Chapter six

“The Raft of the Medusa is based on the real events of when the frigate Méduse sank,” McGee said. “It sank in 1816 after striking the Bank of Arguin off the coast of Mauritania. The captain, an ill-liked but politically chosen man named Hugues Duroy de Chaumereys, ordered the crew and passengers to leave the ship – however, there were only six lifeboats.”

McGee flipped through sketches and paintings of the events of the screen.

“Because not everyone could fit in the lifeboats, they made a raft of some of the ship for the rest of the crew,” McGee continued. “A hundred and thirty-three of the crew got on the raft – but they didn’t have fresh water and other necessities. Twenty people had been killed by the first night, by the fourth day there was cannibalism, and by the eight day, the strongest ones started throwing the weakest and hurt overboard.”

It was an unpleasant story, no doubt about it. Without needing to glance around, Gibbs knew there were other agents listening in to McGee’s story. For once, Gibbs didn’t stop McGee’s detailed review – there may be clues in the painting’s history, even if it happened nearly two hundred years ago.

“By the time the Méduse’s sister ship Argus by chance sighted the raft after thirteen days, only fifteen of the crew were still alive,” McGee said. He brought the painting up, and pointed to a dot on the horizon. “Géricault painted the Argus here, still far away, so that there’s the sense of desperation still in the picture, because the crew doesn’t know whether they’ll be saved or not. They were saved, but five of the crew died within a few days of getting back on land.”

“He’s good at storytelling,” Tony said, standing next to Gibbs all of a sudden.

Gibbs only glanced at him, as inconspicuously as possible. He didn’t say anything. It had been a few hours since Tony had vanished outside Abby’s lab; his return was sooner than it usually was. Gibbs wondered if that was good or bad.

He also wondered when he’d started thinking of a ghost as normal.

“Géricault was only twenty-five when he decided to do the painting,” Ziva said, taking over from McGee. “He made sketches of bodies in the morgue of the hospital, and he even brought severed, decaying limbs back to his studio to study. He also used some of his friends as models.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking our psycho’s taken over the dead-bodies part,” Tony said, making a face.

Ziva turned to Gibbs. Her brow was drawn together in a light frown.

“Yes?” Gibbs asked.

She hesitated, frown deepening for a second, before she schooled it away. “Nothing. I just—thought I heard something.”

Gibbs kept his surprise carefully off his face. What had Ziva just heard? She couldn’t possibly have heard Tony, could she? She obviously couldn’t see him – she’d have had more of a reaction than a light frown if she could.

She waited a beat longer than necessary to start up again. “The people in the painting are divided into four groups – the dead or dying in the foreground, those that are rising, the standing and strong in the background behind the mast, and finally, the three men signaling the Argus. The raft is painted to seem unstable, as a way to ‘heighten the dramatic tension’, apparently. It is also drawn according to a line, or even a triangle – from the dejection and death of those lowest in the painting, to those with hope and strength at the top.”

Gibbs started at her words, standing up straighter. His heart pounded faster, his gut twisting with instinct. “McGee, get the map of where we’ve found the bodies up on the screen.”

“Yes, boss,” McGee said.

“What is it, boss?” asked Tony.

Tony floated up to stand just behind Ziva, as he had done on so many occasions. Gibbs noted as Ziva shuddered, taking a minute step away from Tony, to the side. Tony didn’t seem to notice.

McGee had put the map on the screen.

“Where’s the line in the painting supposed to go?” Gibbs asked.

“Uh, according to the books, here,” McGee said, and drew a line from the dead, sprawled man at the bottom, to the man holding the flag at the top.

“The murderer is putting his victims out at the same line,” Gibbs said.

McGee’s eyebrows rose. “You’re right, boss.”

Gibbs didn’t bother dignifying that with an answer. He was finally getting somewhere – they had a lead, even though they didn’t know what it meant or what it would lead to.

“Get me surveillance of every bit of the streets that are affected by that line,” he snapped. “Up and down, I want it now.”

“Yes, boss,” McGee and Ziva both said, hurrying to work.

“You’re good, Gibbs,” Tony said. “I’d have figured it out, of course – I was right behind you.”

Gibbs rolled his eyes, and immediately hoped no one had seen him doing so.

“Surveillance coming up within the hour, boss,” McGee said.

“They have thirty minutes. Get me that list of artists and wannabes in the area.”

“Already done,” McGee said, pulling up another map on the screen. There were small, red dots scattered across. “All galleries and artists in the area.”

“Start going through them,” Gibbs said.

“What am I looking for?” McGee asked. Gibbs glared at him, and McGee swallowed and nodded. “I’ll figure it out.”

Gibbs strode out of there, hoping Tony would follow without instruction. He was in luck; Tony stood right behind him when they reached the conference room.

“What do you remember?” he asked as soon as the door closed behind them.

Tony looked at him. “All work and no play makes Gibbs such a—”

“I’m trying to save your ass here, DiNozzo,” Gibbs growled.

Tony had the decency to look abashed. “Sorry, boss.”

“What do you remember?” Gibbs repeated.

“I just know I’ve seen the painting,” Tony said, rather unhappily. “Or some version of it. Perhaps I’ve seen the psycho’s version of it. But I don’t remember anything else, Gibbs. It’s all dark.”

Of course, it’d be far too easy if Tony could just remember what the murderer looked like and point him out in a photo – but there were other things they hadn’t tried yet.

