Fireflies

By Alli Snow

 

 

The first week after the Colonel's death, Sam handled herself with more grace and equanimity than she would have thought possible.  Of course, it helped that she was able to keep busy.  There were funeral arrangements to take care of - which meant dealing with the mortuary - and his will to be sorted out - which meant lawyers - and the wake, which was at her house because Daniel was still living on the base.  There were a million things to juggle, things that would normally have been carried out by his next of kin, but he had no close relatives and only an ex-wife whom he hadn't seen in several months.  This left matters up to friends: a quasi-amnesiac, an alien, and Sam.

 

She didn't really mind.  The funeral home, the lawyers, the sympathetic friends and co-workers were a challenge, but at least it kept her mind off other matters.

 

On top of everything else, there was the police investigation.  Just as, in the absence of family, responsibly for the Colonel's affairs was shuffled down to Sam, so was the initial suspicion for his murder.

 

No matter what movies and cop shows wanted you to believe, most murders were committed, not by strangers or serial killers, but by people the victim knew: a sadistic neighbor, a devious uncle, a psychotic spouse with motives no sane person could truly understand.  Because his neighbors were elderly, more likely senile and arthritis-plagued than homicidal, because he had no living uncles, and because Sara Thompson (née O'Neill) had been at a relative's baby shower on the night in question, his friends were the most likely suspects.

 

However, alibis were had all around.  Teal'c and Daniel had been on base; there were reels and reels of tape and dozens of witnesses to vouch for it.  No one among the investigative team doubted where Sam had been, and there was also no doubt that she hadn't pulled the trigger.  Once she'd been cleared of suspicion the detective in charge, a man named Ethan Ramsey, cognizant of the fact that she was a scientist and an all-around intelligent woman, had told her about trajectory and angle and probable distance as conjectured by the CSI and a great many other things that she had promptly forgotten.

 

She was constantly surrounded by people during that week.  Her home telephone and her cell phone rang relentlessly with people wanting to know where services would be held, wanting to know that she could call them if she needed anything, wanting her to know that the Colonel would be promoted to Brigadier General, posthumously.  She resented that last one, a little, because it made it that much harder to call him the Colonel in her head.

 

- - -

 

She didn't remember much about Jack's funeral.  She knew that she'd gotten up for it, that she'd dressed in uniform for it, that she'd checked herself in the mirror to make sure that she appeared fresh and sharp and professional so that no one attending would be able to look at her as Jack O'Neill's former second in command and think a single unflattering thing about him.  She used more than a normal day's worth of makeup trying to even out the blotchiness of her skin and to hide the shadows around her eyes, but then again it was hardly a normal day.

 

After that, things blurred in and out.

She was inside, in a darkly-paneled room, and a man with a deep and solemn voice was saying, "...you have raised up in company with Christ, set your heart on what pertains to higher realms where Christ is seated at God's right hand. Be intent on things above rather than on things on earth...."

She was in a car.  Janet was driving, and Teal'c was in the passenger's seat.  Daniel was next to her, he put a tentative hand on her shoulder, she automatically tensed and he drew it away.

 

She was outside.  There was a hole in the ground, a box over the hole.  A young man in uniform with brilliant green eyes was standing in front of her, trying to press something soft and cottony into her hands.  Janet touched her elbow gently and said, "Take it, hun."  She took it.

 

She heard taps.  Not the real thing played by a real person, of course.  It was a recording on a CD player.  Not even posthumous Generals were worth stretching the budget.

 

- - -

 

Sam's house had always seemed large.  Too large.  It had been her father's, actually, but he'd conveyed ownership to her years ago.  It wasn't as though he needed it anymore, having traded in all the comforts of home for claustrophobic Tok'ra tunnels.

 

When he was on Earth he'd sometimes come to stay with her, and that made the house feel a little less cavernous, but it was too big for just one person.  There had been times - in bed, walking through the front door - when she'd been acutely aware of that fact, when it had seemed as though the hallways and rooms went on forever, when she had damn near ached for the sound of someone in the bathroom, someone foraging for a midnight snack, someone in the shower when she woke up in the morning.

 

Now, suddenly, her house seemed too small.  She was standing in the living room and people in uniform and somber civilian attire drifted to and from and around her, eating a little, drinking a little, smiling and talking a little about the man they'd come here to remember.  There were people from the SGC and people Jack had known in the earlier days of his military career, and the two groups seldom mixed.

 

Sara was there, too, with an older man Sam guessed was her father.  The other woman also wore too much cloying makeup, also looked tired and frayed around the edges, and vaguely Sam remembered the feel of something soft and cottony being pressed into her hands.  Why her hands?

 

"I had a dream Saturday night," said Sara, voice hollow, eyes bright.  "It was about Charlie.  He was crying.  You have to understand... ever since... ever since all those years ago, when I saw my little boy or whatever he was... when I saw him in the hospital, all my dreams about him have been good.  Happy.  I see him smiling or running or laughing with his father... with Jack.  But that night he was crying.  He was crying so hard, I could hear him but I couldn't see him, and I looked for him but I couldn't find him anywhere..."

