Chapter eleven

When they returned to headquarters, Gibbs headed straight into one of the conference rooms. Tony followed without a sound – no soft footfalls, unlike when he was human and solid, when he always had a presence to himself that Gibbs could pinpoint at any time.

Gibbs closed the door, locking it. Then he stood indecisively, for once with little idea of what he was supposed to do. He wanted to grab Tony, to pull him close and hold him, wanted to know that the other man was safe.

He couldn’t, because Tony wasn’t safe.

“Boss?” said Tony, the first word he’d uttered since they’d left the crime scene.

Gibbs leaned on the table, all his weight on shaking arms. He wondered when they were going to give out, when it was all going to give out. He could feel time running away from them even as he stood there, still, just focusing on breathing. It shouldn’t be so hard to breathe.

Gibbs wondered for a brief second what it would have been like, if it had been Tony’s body they’d found today. What would that have meant? Tony dead – where would that leave him? For a second, he thought that perhaps it would have been better – at least then he’d know, and then he would be able to focus solely on finding Tony’s murderer and kill him – but he banished the thought just as quickly.

He felt a tingling sensation on his shoulder, through the shirt he wore. He looked up, finding Tony beside him, gazing at him with compassion and sadness.

Gibbs looked away again, unable to look into those eyes that reminded him of everything he didn’t have.

“Do you feel my touch?” Tony asked, a whisper but so loud in the quiet room.

Gibbs nodded, incapable of finding his voice, still studying the grains of the wood of the table.

“Touch me,” Tony said.

Gibbs drew a shuddering breath. “Can’t.”

“If you can feel me, then you can touch me,” Tony said softly. His hand remained on Gibbs’ shoulder, like a buzz of electricity, like the chill of falling snow.

Gibbs stood. Tony floated beside him, too close for comfort and yet not close enough at all. Gibbs saw need in Tony’s eyes – the need for human contact. Tony had always been a physical being.

Gibbs didn’t trust himself the way Abby did. He had his gut and he trusted it but this was far beyond that; this meant believing in something that should be impossible. He didn’t dare close his eyes to let his senses guide him for fear that he would fail, that he would open his eyes and find his hand far from Tony. He relied on his eyes – despite his eyesight getting worse, he knew what his eyes told him wasn’t a lie.

He stopped an inch from Tony’s shoulder, barely daring to go further.

“It’s okay, boss,” Tony said.

Gibbs told himself to get it together. He was a Marine, he had fought in wars; he had killed and he had saved people. He had seen things others would never would, had lived through things he barely wanted to think about. He dared to do this, he dared to touch Tony. It was simple enough.

He somehow managed to keep his hand steady as it traveled the last inch.

And he could feel it.

It was the same tingle as before. It didn’t feel like when he had passed through Tony, when he still thought him to be a hallucination – perhaps he had been too closed off then, too unaware of himself, too wrapped up in the notion that Tony wasn’t real. He remembered thinking that the air felt different, but not this way; not as though the molecules of the air were put together differently, as though there was a fine mist of something that wasn’t wet, but simply there.

He didn’t even realize that he’d moved his hand to cup Tony’s face in his palm until Tony exhaled, sound coming out – a light ‘ahmm’ – but no air moving, no warmth over Gibbs’ hand. Tony’s gaze was on Gibbs, steady but filled with mixed emotions. Gibbs could see happiness, contentment – but also pain and suffering. It made the hazel eyes swirl in a way that seemed almost hypnotizing and Gibbs found himself wishing for a way to erase the hurt.

When Tony moved in, Gibbs’s fingers and hand sinking through him because he hadn’t been prepared for Tony to come closer, he felt as though he was in a dream. The world around them didn’t exist; only he and Tony existed, together in a vacuum where serial killers and dead bodies were peripheral, where other things were more important.

Feeling Tony’s lips on his own was—odd, for the lack of a better word. Unusual. Tony wasn’t warm, wasn’t solid, the lips not hot and soft against his own. Instead it was tingling, miniature fireworks going off against Gibbs’ lips, in a way that could only be described as astounding. He realized he had closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling, the knowledge that Tony was kissing him even in this dreamlike world which felt nothing at all like—

Reality broke in with the harsh ring tone of Gibbs’ cell phone.

Tony drew back, looking dazed, with a slight flush to his cheeks. He didn’t look as ravished as Gibbs had always imagined he would be, had Gibbs gotten his hands on him. But then Gibbs hadn’t gotten his hands on Tony, so that explained that.

He growled into his phone. “Yeah?”

“I believe I may have some insight to shed,” Ducky said. “Could you come down to autopsy?”

Gibbs schooled his voice to calmness. “Be there in a minute.”

He ended the call, and gazed at Tony. “Ducky’s got something.”

Tony nodded, but instead of replying, he said, “I’ll go check on McGee and Ziva. Meet you down there.”

