? The kid?" I asked a little surprised.
"Nope. Her son. A little taller, grey hair, dark eyes. Driving a green pick up. Well, I think he is her son. He's too young to be anything else if ya know what I mean." He drawled, running his hand over the non-existent beard on his withered face.
"And the kid?" I asked after writing that bastard O'Neill's name down and circling it.
"Dunno. Grandson maybe. Got the same mannerisms as the bloke who dropped her off." He commented.
"How so?"
"Oh, same dark look in his eyes. Likes to walk the perimeter on nights he's here, as if he's been military his whole life, except he's too young for any of that." He replied. I had to agree. Despite driving himself here, the kid still had pimples and no Adam's apple. He couldn't have been much older than 16 assuming he was licenced to drive.
"Thank you very much, Sir. You've been very helpful." I said with a smile and nod.
"Listen, er – they ain't gonna be causing any trouble?" The old man asked just as I had turned to resume watching. "This here is a quiet neighbourhood. We don't want any riff raff." The light had flicked on in the time I had been distracted by the neighbour and they had dropped the blinds on the front of the house. Dammit! I was running out of time to observe this kid.
"None at all. She's under our protection." I lied, just to get him to go away. His eyes widened and he tapped the side of his nose as he nodded his head, then mounted his bicycle, and trundled down the road never once looking back. At least now he'd leave me alone.
The sun had now dipped below the mountain reducing the amount of ambient light, though we still had a good five minutes before sunset. Long shadows started to play on the western side of the house, meaning I could slip closer and potentially get eyes on both of them.
Tucking my notepad and pen back into my pocket, I took a wide detour along the road that travelled down the left side of the house, then used the trees to approach without being seen. Unfortunately, the ambient light from the remaining sunlight reflected off everything making blending in harder than usual. Approached a small window on the side of the house, I used the firewood housing to boost myself up and peered inside to find them sitting side by side on the couch. Nothing unusual about that, until she moved to straddle the kid's thighs.
What the hell?
I could not stop watching at she leaned in and kissed him in a way that a grandmother should not be kissing her grandson, or any kid for that matter. Seeing her do that turned my stomach. The dampened sound of a phone ringing brought my attention back, though less than half a minute later, I wished it hadn't when a look of pure gratification crossed her face. Though I couldn't see anything, my brain unhelpfully supplied a bunch of scenarios that were not legal in any state causing me to drop to the ground by the reaction surging within my roiling stomach.
After a while, I stumbled back down the road towards my car, got in under the cover of darkness and drove away wondering if I should risk the wrath of the chief by reporting something I merely suspected was happening behind those doors, or to just ignore it.