 

Sara's father led the tearful woman away.  Sam saw them leave a few minutes later.  She hadn't said anything to Sara; she couldn't think of what to say.  Jack had died on Saturday night.

 

- - -

 

Daniel, Teal'c, Janet and Walter Davis cleaned up her house after the wake.  Sam tried to help, determined to stay busy, but Janet would hear none of it.  "Go get into something more comfortable," said the doctor, who long ago had stripped off the more cumbersome aspects of her uniform, "and take a rest.  I know you're not tired, Sam, but it'll do you a world of good to get some sleep."

 

Sam smiled, or tried.  "Doctor's orders?"

 

"Friend's orders.  They can order too, you know."

 

So Sam pulled off her blazer, stepped out of the skirt, stripped off her stockings and put on sweatpants and a t-shirt, drawing the blinds to darken the room before easing herself into bed.  It was still early afternoon and her mind was furiously busy, but her body was surprisingly stiff and sore.  She lay on her stomach, pulling the sheets and quilt up around her like a protective cocoon, closed her hot, grainy eyes and listened to the sounds coming from the rest of the house.  The clang of dishes in the kitchen.  The hum of the vacuum cleaner.  Various other noises she couldn't immediately put a finger on.

 

An hour later, she was no closer to sleep than when she'd first placed head onto the pillow.  She heard a soft creak and opened her eyes.

 

Daniel froze in the doorway, a guilty look creeping onto his face.  "Sorry... did I wake you?"

 

"No."

 

"Oh, good."  His eyes flashed around the darkened room.  "Um, do you mind if I come in?"

 

"Sure," she said, although she didn't move an inch.

 

He slipped inside, closing the door behind him, his eyes narrowed into slits behind his glasses, straining to see her through the relative darkness.  "Teal'c and the rest of us... we're just finishing up.  We were about to go, I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

 

Sam slipped one arm under the pillow, propping her head up a few inches.  "I'm fine."

 

He scratched the back of his head, looked disbelieving.  "Are you sure?  Maybe someone should stay--"

 

"Daniel," she interrupted, "I haven't had a moment to myself since all this happened.  I need some quiet.  Some peace."

 

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he surprised her by saying, "Hammond let us dial Kelowna last night.  I talked to Jonas.  Told him.  He wanted to come through for the funeral, but I guess he had some big important ambassadorial function to go to that he couldn't get out of.  He told me to give you his best."

 

Sam put her head back down on the pillow.  "That's nice."

 

He was looking at her strangely.  "You know, the first thing he said... well, he asked me how you were doing."

 

"What did you tell him?"

 

Daniel fidgeted.  "Actually, he didn't ask.  He said you'd be taking it really hard."

 

She sighed, letting her eyes flicker shut, hoping he'd get the message.  "Daniel, honestly, I'll be okay.  I'm not going to break down."

 

"Actually, Jonas seemed more concerned that you might, uh, try to find the people who did this."

 

Sam opened her eyes.

 

Daniel blanched.  "That wasn't a suggestion," he cautioned.

 

Deciding that he wasn't going to get the hint after all - and he rarely had before, so why start now? - Sam sat up in bed, arranging the bedclothes around her, trying to stay as calm and nonchalant as was possible when discussing the murder of a friend.  "The police don't have any leads.  They can't even come up with a murder weapon.  All they know is that it was a sniper.  That's a far cry from a name and address, Daniel, so even if I wanted to... to avenge Jack, I wouldn't know where to start."

 

Daniel scratched the back of his head, his eyes starting to un-squint as he became more accustomed to the darkness.  "I'm still catching up here, but the last time someone we knew was - supposedly - killed by a sniper..."

 

"It was the NID," Sam finished, a headache beginning to pound in her left temple.  "And yes, they were my first thought too.  But it's not exactly something I can take to the cops -- that he was shot by some government lackey.  Unless we have a triggerman, we have nothing.  The NID is too big to take on as a whole."

 

"You... we did it before."

 

"With a narrow scope.  Specific goals."

 

Although vengeance was a rather specific goal.

 

Daniel took a step back, leaning against the door.  "I'm sorry... it sounds like I'm encouraging this and I'm not.  I'm just babbling... I'm thinking out loud because I guess... I feel guilty."

 

She frowned.  "Why?"

 

"Well... two reasons.  When I first heard, all I could think was that if I had been there..."

 

Sam shook her head.  "It wouldn't have made a difference."

 

"Yeah, I know that.  I guess."

 

"And the other reason?"

 

His forehead wrinkled almost comically, his eyebrows drawing together in such consternation that Sam might have laughed under other circumstances.  "I have... all these memories," he began slowly.  "Five years of memories.  Of us, of SG-1.  But at the same time... I don't know.  In a way, it almost feels like we just met.  There's that... new feeling.  And I can't help but think that I'm not... feeling this loss as much as I might have, you know, before.  As much as I should, as much as you and Teal'c are."  He shook his head in disgust.  "I know that Jack was a friend, I know it.  But it's like... I'm still in shock.  Like it hasn't sunk in yet to the point where I'm really grieving."