“Tony—”

“Later, Gibbs,” Tony said softly. “We’ll talk, but now we have work to do.”

He faded out and Gibbs was left with lips that still tingled and a mind filled with questions. Forcing himself to focus on the present, he unlocked the door and stalked down the stairs to autopsy, because thinking about the case – the goddamn case – was still better than thinking about the fact that Tony had just kissed him.

“What’ve you got, Duck?” Gibbs asked as soon as he passed through the doors to autopsy.

Palmer and Ducky were both bent over the body, examining it closely. Gibbs walked over to them, staring down at the unfamiliar face. His mind supplied him with the image of Tony’s face in place of the stranger’s.

“Ah, Jethro,” said Ducky, and Palmer chose to back away. The boy looked wary and Gibbs didn’t miss the look Ducky sent Gibbs because of it.

“Are you finished already?” Gibbs asked.

“No, no,” said Ducky. “Haven’t opened him up yet. Well, no more than he’s already open, at least.”

“Then what is it you wanted to tell me?” Gibbs asked.

“Mr. Palmer and I studied the wounds and the way the body was torn apart,” Ducky said. “We believe that a saw of some kind has been used for the initial separation – but there are also teeth marks.”

“Cannibalism?” Gibbs asked, his mind immediately going to work.

“No,” Ducky said. “The thought did cross my mind, too. I remember, there was this case I worked on when I was a mere med student—”

“What did I miss?” Tony appeared next to Gibbs, effectively pulling Gibbs’ attention away from Ducky’s tirade. Gibbs wondered if Tony had always looked so positively edible. “Ziva and McGee are both fine, they’re on their way back.”

Gibbs gave a barely perceptible nod. To Ducky, he all but snapped, “Duck.”

Ducky gave him a look. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Well, in this case, I don’t believe it was a case of cannibalism. These are canine teeth marks.”

“A dog chewed on the petty officer?” Gibbs asked, frowning.

“It would seem so, yes,” Ducky said. “And a fairly big dog at that. But only on the upper part, on the open wound.”

Ducky walked over to his desk and picked up the copy of The Raft of the Medusa that Abby had printed for him.

“I believe our killer used Petty Officer Williams as a model for this man,” he said and pointed to the man in the lower left corner. The man was on his back, one hand in the stormy water and the other only just visible. None of his lower body beneath the ribcage could be seen.

“You’ll have to check, of course,” Ducky said, “but I believe Mr. Géricault used this man to show the cannibalism that happened on board the raft, without it being too obvious – the painting is obviously a highly romanticized version, given how strong and healthy the men look. After twelve days on a raft with little food and less water I can assure you, you would not look this healthy.”

Gibbs studied the painting as well. He had long since decided he hated the painting, because was a painting of his failures – but if he tried to look at it in a purely aesthetic point of view, a small part of him could appreciate the craftsmanship.

“Our killer chickened out on biting into the flesh himself,” Gibbs said. “Had the dog do it for him.”

“Yes,” Ducky said. “I believe so.”

“That is gross,” Tony said, making a face.

He was floating above them so that he could look down at the print of painting as well. It was highly distracting to Gibbs to have Tony actually and obviously flying, rather than pretending to be bound by the same earthly laws as everyone else was as he usually did – but Gibbs could hardly snap at him with Ducky a foot away. Besides, the flying wasn’t the only way Tony was distracting Gibbs; his mere presence made Gibbs want to grab him and kiss him again. He couldn’t, for more reasons than one.

“I hope there’s no dog chewing on me,” Tony muttered.

That made Gibbs’ stomach churn. “So we’re looking for a madman with a dog.”

“Hey,” Tony said, frowning suddenly. “I remember—there was a dog. Pretty big one too.”

Gibbs’ mouth went dry – were they about to catch a break in the case? After six dead men and one missing, were they going to get anywhere?

“Jethro, I—”

“Got to go,” Gibbs said, walking out of autopsy, leaving a bewildered Ducky behind. It didn’t matter; he needed to hear what Tony had to say now.

The elevator doors closed, and Tony stood, still frowning, beside him.

“It was a big, black dog,” Tony said. “You know, one of those really fit, cool dogs – they’re in movies.”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Gibbs said.

Tony’s brow was still pinched. “It’s on the tip of my tongue – it’s the same breed that Zeus and Apollo of Magnum PI.”

“Zeus and Apollo?” Gibbs asked.

“Yeah, the two guard dogs at Robin’s Nest,” Tony said. “Anyway. It was friendly. I think I petted it, it just came straight up to me as I was talking to you. And then—there was this—I think there was a man—a needle? Was I drugged?”

Gibbs wished he knew the answer. With the other victims dying from Propofol overdoses, it was fairly likely that Tony had been drugged, but he certainly couldn’t say for sure.

