Chapter fifteen

Pulse, pulse, pulse.

Weak, but there it was, a thread of a pulse as Gibbs held his fingers to Tony’s neck. He was warm, breathing softly when Gibbs put his ear to Tony’s face, but undoubtedly unconscious.

“Am I—”

“Not dead,” Gibbs said and Tony the ghost slumped to his knees in relief.

The real Tony lay naked on the ground. Gibbs ran his shaking hands over Tony, feeling for bruises, bleedings, injuries and swellings. He was no doctor but he’d dealt with enough injured people in his life to know. He found bruises on Tony’s chest and a bump on his head, but there were no bullet wounds and no bleedings of any other kind.

“Tony,” he said, touching his shoulder lightly, careful, hoping there was no neck injury.

There was no response.

Gibbs shrugged off his jacket, covering Tony as much as possible with it.

“Tony!” said Ziva, coming up next to them, face white. “Is he—”

“He’s breathing,” Gibbs said.

Ziva nodded. “What can I do?”

“Stay with McGee,” Gibbs said. She gave another short nod and after a long look at Tony she turned and went back to McGee.

“Why can’t I just—go in? Why am I still here—” Tony the ghost mumbled and Gibbs looked up to find wide hazel eyes shining with what had to be tears.

Then there was chaos, as the paramedics strode into the room, coming down the stairs with gurneys and equipment. One team surrounded McGee, and Gibbs wanted to split himself in two to keep an eye on both his fallen agents, but he couldn’t. He stayed by Tony’s side as three medics started working on Tony, their hands rapidly running across warm skin to assess any injuries, placing a collar around Tony’s neck, checking his pulse and breathing.

“Ziva, go with McGee,” Gibbs ordered.

“What about this place? It is a crime scene,” Ziva said.

“Get Ducky, Palmer and one of the other teams over here,” Gibbs snapped. “We have two agents down:”

Local police had already come too, their techs heading over to Doherty’s dead body.

“You do not touch that,” Gibbs snapped.

“But sir, we have to—” started the young policeman.

Gibbs glared hotly. “My ME is coming. You do not touch him before he gets here.”

The policeman looked terribly nervous but finally nodded.

“On three,” said one of the paramedics, grabbing hold of Tony and ordering his team. “One, two, three.”

It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes since Tony said the same thing, since Tony passed through Doherty to get to him.

He looked at the unconscious Tony before him, heart constricting. “You do not die.”

A soft response came from the ghost, who was staring down at his own body as well. “Got it, boss.”

Their gazes met, a brief second of clear understanding.

McGee had already been whisked away and Gibbs listened to the sirens as they faded away, rushing to the hospital. The paramedics carrying Tony headed out and Gibbs followed. Just as they came to the top of the stairs, he heard a police shout, “Here’s another body.”

Gibbs hesitated. He had his car here and could follow Tony to the hospital in a few minutes, after he found out who the other body was.

“Gibbs?” asked Tony. He looked at Gibbs and then down at the crime scene. “You can’t do anything for me anyway. Stay here until Ducky gets here.”

Gibbs wasn’t sure it was the right decision but working seemed a better choice than pacing a waiting room. There wouldn’t be anything for him to do at the hospital – here, he could get some answers. He could focus on something else, be productive. Nodding shortly to Tony, he headed downstairs again. The paramedics were already out and Tony stared after them.

Tony gave a humorless laugh. “I guess there isn’t really anything I can do either.”

He followed Gibbs down, floating through the air rather than down the stairs.

“What’ve you got?” Gibbs snapped.

The police who’d shouted about the body looked up at him. She was older than the one Gibbs had talked to earlier and seemed surer of herself.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Gibbs flashed his badge. “Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS.”

She inspected the badge, then said, “Male, thirties. Gunshot seems to have killed him.”

“Leave the COD to my ME,” Gibbs said. “Where?”

“Down the hallway.” She pointed in the general direction. “They’re taking the dog away now.”

“Dog?” Gibbs asked and then realized – the Doberman Pincher Tony had told him about, the one that had led them to Doherty.

“Great big Doberman,” she said. “Doesn’t seem dangerous but you never know. With that kind of owner—”

Gibbs gave a brief nod of thanks and headed to the hallway he hadn’t even noticed before. Then again, he reasoned, he had been pre-occupied with other things. The hallway was narrow and dark, and Gibbs found doors to small rooms on both sides. Five doors in total, two to the left and three to the right, all but one leading into tiny rooms that could only be described as cells. The fifth room, at the end of the hallway to the left, was slightly bigger.

It smelled of detergent but that couldn’t hide the smells of urine, decay, blood and death.

In the first room to the left, he found the police, working around a lifeless body that bathed in a pool of blood lying on a bed. There was a hole in the dead center of his chest. He was naked, just like the rest of the victims had been.