 

She didn't know what to say to that.  Maybe he was right.  Maybe the gaps in his memory were more than just an absence of information; maybe he was missing more, more that would only come back with the passage of time.  Maybe his year away, maybe almost dying himself had given him perspective that the rest of them lacked.  "It's different for everyone," she told him finally.  "You shouldn't let it make you feel bad."

 

The headache was spreading.  She winced, putting a hand to her forehead.

 

Daniel took notice and straightened, reaching back for the door.  "I'm sorry... you wanted peace and quiet."  He turned the knob.  "I'll give you a call tomorrow morning, okay?  Just to check up."

 

In defiance of the pain, she shook her head.  "I'll see you at the base tomorrow," she corrected him.

 

"Ah... not if Janet has anything to do with it.  She told me she doesn't want you setting foot back there until Monday.  She's already cleared it with Hammond."

 

"Doctor's orders this time," called a voice from the direction of the kitchen.

 

Daniel smiled faintly.  "Teal'c and I get special permission on account of that where's we live, but you... you're on a forced vacation."

 

Monday.  It was only Wednesday; what was she supposed to do for the next four days?  Sit around her house, sink into depression with no distractions other than the inanities of television and the constant playback of her own grief?  At least at the base she would have had a project to work on. 

 

She forced a smile.  "Sounds great.  Talk to you tomorrow."

 

"We'll let ourselves out," said Daniel, moving back through the door.  He paused, looked as though he might say something else, but apparently decided against it.  The door closed and he was gone.

 

Still sitting up in the bed, Sam listened to the sounds of her friends and colleagues finishing up.  The chug of the dishwasher.  The click of the closet door closing.  The distinctive sound of the front door being locked.

 

And then: silence.

 

Silence.

 

Peace and quiet.

 

What she would have given for the sound of someone, somewhere.

 

- - -

 

What had been dinner for four became dinner for three and then dinner for two.  Having arrived at the restaurant only a few minutes after Sam, the Colonel used annoyance to mask his concern.

 

However, the use of his cell phone cleared the matter up within minutes.  The first call revealed that Teal'c had received an unexpected visit from one of the leaders of the Jaffa rebellion, and that the man had information about the movement of Anubis' troops... nothing the two of them were expected to be present for.  The second call revealed that Daniel had fallen asleep in his office.

 

"The more things change..." quipped the Colonel, re-clipping the phone to his belt.

 

She laughed politely.

 

What would have been a pleasant atmosphere for dinner for four or even three abruptly became awkward for dinner for two.  Softly crooning music that reeked Italian charm, elaborate although no doubt reproduced murals on the walls, a blown glass jar in the middle of the table reflecting the light of the single candle placed within...

 

As though on cue, they both laughed nervously.  Sam smoothed her napkin once, twice, three times.

 

Six years and they'd never eaten out, just the two of them.

 

Then the waiter arrived, and the strange tension was broken.  Food was wonderful that way.  Over steaming plates of Linguine alla Marinara and Capellini Pomodoro - boy did the Colonel have a fun time pronouncing that one - and mushrooms stuffed with Parmesan and Romano cheese, they were able to act as though they did this every Saturday night.  They even had a glass of wine each, owing to the fact that they both lived close by - well, he did - and that they had excellent driving records - well, she did - and saving the world had to have some perks, even if they were small and secret.

 

Because they had been seated in a corner booth a respectable distance from the kitchen, they were even able to talk a little about work... after the Colonel drew the pleated blinds to foil any laser microphones aimed at the picture window.  Sam told him about the special project that had been discovered in Greece a month ago and was being shipped to the SGC - "A kind of power source, they think, which is why it's taken so long.  Someone named Lencioni has been overseeing it on their end, but between Daniel and Teal'c and I, we should be able to figure it out" - and the Colonel told her that she worked too much and needed to get out of the mountain more: "Before you're as pale as all the other nerds".

 

She took it as a compliment.

 

Of course, there were things besides work to talk about.  Silly, inconsequential things.  Meaningless things.  They laughed.  They had fun.  They didn't worry about someone from the base seeing them and thinking something, because if two friends who happened to be of opposite gender couldn't go out to dinner once in six years without worrying about their jobs, there was something seriously screwed up with the world they were trying to save.

 

They split the bill, paid the tab.  They walked outside, across the dark shopping center lot, to where both their vehicles were parked in the same general vicinity.  The Colonel was mocking her tastes in motorcycles.

 

Then it got bad.

 

A sharp crack.

 

He fell.

 

On her.

 

His neck.

 

Shot.

 

All the blood.

 

Oh my God.

 

Someone screamed.  She didn't listen.  She was on the ground, stunned, and then she wasn't.  She rolled him over, went to feel for a pulse in his carotid artery, but there was no where to feel for a pulse.

 

So much blood.

