Cody McFadyen: Shadow Man

"Callie called me, sir. She told me about Annie King and mentioned that the killer left a message for me. I'm going with."

He shakes his head. "Oh no you're not. No fucking way. Aside from the fact that she's your friend, which means you can't touch this case with a ten-foot pole, you are not cleared to go back to work."

Callie is trying to eavesdrop, and Jones notices this. He gestures me toward his car, lighting a cigarette as we walk. Everyone's out in front of the Bureau offices, getting ready to head to the Van Nuys private airport. He takes a deep drag and I watch him, wistful. I forgot to bring my own.

"Can I have one of those, sir?"

His eyebrows arch in surprise. "I thought you quit."

"I took it up again."

He shrugs and gives me the pack. I pull out one of the cigarettes, and he lights it for me. I, too, take a nice, long puff. Yum.

"Listen, Smoky. You know how it goes. You've been around long enough. Your shrink keeps the content of what you guys talk about in complete confidence. But he does submit a report, once a month, giving an overview of where he thinks you're at."

I nod. I know this is true. I don't take it as any kind of violation. It's not about privacy or rights. It's about whether or not I can be trusted to represent the FBI. Or hold a gun.

"I got a report yesterday. He says you still have a ways to go and are not ready to go back to work. Period. Now you show up at six in the morning and want to go to the scene of a murdered friend?" He shakes his head, vehement. "Like I said: no fucking way."

I draw on the cigarette, weighing it in my fingers as I watch him, and try and figure out what to say. I realize that I know why he's here. Because of me. Because the killer wrote to me. Because he's worried.

"Look, sir. Annie King was my friend. Her daughter is still alive up there. She's got no other family, her dad's dead, and I'm her godmother. I'd be flying up there anyway. All I'm asking the Bureau for is the courtesy of a ride."

He draws smoke down the wrong pipe at this, and actually sputters.

"Puh-leeeze! Nice try, but who the fuck do you think you're talking to, Agent Barrett?" He stabs a finger at me. "I know you better than that, Smoky. Don't bullshit me. Your friend is dead--and I'm sorry about that, by the way--and you want to go up and get yourself on the case. That's the truth. And I can't allow it. One, you're personally involved, and that excludes you from the get-go. That's straight from the manual. Two, you're probably suicidal, and I can't allow you to step in the middle of a crime scene in that condition."

My mouth hangs open. Then my words are filled with fury and shame. "Jesus Christ! Do I have a sign hanging from my neck that says I've thought about killing myself ?"

His eyes soften at this. "Nah, no sign. It's just that we all know we'd think about it if any of us experienced even half of what you did." He tosses the cigarette to the pavement and doesn't look at me when he continues speaking. "I thought about smoking on my gun, once."

As with Callie at lunch yesterday, I am speechless. He catches this and nods. "It's true. I lost a partner, about twenty-five years ago, when I was on the LAPD. Lost him because I made a bad decision. I led us into a building without backup, and it was more than we could handle. He paid the price. Family man, beloved husband and father of three. It was my fault, and I thought about correcting that inequity for almost eight months." He looks at me, and there's no pity in his gaze. "It's not that you have a sign hanging from your neck, Smoky. It's that most of us think we would have blown our brains out by now if we were in your position."

This is the essence of AD Jones. No small talk, no dancing around things. It fits him well. You always know where you stand with him. Always. I can't meet his eyes. I throw down my cigarette, half smoked, and grind it out with my foot. I'm doing some careful thinking about what to say next. "Sir. I appreciate what you're saying. And you're right, on just about every point, except one." I look back up at him. I know he'll want to see my eyes when I say what I say next, to gauge the truth of my words. "I have thought about it. A lot. But yesterday? Yesterday was the first day I knew for sure I wasn't going to do it. You know what changed?" I point at my team, standing and waiting on the steps. "I went and saw those guys, for the first time since it happened. I went and saw them, and they were still there, and they accepted me. Well, the jury's still out on James--but the point is, they didn't pity me or make me feel like a broken piece. I can tell you, flat out, that I'm no longer suicidal. And the reason is that I stepped foot back into the Bureau."

He's listening. I can tell I haven't won him over, but I do have his attention. "Look, I'm not ready to take NCAVC Coord back over. I'm sure as hell not ready to be in any tactical situation of any kind. All I'm asking is that you let me dip my toe in the water. Let me go up, make sure Bonnie is taken care of, and let me just lend my mind to this thing, just a little. Callie will still run things. I won't be armed, and I promise, if I think it's too much, I'm out."

He puts his hands in his coat pockets and gives me a long, fierce look. He's studying me, hard. Weighing all the possibilities, every risk. When he looks away and sighs, I know I have convinced him.

"I just know I'm going to regret this, but fine. Here's the deal. You go, you get the kid, you look around. You can put in your two cents with the team. But you are not running the show. And the moment you feel even a little wobbly, you pull yourself the fuck out. I mean it, Smoky. I need you back, don't misunderstand me. But I need you back whole, and that means I don't necessarily need you back now. You understand?"

I bob my head like a child or a new army recruit, yes sir, yes sir, yes sir. I'm going, and I feel that this is an important thing. A victory. He raises a hand, waving Callie over. When she arrives, he tells her what he told me.

"You got it?" he asks, stern.

"Yes, sir. Understood."

He shoots me one last glance. "You guys have a plane to catch. Get out of here."

I walk away with Callie before he can change his mind.

"I'd love to know how you pulled that one off, honey-love," she murmurs to me. "Just know that as far as I'm concerned, it's your show until you tell me otherwise."

I don't reply. I'm too busy wondering if I've made a terrible mistake by getting back on the team.

S INCE WHEN DIDwe rate a private jet?" I ask.

"Remember I told you that we'd had two child abductions and recovered one alive?" Callie asks. I nod.

"Don Plummer was the father of the little girl we got back alive. He owns a small flight company. They sell planes, have a flying school, things like that. He offered to give the Bureau a jet pro bono, which of course we had to turn down. But--with no prompting from us--he wrote the Director and worked out giving us access when needed for a low price." She shrugs and gestures at our surroundings. "So when we need to get somewhere fast . . ."

There's an addition to the team on this flight. Some young-looking kid who seems to barely fit into his FBI persona. He looks like he should have an earring in one ear and gum in his mouth. I squint and see a hole for a piercing in his left lobe. Jeez. Maybe he does wear one when he's not on duty. He'd been introduced to me as a loaner from Computer Crimes. He sits a little off from everyone else, looking rumpled and half awake. An outsider. I look around. "Where's Alan?" I ask.

A response comes from the front of the plane. More of a growl. "I'm up here." And that's all he says.

I look at Callie, eyebrows raised. She shrugs.

"Something's bugging him. He looked pretty pissed when we got here." She gazes toward him for a moment, then shakes her head. "I'd leave it alone for now, honey-love."