Gibbs felt dread pass through him. The shot they’d heard before going down into the basement – this man was who Doherty had shot. His blood ran cold at the thought of him doing the same thing to Tony – but it seemed Tony had always been the man’s backup plan, keeping him alive in case things went to hell.

Gibbs hoped the bastard had gone to hell.

He hoped Doherty was burning in hell.

He glanced to his side, finding Tony staring at the dead body. He was pale, eyes wide, and his silence spoke volumes of how he was feeling.

“Ducky?” Gibbs asked quietly because Tony shouldn’t be here. It couldn’t possibly be good for him to see this.

Tony licked his dry lips and nodded. He faded.

Gibbs took in the room before him. It consisted of the bed on which the victim was lying and around it, medical equipment. There were IV’s and needles still stuck into the dead body’s arms. The walls around were white, the floor clean and there were no windows.

Doherty had kept this man here for a while, if the lack of muscle mass on the body was any indication. Gibbs wondered how they could have missed this person.

“He’s coming now,” Tony said, returning to his side. His voice was quiet and he stared at the room. “I was in one of these.”

It wasn’t a question. Gibbs wanted to reach out to put a hand on Tony’s shoulder, to comfort. But he couldn’t, not here.

Gibbs could pick out the sound of Ducky’s footsteps amongst the chaotic sounds of the basement, as the ME came up behind him.

“Jethro,” said Ducky. He looked shaken. “Ziva said something about Timothy, and Anthony?”

“They’re both on their way to the hospital,” Gibbs said. “Doherty shot McGee.”

“Oh dear,” said Ducky. “Will he be all right?”

“I don’t know,” Gibbs snapped.

Ducky gave him a look, but as much as it was a reprimand, it held understanding as well. Ducky understood the strain Gibbs was under.

Ducky went to work, taking care of the victim before Doherty. Gibbs turned and left, checking out the other rooms. He found them to be near identical to the first as far as size and cleanliness went. All three rooms on the right side of the corridor had beds but only two of them had medical equipment. Gibbs wondered just how much Doherty had stolen from Bethesda and how long he’d been planning his actions, to escape notice.

On the other side were two rooms; one with a large fridge, which had no doubt been where Doherty had kept the dead bodies to keep them fresh longer. There was also a cupboard filled with cleaning supplies of all imaginable kinds.

The second room was slightly larger. Stepping into it was like stepping into Doherty’s mind.

There were maps on all sides, taped up in perfect order. There was a bookcase filled with books on art, and some on medicine and drugs, and on a small desk was a book on The Raft of the Medusa by an author by the name of Lorenz Eitner. Doherty must have read it over and over again, because it was torn and worn. Beside the book sat a wooden box, opened, with at least thirty tubes of oil color in it, all in perfect order from black to white and the colors in between. Next to the colors, brushes were laid out in perfect order, with exactly an inch of space between each brush.

The maps on the walls covered all of Washington DC from the river to four-ninety-five. A long line had been drawn out, the same line McGee had drawn linking where the victims had been dumped. Doherty’s maps had more dots than McGee had had though – red ones, the ones that NCIS had found, numbered from one to six, and then blue ones that were numbered from seven to twenty-one, and Gibbs could only assume that those were the ones Doherty had planned on killing and dumping.

The madman had really planned on doing the whole painting.

With each red dot was a photo of the victim in question, taken in random everyday situations – Lieutenant Johnson leaving Bethesda Naval Hospital, Lieutenant Miller picking up groceries— Doherty had been spying on each of his victims before kidnapping and murdering them. Still, even with the photographs, there was no indication on how Doherty had chosen his victims, other than the need for each of them to be in the Navy. Tony was there too, photographed at one of the crime scenes while sitting crouched beside the victim. Gibbs’ hands clenched into tight, shaking fists as he thought of Doherty having watched them.

The woman Gibbs had spoken to earlier came up next to him.

“I want this whole room photographed and brought back to Abby Sciuto at NCIS,” Gibbs said. “And if I find a single inch of it missing—”

“We’ll take care of it, Agent Gibbs,” she said.

He nodded, and turned to the room on the other side of the corridor; the other room with medical equipment. It smelled strongly of urine, vomit, and something else, something Gibbs could only call despair.

He fought to stay standing, looking at the bed on which Tony had obviously been kept for the last two weeks. Questions ran through his mind – why had this happened, why had he taken Tony, why had they not found him sooner? The bed sheets hadn’t been changed in too long and Gibbs could only imagine the bacteria that could have infected Tony. Just because he’d been alive when they’d found him, didn’t mean he would stay that way.

“Jethro, perhaps you should go to the hospital.” Ducky came up next to him, face drawn with concern. “Mr. Palmer and I can finish up here and Special Agent Gillman is already here with his team.”

Gibbs nodded. He was of no use here. His mouth felt dry and his heart was still beating quickly.