 

His eyes were open, unseeing.  He was already gone.

 

Someone was still screaming.  Maybe it was her.

 

- - -

 

She woke up engaged in mortal combat with her quilt, soaked in a sour sweat.  Choking.  Shouting madness into the dark room.

 

Trembling, she fumbled for the light, flipped it on.

 

Her stomach roiled, but she hadn't eaten anything since the night before, maybe not since before then.  Or maybe she had.  She couldn't remember.

 

Her face was moist, tacky with the tears she'd not yet shed while awake.

 

She drew her knees up.  Placed her forehead against them.  Squeezed her eyes shut.  Rocked back and forth.  Tried to breathe.  Tried to keep her heart from bursting through her chest.

 

At least it was quick.  Please God, let it have been quick.  Quick and painless and he never knew what happened.  Please God.  Please, please, please.

 

She opened her eyes.  Stopped rocking.  Added a P.S.

 

Please God.  Let me find the bastard.

 

- - -

 

Daniel hadn't forgotten how to be timely... when he wanted to.  The phone rang, she rolled over, picked up the handset and said - in a voice that sounded like something from the crypt - "I'm still alive."

 

He didn't answer for a long moment.  Finally: "That isn't funny."

 

"Yeah."  She cleared her throat.  "I know.  Listen, I don't suppose the good doctor..."

 

"Nope.  I just saw her in the commissary.  She said that if she so much as senses you skulking around - 'skulking' was her word, by the way - she's going to send you to Mackenzie post-haste."

 

Now it was Sam's turn to fall silent.  Janet hadn't specifically mentioned a trip to the shrink, surprising Sam, who had assumed that everyone who was witness to a friend's gruesome death was shipped off to the booby hatch without so much as a phone call.  It was just like her, however, to save that particular peril for a threat.

 

It wasn't that Mackenzie was really a bad guy.  He meant well.  But Sam knew how her mind worked, and she knew that rehashing the whole thing wouldn't help her.  Eventually, the nightmares would go away.

 

"Well," she said at last, "if you call later and I'm not here, don't send out the SWAT team.  I'm thinking about going to the gym."

 

"The gym," he echoed.  "Sounds good."

 

"Yeah, well, it's either a trip to the gym or I go buy out Baskin Robbins.  The two are kind of mutually exclusive."

 

"I guess they are," said Daniel in the tone of voice that made Sam think he couldn't remember that Baskin Robbins sold ice cream.

 

Silence reigned over the line.

 

"It feels weird, doesn't it?" asked Daniel.  "Just... going on with life.  Like it never happened."

 

She didn't say anything.  They'd both lost loved ones before, they both knew the painful, disconcerting realization that the Earth will continue to turn, the Sun will keep rising and falling, the tides will be maintained no matter how much you're hurting.

 

"I'll talk to you later."

 

"Bye, Sam."

 

She rolled onto her back, stared at the ceiling.  Sighed.

 

The phone rang again.

 

Muttering darkly, she grabbed the handset again, bringing it to her ear.  "Daniel, bug off."

 

Daniel didn't answer her.  In fact, nothing answered her.  There was a distinct lack of a reply of any kind, even when she asked, "Hello?", even when she checked to make sure the phone had turned on when she'd picked it up.

 

"Hello?" she asked again.

 

The phone clicked.  Clicked.  Clicked.  Over and over again, like someone was tapping on the other end of the line, but more mechanical than that.  The sound sent an unexpected chill through Sam.

 

Someone was listening in.

 

She dropped the phone back onto the cradle.  Stared at it.  Expected it to ring again.  It didn't.

 

Filled with strange apprehension, Sam got up and dressed for the gym.

 

- - -

 

At the gym, she rode in place next to a woman named Jenny, a stocky redhead forever in battle with her physiology.  They were friendly but not friends; Sam's schedule was too erratic for her to make it to the gym with any great regularity, but Jenny was personable and naturally gregarious.  They huffed and puffed in tandem while riding stationary bikes, although Sam did most of the riding while Jenny did most of the huffing and puffing.

 

As usual, Jenny was full of stories about her three sons, which she poured out to everyone in hearing range every time she 'took a break'.  Sam felt she knew the boys as well as if she actually was a family friend.

 

It was nice to be able to put her mind somewhere else.  But it couldn't last.

 

The gym had several televisions mounted up near the ceiling in strategic locations.  Maybe it was just TV-obsessed American culture, but it was a ready distraction from the burn of muscles and the itchiness of accumulating sweat.  Usually an army of bikes and stair-climbers drowned out the sound, so the TV set was muted and set to closed-caption.  Today, however, it was just Sam, Jenny, and a few other devotees, and the sound was turned up and the channel set to the Wayne Brady show.

 

It wasn't the host's continuous patter, however, or one of his guests that caught Sam's attention.  It was a commercial.  She was hunched over on the bike, leaning into the handlebars, focused on the rhythmic pumping of her legs, when a sudden swell of dramatic music made her raise her head.  On the small television screen, an American flag rippled in a computer-generated wind, and a man's face was transposed against that patriotic backdrop.

