A short fictional work based on the tv series 'Without a Trace'
Rating: PG-17 (Language, violence)
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the show or characters. This story is for entertainment purposes only, without profit or gain of any kind.
Note: First, thanks to all of you who've read both of my earlier Without a Trace pieces, Nothing Gold Can Stay from last year and more recently, In Extremis: Epilogue. I truly appreciate your kind and generous support, it really does make a difference hearing from you, it helps me write better.
A big huge Debt of gratitude to my friend and advise giver and most excellent editor, Christy. Thanks Pard, without you, this story wouldn't be here.
Warning, this story might be long, (those of you who've read my Magnificent Seven Fic's know how hard it is for me to write short stories. Stop laughing Laramee, I can hear you!)
Without Further interruption, let the tale begin.
He paused at the end of the hallway, eyeing the navy blue rugs and dark wood walls. His eyes rested briefly on the gold seal above the heavy double doors. He sighed, fingered the badge clipped to his belt and then took a steadying breath before continuing.
He looked awful. 'Like something the cat dragged in', his mother would say. Dark circles rimmed his slitted eyes, swollen from lack of sleep. He needed a shave, a hot shower and a soft bed for a week. No, he shook his head, halfway down the corridor. What he needed was his team. The men and women who served with him. The four individuals who made him proud every day. He paused painfully, hearing the desolate echo of his footsteps in the hallway. He'd never felt so alone. How had it all gone so wrong?
Taking another deep breath, his hand trembled briefly above the shiny doorknob. Several pairs of eyes turned and burned a hole in him as he entered. He didn't shy away — that wasn't his way. He stood tall and looked every one of them in the eye. One set did unnerve him, they were as potent as blue lasers and as he held their gaze, the temperature in the room seemed to drop rapidly.
Representatives from several Federal Agencies were on hand — The Bureau's Office of the Inspector General, Law Enforcement Ethics Unit and the Office of Professional Responsibility sat on either side of the oval. The other two members of the adjudication unit were more familiar to him. At the other end of the table, glowering at the 'head' spot was the National Deputy Director, with those icy eyes. To his left sat the local director, whose office was on the top floor. He was the one who finally spoke, making the brief introductions. Finally, Victor Fitzgerald's cold voice split the air.
"Charges!"
Barbara Holiday, from the Office of Professional Responsibility stood and opened the file. "These charges and the disciplinary action that follows are the result of a cooperative investigation among the offices of said counsel represented herein. The review of the actions undertaken by John Anthony Malone associated with the events and activities that took place..."
Jack's eyes remained fixed on the hawkish woman, whose pinched features gave him an eye ache. But her voice faded away and instead he heard their voices. Laughing and teasing at the conferance table during a break in a tense investigation. Finally, with the addition of Martin Fitzgerald, he'd put together a team with all the right stuff. A complete set, a good fit — the right fit! He blinked and zoned back in, as the charges were listed.
"Misconduct, Misuse of Government property, inadequate performance, improper judgment, neglection of duties, failure to exert proper managerial oversight..."
He watched her lips moving and thought of a predator eating a poor, wiggling creature alive. He was exhausted and far beyond the point of reason. The room was stifling and the trickle of sweat that first formed on his back, was now a small river, running wildly. He blinked at the sweat that rolled in his eyes and wondered why no one else seemed to be feeling the oppressive heat. Her voice was like a drill in his ear and he flinched, hoping she'd end soon.
"... and therefore, after a careful and thorough review of all the facts and statements by witnesses, we have concluded that the F.B.I. agent in question..."
He closed his eyes briefly, trying hard to remain upright. Then a new voice to his right took over. and he flicked a gaze over. He didn't know the man, but the badge indicated he was from the Office of the Inspector General.
"If you're ready, we'll begin the proceedings."
"Yes, sir," he rasped, his voice dry and brittle. "May I?" He nodded to the water pitcher at the end of the long oval table.
"Certainly," The Assistant Director of the New York branch of the F.B.I. agreed with the nod of his head.
Jack moved slowly, partially due to his wounded pride. Inwardly he was fearful, but he'd never give them that satisfaction. Mostly, he was exhausted and moving faster than the snail's pace wasn't possible. He managed to control his shaking hands long enough to pour a glass of water.
For those few precious seconds, time stood still. He closed his eyes and saw them all again, his team. Healthy, vital and very much alive. Using biting humor as they gathered around the conference table discussing evidence and theories. They were good — damn good. Had he ever told them just how much so?
"I'm sorry..." He whispered, eyes filling as the smiling faces faded away. Then he brushed his eyes and turned back. He squared his shoulders and held his head high.
He let his leaden legs carry him across the room to the seat at the far end of the highly polished mahogany table.
He sat down, took a long drink of water and listened as the longest day of his life was drawn to a fitting end. He listened as the details that led to the charges brought forth, were drawn out. His face was colored with dispassion. Try as he might, those steely blue eyes from the elite head of the bureau, seemed to burn a hole right through him. The simmering rage that brewed in their depths burned into him like lava. Then the grim-lined lips parted.
"Supervisory Special Agent Malone." Victor Fitzgerald didn't hide his disdain for the underling. The words dripped off his tongue like repulsive drops of acid.
"Sir," Jack managed between clenched teeth, rising and buttoning the front of his wrinkled and ripe suit jacket.