“Are you safe to drive?” Ducky asked.

Gibbs shot him a look.

“Point taken,” Ducky said. “Are you any worse at driving than usual, then?”

“I’ll be fine,” Gibbs said, hating the roughness of his voice.

Ducky gave him a long, assessing look and then nodded. “Please keep me updated.”

“Yeah,” Gibbs said.

He stayed for a moment longer before walking away, stalking up the stairs. Tony followed him silently and Gibbs wondered how he could manage to look so pale now, when a ghost – a spirit – should have no blood flow to speak of.

But he didn’t ask. They didn’t talk at all as Gibbs drove at breakneck speed toward the hospital.

He hadn’t been forced to pace the hallway. When he and Tony came into the hospital, he found Ziva sitting there looking pale as a sheet but standing upon seeing Gibbs.

“Status,” Gibbs said.

“McGee is in surgery,” Ziva said shakily. “They have to get the bullet out but I do not know what kind of damage it did. He was conscious last I saw him.”

Consciousness was a good sign, at least.

“DiNozzo?” he asked, swallowing hard.

“They have yet to update me,” Ziva said. “But he was not conscious.”

Gibbs hadn’t expected him to be – the presence of Tony’s spirit seemed like proof that Tony wasn’t awake yet.

A doctor approached them. He was Ducky’s age and his face was set in a serious frown.

“Special Agent Gibbs?” he asked.

“Yes,” Gibbs said.

“I’m Dr. Kelby,” he said. “I’ve treated Special Agent DiNozzo.”

“How is he?”

Dr. Kelby sighed. “There were no injuries that needed more treatment than some gauze and band aids. We did a scan and found no internal damage.”

“Then why is he still unconscious?” Gibbs snapped at the doctor.

“He’s been drugged, Special Agent Gibbs,” Dr. Kelby said. “He’s a four on the Glasgow scale – he reacts somewhat to painful stimuli but otherwise—”

“Then do something,” Gibbs snapped.

“We have to wait for the drugs to clear from his system,” Dr. Kelby said. “We’re monitoring his liver and kidney function as well as his heart, blood pressure, temperature and oxygen levels, but until the drugs have cleared, giving him more will only put further strain on his body.”

“What kind of drugs?” Gibbs asked.

“We are running the blood tests now,” Dr. Kelby said.

“The other victims were killed with overdoses of Propofol,” Gibbs said.

The doctor nodded. “How long has he been drugged?”

“Thirteen days,” Gibbs said.

Dr. Kelby nodded thoughtfully but didn’t comment. Gibbs demanded the room number and the doctor gave it to him, obviously smart enough to realize that Gibbs would find Tony whether or not the doctor told him.

Once sitting down by Tony’s side, Gibbs couldn’t keep from reaching out and touching Tony. Feeling the solid, warm skin beneath his fingers was almost surreal after a week of interacting only with the incorporeal version of Tony. Tony was still, not even his eyelashes fluttering in dreams as they did in sleep. But then Tony wasn’t sleeping. A heart monitor beeped steadily, keeping track of Tony’s blood pressure and heart rate.

Tony’s spirit stood by the window, staring out with an air of helplessness surrounding him. There was dejection on his face that hadn’t been there before. Gibbs looked at the solid hand in his own and then up at Tony’s incorporeal form – it was like there was nothing that tied the two together. It was like the connection between them – the body and the spirit – had been severed.

“I don’t want to die.”

Gibbs’ mouth felt like it had been rinsed with sand. “You’re not going to.”

At least here he could talk to Tony under the guise of speaking to the comatose form before him.

Tony turned and looked at him. “You don’t know that, boss.”

“Damn it, Tony,” Gibbs said. “You’re not giving up. Not now.”

“I’ve had all my nine lives and then some,” Tony said softly. “I should be out of luck.”

“Tony—”

Tony’s eyes were swirling with emotions. “I can feel myself fading, boss. I don’t want to but I—there’s nothing I can do.”

“You can fight!” Gibbs said. “You’re not supposed to give up.”

He hated this. He had never been an inspirational speaker and his heart pounded loudly in his ears at the hopeless misery emanating from Tony. The look in Tony’s eyes made his gut churn.

“Tony!”

Tony winced. “I’m sorry, boss.”

He held out his hand in front of himself, looking at it with desolate wonder. It was slowly fading. Gibbs held onto Tony’s real hand, tightly, squeezing, trying to physically keep Tony with him.

Tony looked at Gibbs, his body starting to fade as well like a cloud of nothing slowly eating away at him, erasing him from the picture.

“Last chance, I guess, so here goes,” Tony said, very softly. “Love you.”

“DiNozzo!” Gibbs said, so choked it barely passed his lips.

But Tony faded completely, his gaze steady on Gibbs all the while – and then Gibbs was left alone with the still body.

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