 

Sam's legs cramped, stiffened, and the stationary bike coasted to a stop.

 

"Uh," Jenny grunted, perched atop her own bike, bringing her water bottle to her lips.  "I can't believe we're getting these already."  She took a drink.  "Like anyone even feels like thinking about politics right now."

 

"Uh-huh," muttered Sam, eyes fixed to the television.

 

Jenny didn't notice her preoccupation, replacing her bottle in its holder and slipping her feet back onto the bike's pedals.  "I don't know about you, but I don't start thinking about it until at least November first.  It's all the same, isn't it?  Just a lot of old white guys all wanting to live in the old white house and spend our money..."

 

Running her mouth faster than the pedals of her bike, Jenny babbled on.  Sam didn't listen.  The TV was exhorting her to vote for Senator Robert Kinsey for President.

 

"I have to go," she said briskly, interrupting Jenny, who watched in confusion as Sam leapt off the bike, grabbed her gym bag and hurried out the door.

 

- - -

 

Because Sam was banned from the base, they met at her house instead.  In the time it took Daniel and Teal'c to arrange a car and make the drive down the mountain, she was able to take a shower, change, and better form her hypothesis.

 

Kinsey.  Of course.  She'd thought about the NID, they all had, but she hadn't been able to answer one important question: Why now?  There hadn't been any particularly nasty run-ins lately, no reason that she could see for them to want to get rid of the -- of Jack quickly.  But she hadn't thought of Kinsey.

 

He'd won the primary, virtually unchallenged in his own party, and now the national campaign was beginning.  Kinsey had always felt threatened by Jack and, from what Sam knew, for good reason.  She'd never been told any specifics, but ever since he'd managed to get Hammond reinstated, she suspected that he had something on Kinsey.  Something that would keep Kinsey from going after Hammond again... going after any of them.

 

But would it stop Kinsey and his minions from going after Jack himself?  If no one else knew how to keep Kinsey in check, maybe that ability had died along with Jack.

 

Her thoughts spun madly, but in spinning they seemed to create something, as though her mind was a loom.

 

A few minutes before Daniel and Teal'c arrived, the phone ran.  She picked it up suspiciously, bringing it to her ear and listening for any strange taps and clicks, but the other end was silent.  She said hello twice before hanging up.

 

Maybe there was something wrong with her phone, or the line.  Daniel had called that morning, but no calls since then had come through, and she had contacted the base on her cell phone.  Before she could test this theory, however, Teal'c and Daniel arrived.

 

- - -

 

They weren't immediately convinced.

 

Even after 'immediate' had passed, they still weren't convinced.

 

"Look, it makes sense," said Sam a half hour later, for perhaps the third time.  "Kinsey has the party nomination.  He's fundraising, actively campaigning now.  Maybe he thought Jack would try to discredit him, go to bat for the other candidate with whatever information he had.  It makes sense that Kinsey would want to... nip that in the bud."

 

But as before, Daniel and Teal'c merely exchanged glances, and that was even more infuriating than a spoken rebuke.  "What is it?" she demanded.

 

"Well..."  Daniel squirmed on the couch.  "I just can't see Kinsey up on top of the supermarket with a high-powered rifle..."

 

She groaned.  "Obviously I don't think he did it himself.  He hired someone... maybe even someone in the NID.  Maybe not."

 

"Does that not place us back in the first square?" asked Teal'c... rather carefully, Sam thought.  He was seated next to Daniel, while she was perched on the edge of the coffee table.

 

"'Square one', Teal'c.  And no, it doesn't.  Sure, we still don't know who the shooter was," she admitted, "but we know who gave the order."

 

"Um... no," Daniel contradicted.  "We don't, actually.  We don't have any real evidence that Kinsey put a hit out on Jack.  In fact, considering Kinsey had a photo-op with Jack not even a year ago-" he looked to Teal'c for confirmation of this "-most people would probably... er... not believe it."

 

Sam glared at him furiously.

 

"I didn't say that I don't believe it," he added.

 

She pursed her lips, trying not to explode, trying to keep it all inside when what she really wanted to do was strangle somebody.  Why didn't they understand?  Why the hell couldn't they understand?  "We take this to the police," she said finally, with a modicum of calm.  "It's their job to find the evidence.  But as Jack's friends, we have the responsibility to give them any information we have that they might find helpful.  Robert Kinsey is a name, and therefore it's the best lead we have."

 

"Is it not the only lead, Samantha Carter?" said Teal'c gently.

 

"Yes.  Yes, it is," she answered, not allowing her tone to soften in the least.  "I don't know about you two-" they both flinched "-but I don’t want to see this case just get filed away for a simple lack of activity.  I'm going to pick up the phone right now and call Detective Ramsey and tell him what I know.  You can stay, or you can leave."

 

They stayed.

 

The phone worked.