“See if you can find your body,” Gibbs said, and wanted to slap himself – those were not words that should come out of his mouth. It sounded like a fantasy novel.

“Find my body?” Tony echoed, looking confused.

“Yeah,” Gibbs said. “Your body. You’re supposed to have one.”

“You’re such great help, boss,” Tony said.

But he seemed to get the gist of it, because with a sigh, he closed his eyes. Gibbs watched as he began to fade – but then he returned again, without having completely left.

They didn’t communicate with words; Tony’s puzzled gaze told Gibbs what he needed to know. Tony tried again, with the same result. He looked more crushed this time, and when he failed a third time, his face had fallen completely.

“I can’t do it,” he said.

“Doesn’t mean you’re dead, DiNozzo,” Gibbs said.

“Sure doesn’t mean I’m alive,” Tony countered.

“You’ve known where you’re going the other times,” Gibbs said, trying his best to use his analytical skills on the situation, without much hope, because he didn’t even have the basic understanding of how the ghost thing worked. “This time you’re going in blind.”

“It’s my body I’m trying to find,” Tony said. “Shouldn’t be that hard.”

“Shouldn’t be that easy,” Gibbs said.

Their eyes met, Gibbs trying his best to convey assurance and confidence that he didn’t feel. He’d never been good with support, least of all to Tony.

Tony sighed. “Go back to work, boss. Find me.”

“You sticking around?” Gibbs asked.

“Might go down to see Abby,” Tony said. “For a while, until the whole unable-to-communicate thing gets me down too much.”

Gibbs nodded. “Tell me if you remember anything.”

“Yeah.”

Gibbs didn’t know what to do about the crestfallen look on Tony’s face. Obviously, the idea of trying to find his body had been a bad one – but Gibbs had had to ask, they’d had to attempt it, even though he didn’t know what to say now that it hadn’t worked.

Tony faded, going down to Abby as he’d said. Gibbs left the conference room, striding back to the squad room. Ziva and McGee were both hard at work.

“What’ve you got?”

“Well, uh,” McGee said, “it hasn’t been much time, but there’s this—”

He trailed off, and with a few clicks, a file appeared on the big screen.

“Alan Richie,” McGee said. “Runs a gallery in Somerset, is an aspiring artist himself. Served a two year sentence for beating a guy almost to death, and has had a few other run-ins with the cops.”

Director Vance chose that moment to stride into the bullpen. “Agent Gibbs. How are things going?”

“Got a lead,” Gibbs said. “Going out.”

“No, you’re not,” Vance said. “Sec Nav wants a briefing.”

“It can wait,” Gibbs snapped.

Vance shook his head. “It can’t. Up in M-TAC, now.”

Gibbs nearly growled at him. Then he turned to Ziva with an air of great frustration. “Ziva, go check out Mr. Richie.”

She nodded, grabbing her gear.

Gibbs didn’t like sending Ziva out on her own – interviewing family, as she had done with Williams’ wife, was all right, but not this kind of thing – but he had little choice. With Tony gone, he needed to keep one person in the bullpen, and in this case, it made more sense to keep McGee, who could continue his search for possible suspects.

Ziva didn’t look particularly worried about going on her own.

Gibbs followed Vance up to M-TAC.

Ziva had been gone over an hour and a half, and Gibbs’ gut was churning. The talk with Sec Nav had been dull and pointless, as he had little more to report than the last time, despite the latest breakthrough with the painting. Gibbs wanted to strangle Vance for it; he knew Vance would have been perfectly capable of handling Sec Nav on his own – Vance simply wanted to flex his muscles and show Gibbs that he was the boss.

“McGee, get Ziva on the phone,” he said, trying to keep his worry out of his voice. One of his agents had already been taken by the psycho, and he wanted to slap himself for letting Ziva go alone.

McGee nodded, and made the call.

Tony materialized in front of him.  He was shaking his head. “I never understood any of the stuff Abby does in her lab, and now, after over an hour down there, I understand even less.”

“She’s not answering, boss,” McGee said. “But she’s at Richie’s, according to her cell’s GPS.”

“Damn it,” Gibbs swore.

Tony’s smile had disappeared. “What’s wrong?”

Gibbs didn’t have time to go to the conference room. Instead, he grabbed a pen and scrawled on a piece of paper – ‘find Ziva’.

Tony read the two words, and he gave a pale nod before fading away. Gibbs grabbed his gun, holstering it, and McGee was already grabbing his gear.

“Think she’s in trouble?” McGee asked.

Gibbs didn’t answer; he grabbed the car keys and strode towards the elevator. They rode down in silence, the ride impossibly long and near suffocating as Gibbs’ mind ran through the possibilities of Richie being the murderer, and him grabbing Ziva as he had taken Tony.

He was marching towards the car when Tony faded into view again.

“Boss, she’s in trouble,” he said before he’d even become completely visible. “I don’t think the Richie guy is our serial killer, but I think he’s got other stuff going on and when Ziva came asking questions—”

Gibbs looked at him, but couldn’t ask, because McGee was three feet away from him.

“She’s tied up and he’s ‘questioning’ her,” Tony said. “She didn’t look too good – she was bleeding.”

“Damn it,” Gibbs muttered.

McGee shot him a questioning look. They got into the car, Tony floating into the back, and then they were off. McGee only barely managed to fasten his seatbelt amidst the twists and turns as Gibbs hit the gas on the way out of the garage. He took the turns on two wheels, following McGee’s breathless directions towards Richie’s address.

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