"This committee is in complete agreement as to the disciplinary methods that will determine your future," he paused, managing a reptilian lip curve, "if any, within the Bureau."
He never moved while the 'sentence' was revealed. He didn't blink an eye or move a single facial muscle. He flinched slightly and his hand trembled a bit, when he placed the badge on the table. The gun followed. He turned and left, not wasting any breath on them. Then again, there was nothing to say.
Had he been on that committee, he'd have voted in unison as well. He was at the elevator, seeking the fastest route to the path to nowhere, when a hand caught his shoulder and spun him around.
"We're finished," Malone spat in contempt.
"Finished!" Victor growled, using his index finger like a wayward jackhammer on the soiled white shirt. "I haven't even begun yet! I intend to make every day you're breathing free air, Hell. You cocky bastard, who the hell do you think you are? Had you shown some remorse instead of that fucking Malone defiance —"
"Don't touch me!" Jack warned, shoving the hand away.
"What? Is that a bit of remorse I see? A crack in the armor of the mighty Jack Malone?" he sent back and moved in closer, not hiding his hostility. "Well, how does it feel Hot Shot?" His lips curled up in contempt. "Huh? You proud of yourself? If you hadn't been choking on that pride of yours and your head wasn't up your ass, you'd still have a team."
"Don't you tell me about my team!" Jack leveled with a wave of hostility, his dark eyes flashing. "You couldn't carry their shoelaces!"
"Spare me your false pride, Jack," Victor spat in contempt, "That arrogance finally bit you in the ass. Where are they now?" he roared and saw the eyes pinch slightly. He knew why and he zoned in, rubbing salt in the raw wound. "I hope to hell you suffer, every day for what you did to them." He swallowed hard and his voice wavered. "To him."
"What I did for him," Jack barely contained his simmering rage, "was let him breathe," he tossed back at the overbearing man. Then he paused, zoning in for the kill. "Now let me tell you something about Martin Fitzgerald." He tapped the badge on the other man's shirt pocket. "When he wore it, it shined! It fuckin' blinded me. Had you taken the time to look, you'd have seen that, instead of prancing around with a stick up your ass."
"Don't you dare," Victor seethed, eyes bulging, "have the audacity to tell me about my son!" He shoved the other man hard into the wall. His anger was so great he was shaking with wrath. His fear of loss so overwhelming, it choked him and he turned and walked away.
"Fuckin' prick!" Jack vented, kicking the walls of the elevator. His cell phone rang and he flipped it open. "Yeah?" he sighed painfully, watching the numbers descending. "It's over."
"The hearing or your career?"
"Both," he sighed, rubbing his tired eyes.
"How bad?"
"I'd ask if you're sitting down, but..." He bit off the end, seeing the ashen body in his mind's eye in the hospital bed. "A four-bagger."
His voice was cold and raspy, as he recounted the internal discipline standard for the Bureau — censure, transfer, suspension and probation.
"You had to expect that Jack," the fatigued agent replied, shifting in the hard hospital bed. "How long?"
"Suspension, indefinite," his voice was brittle, "Probation pending — which is bullshit. I'll end up counting fuckin' fish in Alaska somewhere!" he berated of the remote transfer possibility. "Basically, I'm fucked." He paused painfully as the security guard approached and held out his hand. "I gotta go..."
"Tomorrow?"
"I don't know," he replied, shoving his free hand into his pocket for his identification tag. He paused, his ear to the phone. The silence was more painful than a reply. "Okay. I'll see you in the morning."
He'd left his car several blocks away, near the park. He took the long way, letting the cold night air slap his face. How could it have happened? How could the finest investigative team in the city be gone? Two agents missing, one dead and one lucky to be alive. He saw his twisted reflection in the glass door of a Chinese restaurant.
"How the hell did you let this happen?" He accused the haunted face, watching hope and honor flee in despair. "You fucked up, Malone."
By the time he got to his car, he was totally and utterly spent. The street was pitch black, without even the cruel moon for light. He leaned heavily against the vehicle, he had nothing left. He slid into the seat and laid his head back against the headrest.
There in the dark, with only his shattered conscience for comfort, he allowed a single tear to fall. It snaked a crooked path down his shadowed face and hung precariously from his chin. His eyes moved then and caught the rear view mirror. His trembling fingers made an unsteady path to the photo taped over the mirror. A battered body with today's paper draped on the bloody shirt was ghoulishly displayed.
"Jesus!" He gasped, "Holy Mother of God..."
Then he pulled the disturbing picture down, his eyes burning as he drank in every horrid detail. A cold hiss from behind him caused his heart to clench and his head to jerk up. His eyes went to the mirror again. He was frozen in place, his heart hammering so loud he swore they heard it across the river in New Jersey. Before his jangled nerves could recover, the body in the back seat moved.
"Drive!" the desperate voice commanded.
And he did.
Prelude | Page 1 | Page 2 | Page 3 | Page 4 | Page 5 | Page 6 | Page 7 | Page 8 | Page 9 | Page 10 | Page 11 | Page 12 | Page 13 | Page 14 | Page 15 | Page 16 | Page 17 | Page 18 | Page 19 | Page 20 | Page 21 | Page 22 | Page 23 | Page 24 | Page 25 | Page 26 | Page 27 | Page 28 | Page 29 | Page 30 | Page 31
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