 

- - -

 

Ethan Ramsey was dubious, but Sam forgave him where she hadn't Daniel and Teal'c.  After all, everything Ramsey knew about Kinsey was from television and newspapers, not unfortunate personal experience.  And even though it seemed that most Americans these days were unfailingly cynical about their elected leaders, 'unethical, power-hungry spendthrift' was a long way from 'cold-blooded murderer'.

 

"So... you think a United States senator currently running for President of the United States contracted to have Jack O'Neill killed, possibly through someone in the NID," he echoed, slowly scrubbing a hand through his copper-red hair.

 

Maybe he was slightly more than dubious.

 

Sam, Daniel and Teal'c sat in the detective's office, trying not to notice the hustle and bustle of the police station churning on the other side of the door.  It made Sam uncomfortable, thinking about how much local crime there must be to keep the station so busy, how much work people like Ramsey had on their plates.  The mysterious murder of one reclusive man - albeit an Air Force officer - would not remain high on their list of priorities for long.

 

"Jack and Kinsey'd had run-ins before," said Daniel earnestly.  "On more than one occasion, as a matter of fact."

 

"Senator Kinsey disliked us all intensely," said Teal'c, his golden tattoo hidden behind a Colorado Rockies cap.  "But his enmity with O'Neill was the greatest."

 

"Enmity..." muttered Ramsey, scribbling into a small notebook on the other side of his large wooden desk.  He regarded Sam with sharp brown eyes.  "I take it you corroborate all this?"

 

"Completely.  Detective, I wish I could tell you everything... explain all of our suspicions to you," she said fervently.  "However, it involves classified information it'll take time for the Air Force to release.  But yes... Kinsey has this loathing, this almost religious fervor against the work we do at Cheyenne Mountain, and where Jack was involved it became... personal."

 

"We think Jack might have had evidence that Kinsey was working with the NID on several illegal operations," Daniel added, "but we can't prove it.  At least not right now."

 

"We'll go through Jack's house," Sam said eagerly.  "Top to bottom.  If he did have documents of some kind, they might be hidden there."  And after all, the house now belonged to her.

 

Ramsey still looked bewildered and less than persuaded, but he nodded at Sam.  "Right.  I'll start... asking around, I guess.  Whatever information you can get me would be extremely helpful, though.  I've never accused a Presidential candidate of murder before," he said faintly.

 

"There is a first time for everything," Teal'c observed.

 

- - -

 

The investigation got off to what Sam considered an encouraging start... and promptly bottomed out.  None of Ramsey's superiors were prepared to let him go on the record as fingering Kinsey for the murder, and the detective himself obviously wasn't convinced enough to go out on a limb for them.

 

To make matters worse, Daniel and Teal'c weren't nearly as upset over this as Sam was.  In fact, they seemed to have been expecting it and were surprised by her rage.

 

Everything was working against her.

 

Even the telephone was back on the blink.  It would ring at seemingly random intervals, both day and night, until she was forced to unplug it before she went to bed simply to ensure a decent night's sleep.  When she picked it up to make a call, sometimes a full thirty seconds would pass before she was rewarded with a dial tone.

 

It was as if someone had tampered with the line...

 

She kept having the dream, the memory, and somehow - although she hadn't thought it possible - it became worse with every viewing.  Every night she was increasingly more aware that she was trapped in the nightmare.  Sometimes she even tried to change the outcome, begging Jack - of course, then he was still the Colonel - to take a different route to the car, or to linger in the restaurant a little longer.  He always acquiesced, but that didn't change his fate.  No matter what she did, he was hit by a sniper's bullet, hit in the neck, and he was always dead before he struck the ground.  She was always splattered with his blood.  She was always shouting for someone to call 911, even though she had a cell phone of her own and even though she knew he was past medical intervention.

 

Saturday night was particularly hard.  Janet had offered to come over but Sam had declined, wanting to spend the time alone.  She sat on her couch and watched the hands of the nearby clock move inexorably towards the time when, one week ago, Jack had died.  Been murdered.  Been taken away.

 

Anger percolated in her veins like poison.  She tried to tell herself that she would have handled this better if he had died offworld, died in the line of duty, died in one of the ways she'd always expected.  A Jaffa attack.  A freak accident.  Some horrible technology run amok.  But simple premeditated murder on the part of a born-and-bred Earth human seemed too foolish, so pointless, so not Jack O'Neill.  He should have gone out in a blaze of glory, doing what he loved.  Instead, they'd been full of mediocre Italian food, arguing aimlessly about motorcycles.

 

After ten-thirty, when Sam had been watching the clock for an embarrassingly long amount of time, the phone rang.  Warily, she picked it up.  "Hello?"

 

Nothing.

 

Sam's hand tightened.  "Hello?" she said again, more harshly this time, prepared to slam the handset down if she received no answer.

 

But a reply came.  A man's voice, hesitant and even startled.  "Um, Ms. Carter?"

 

Simultaneously relieved and paranoid, Sam demanded, "Who's this?"