The night Tony had been abducted played before his eyes; they were on the phone. Tony had called Gibbs, coming from a meeting with Henry Johnson’s CO. Johnson had been the fourth victim, and at the time, they had still been working on the idea that the four victims had something in common. Tony had been walking back to his car when there was sudden commotion and the last thing Tony said, in more of a labored breath than a word, had been Gibbs’ name.

He still felt cold, just thinking about it.

“Does it help at all?” Tony asked.

Gibbs snapped back to the present. “Every detail helps put the puzzle together.”

Tony nodded; he knew that. Even that which seemed insignificant could be of great importance in the long run.

They entered the bullpen and Gibbs strode to his desk. He grabbed a sheet of paper and started writing things down, hoping to find some kind of clue – any kind of clue – amongst the words. He wrote ‘dog’ and ‘how are the victims chosen?’, he scribbled ‘Raft of the Medusa’ and ‘sailors’, amongst a mess of other words. It had been a while since he did this kind of unordered mind-map but then it had also been a while since he’d had a case as bad as this.

“And there’s no connection between the dead sailors?” Tony asked, reading the words as they were spewed onto the paper.

‘No,’ Gibbs wrote, because if anyone ever saw these writings, they wouldn’t react to two letters among a hundred others.

“Maybe the murderer’s a pissed off sailor,” Tony said. “Got fired or something from the Navy, wants to become infamous, is a whack job. Decides to go with a Navy themed painting that he can copy, with real bodies as models. Doesn’t care who the victims are, as long as they’re sailors.”

‘How do we find him?’ Gibbs wrote because it was a perfectly legitimate question to put down on the paper.

“You agree with me, boss?” Tony asked. “Huh, this no-one-but-you-can-hear-me-talk thing might not be so bad after all, if it means you’re actually going to listen.”

Gibbs sent a brief glare Tony’s way, one that could not be misinterpreted. Tony grinned at him and Gibbs wasn’t sure whether he wanted to smack him hard over the head or if he wanted to kiss him again. Possibly both – but neither could be done right now.

He wondered briefly what they were going to say to each other once they had a chance to talk about what had happened earlier but pushed it aside – he couldn’t think about that now.

“Well, he’d need some place to store the bodies,” Tony said. “Weren’t they all cold, as though they’d been kept in a freezer or something? Then he needs a big freezer. Can’t really stuff a Navy Commander into a mini-freezer.”

‘Not much help,’ Gibbs wrote.

“I’m doing the best I can,” Tony said, rolling his eyes.

McGee and Ziva chose that moment to enter, both looking subdued. Gibbs could imagine the tears their visit had brought Mrs. Williams.

“McGee, find out what dogs were on Magnum PI,” Gibbs said.

“Apollo and Zeus,” Tony said. “’The lads’.”

“Boss?” McGee said, sending him a look that clearly said he thought Gibbs was crazy.

“Just do it,” Gibbs said. “Apollo and Zeus. And then cross reference with any sailors that have been dishonorably discharged from the Navy.”

“Uh, if you don’t mind—um,” said McGee. “Why?”

“A dog chewed on Petty Officer Williams,” Gibbs snapped.

“A Magnum PI dog?” Ziva asked while McGee went to work. “I did not know you watch TV.”

“He doesn’t,” Tony said, even though he couldn’t be heard.

“Why the cross reference?” Ziva asked.

“Because the killer is targeting sailors but there are no connections between the six victims,” Gibbs said.

“You’re taking all the credit,” Tony said, sniffing dramatically.

“Apollo and Zeus were Doberman Pinschers,” McGee said.

“That’s it!” Tony said. “Dobermans, of course – how could I forget?”

“Cross reference,” Gibbs said.

“How do you know it was a Doberman that chewed on Petty Officer Williams, if you do not even know the name of the breed?” Ziva asked.

There were a few occasions when Gibbs wished his people were a little slower on the uptake. He ignored her, not even glancing at her. He didn’t want that question; he couldn’t answer it. “McGee.”

“Well, there isn’t really a registrar for dog owners,” McGee began, but was interrupted by Gibbs’ intense glare. “I’ll figure it out.”

Gibbs turned to Ziva. “Talk to Abby, see if she’s got anything off Williams yet. Then help McGee with whatever he finds.”

She nodded, and picked up the phone.

Momentarily satisfied, Gibbs sat back. He looked at the mind map, the mess of words this way and that. Finally, they were getting somewhere. But at the same time as he felt relief for finally being on the move towards a possible end of this horrific drama, there was also a feeling of cold dread pressing on him. What if they found the killer, and Tony’s body with him? What if Tony, the ghost, finished his ‘unfinished business’ or whatever it was Abby had said, upon the team bringing down his killer? What if he left?

Gibbs swallowed hard, glancing at Tony, who was standing right beside Gibbs with a small smile on his lips.

What would Gibbs do without him?

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