 

"It's Detective Ramsey, ma'am.  Ethan Ramsey.  Listen, I'm sorry to be calling this late at night... especially, um, this night... am I interrupting anything?"

 

Sam let out a nearly inaudible sigh, chiding herself to get a grip.  "No, you're not.  What's going on?  Do you have news?"

 

"Well... not exactly.  In fact, no," he said, apologetic.  "I've been trying to get in touch with the Senator, just to ask some questions if nothing else, but his people keep stonewalling me.  I know the man has a campaign to run, but they won't even agree to a telephone call.  Hell, they won't even tell me where he was one week ago tonight."

 

"I can tell you where he wasn't," said Sam darkly, shifting on the couch.  "He wasn't anywhere near Colorado Springs.  He made sure he was far away and set up with a perfect alibi, on the off chance that this was traced back to him."

 

Ramsey was silent for a minute.  Finally, he asked, "Your friend Murray wasn't kidding about Kinsey not liking you guys, was he?  And I take it the feeling is mutual."

 

"Very much so," said Sam, figuring it was the understatement of the year and hastily adding, "but not to the point where we'd want to... you know, where we'd be accusing him without very good reason.  I mean..."

 

Ramsey laughed gently.  "I know what you mean.  And no, I didn't get the feeling that you were using Mr. O'Neill's death to drag a politician through the mud.  I'm good at reading people, and I can tell you wouldn't do that."  He paused thoughtfully.  "You two were very close, weren't you?"

 

"We were all close," was Sam's automatic reply, but no sooner had the words passed her lips than she was kicking herself for them.  Could she possibly have sounded any more defensive?  "But yes," she amended, "we were."

 

He coughed a little before asking, "Was there anything... between the two of you?"

 

Now it was Sam's turn to chuckle, a sad, dismal sound.  "Of course," she said softly.  "I knew him for more than six years.  We worked together about as close as two people can.  We'd gone through a lot of really tough times together.  That's bound to build up something between two people.  If you're asking if it was ever... sexual," she added, blushing slightly, "Well, no.  There were times, but... we just kept putting it off.  Waiting for tomorrow.  We just... ran out of tomorrows," she added bleakly.

 

"I think I can almost understand... a little," said Ramsey.  "Back when I was starting off on the force, regular traffic detail, I was paired up with a guy named Baxter.  Man, he was a character.  Bad joke champion of the world.  Weird taste in music... listened to everything on the dial: rap, rock, country, talk... classical if he could find it.  He was a talker -- you know the type.  Never shuts up.  Never knows when to.  At first I thought it would never work out, seeing as how I was much more the introvert back then, but somehow we just clicked.  He would talk and talk and talk and loved having a captive audience to listen, and after a while it started drawing me out of my shell... he was a great guy."

 

Sam frowned to herself.  "What happened?"

 

Ramsey sighed.  "Oh, you know the story.  Pull over a guy for a moving violation, he decides he doesn't want a ticket on his record, so he pulls out a gun.  When I think about it... it could just as easily have been me that was driving that day, me that went around to the window instead of hanging back..."

 

Ethan Ramsey trailed into silence.

 

The emptiness over the line was deep, complete, a physical void.

 

After a few seconds, he cleared his throat.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to... that was years ago."

 

"It's okay," said Sam.  She imagined that, even years from now, her loss would hurt every bit as much as Ramsey's did.  Making up her mind, she said, "Listen... Ethan... can I call you Ethan?"

 

"It's my name, isn't it?" he responded, forcing a cheerfulness he obviously didn't feel.

 

"I'd like to see you tomorrow, if you don't mind.  Those things I told you, about the classified information... I don't see any point in waiting for the Air Force to okay it.  The longer we wait, the more time Kinsey will have to cover his tracks.  If we can meet up somewhere that won't cause a whole lot of attention, I can tell you... some of it.  And maybe it'll help you understand what we're dealing with.  Maybe it'll help you see... something."

 

This apparently concerned him.  "Won't you get in trouble?" he asked.

 

"Maybe," she said, calmly.  It was a risk, but one she considered worthwhile.

 

They concluded their call a few minutes later.  Ethan disconnected but, based on some strange instinct, Sam hesitated before hanging up.  As she'd half-expected, the odd tapping noise was there within seconds, a series of clicks that Sam could find no pattern in.  It almost sounded like some kind of malfunction, as she'd originally suspected.

 

But between those eerie mechanical sounds were even more disconcerting spells of silence.  Not the same silence that had come over the line when she and Ethan had been talking, but a quietness that knew no bounds, that stretched to a destination much further away than the other side of town.

 

Someone was on the other end.

 

She slammed the phone down into its cradle.

 

- - -

 

What would have been a pleasant atmosphere for dinner for four or even three abruptly became awkward for dinner for two.  Softly crooning music that reeked Italian charm, elaborate although no doubt reproduced murals on the walls, a blown glass jar in the middle of the table reflecting the light of the single candle placed within...

 

The food was good, the service reasonable, and the company better than she remembered.

 

They split the bill, paid the tab.  They walked outside, across the dark shopping center lot, to where both their vehicles were parked in the same general vicinity.  The Colonel was mocking her tastes in motorcycles.

 

Then it got bad.

 

A sharp crack.

 

He fell.

 

On her.

 

She knew he was dead.  She knew, not only because of all the blood, but because she had already seen this a half dozen times.  She had seen it in her head and in reality as well, and every time he had been dead.

 

But this time, corpse though he was, Jack reached out to her.  Even as they both landed hard on the ground she felt his hand go around her wrist, holding on tight even though all the life had gone out of his eyes and she was splattered with his blood, could taste it on her lips...

 

She let out a scream of pure terror, lashing out, shrieking with even more vigor when her flailing hands and legs actually connected with flesh.  Her eyes were open now but that was no comfort, because it was as though the nightmare had somehow followed her into the waking world.  Except for a glow at the window the room was dark, and her panicked imagination made it seem all too possible that Jack - bloody, inanimate - was lying there next to her on the sheets.

 

But then a voice spoke that wasn't his, and what had been a corpse suddenly moved, outlined against the light from the window.  "Okay, okay, I'm going," said the man quickly, slurring the syllables, bending over and gathering something up in his hands.  He moved away from the window, shuffling strangely, and Sam realized that he was putting on his clothes.  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said in a voice that was familiar and yet wasn't, and then he reached the door, opened it, and was gone as if he'd never been.

 

But he had.

 

Her head ached, the bed seemed to tilt; her stomach was twisting with nausea.  She'd gone out... there had been someone else... she'd had too much to drink.  Much too much.  She was in her own bedroom now, and that was a relief, but she was naked beneath the covers and there was no real doubt as to why.

 

She heard an engine coming to life out in front of her house, and then the sound faded away.

 

She couldn't even remember who she'd gone to bed with.

 

That wasn't her.  That wasn't her at all.  She was always so controlled, so damn controlled.  Especially after the things she had gone through at the SGC - Jolinar, the computer entity - things that had taken her out of herself, given command of her body to another - she had been nearly obsessive about being in control.  She was somewhat of an adrenalin junkie, but that was part and parcel of her job; she wasn't reckless.  Even on her motorcycle she obeyed the traffic laws.  She never drank to excess, certainly not to the point where she had sex and afterwards couldn't remember who her partner had been.

 

For a terrifying moment she wondered if she had been raped; everything she had ever heard about GHB and Rohypnol flashed through her mind with dizzying speed.  She didn't think the man's actions - his apologies and the fact that he hadn’t left immediately after the act - matched up with those of a rapist, but neither were they conclusive proof to the contrary.  She knew that she should pick up the phone, call Janet, have a blood test to look for traces of the drugs and then, possibly, a more thorough examination.

 

But first...

 

Nude, she stumbled out of bed and towards the darkened bathroom.  The toilet seat was down and she didn't feel she had the time or energy to lift it, so she threw up in the sink instead.

 

Afterwards she considered staying where she was for the remainder of the night, slumped against the bathroom wall, covered by a soft green towel she had pulled off the rack.  Tomorrow was Monday, the first day she would be allowed back on base, and she meant to be there, rested and ready to work.  But something else drew her to her feet, piloted her into her bedroom where she hastily pulled on clean clothes.  Her head buzzed and throbbed and pounded and she was still intoxicated; nevertheless, she grabbed her keys and purse and made it to the car.

 

It was half-past three in the morning.  The streets were dark and, fortunately, mostly deserted.

 

She parked her car in the driveway and dragged her feet up the stairs.  She'd remained dry-eyed on the way over, well aware that she was already disabled enough without the blurring effect of tears, but letting herself into his dark and empty house was the trigger she'd unconsciously been awaiting.  Her sobs were wordless, almost silent; as she fumbled her way down the hallway, the only sound came from the occasional squeak of floorboards beneath her feet and the more frequent gulping inhalation. 

 

Sam found his bedroom intuitively, even though she'd never been in it before, and crumpled onto his unmade bed, exhausted and disoriented.  The pillow still smelled like him, which startled her.  She'd forgotten that smell.  Forgotten it after only a week.

 

The fall back into sleep, aided by the softness of his sheets and the lubrication of tears, was surprisingly easy.

 

- - -

 

Sam opened her eyes, wondering what had woken her.

 

Initially she thought she felt the phantom pressure of a heavy arm lying across her middle, the hand resting against her stomach, and she sat up with a start.  But the morning sunlight filtering through the window proved that she was, this time, alone in the bed.

 

Jack's bed.

 

She'd come here last night, telling herself that she would immediately start the search for evidence incriminating Kinsey, but that was a joke.  The truth was that, somehow, she'd known she'd feel safe here.

 

The clock by the bed said that it was nearly seven in the morning.  Grainy-eyed, headachy and hung over, she contemplated going back to sleep.  No one had specifically said that she was expected back at the base this morning; the project would wait for her.  But before she could lie back down, the phone - on the nightstand next to the clock - rang shrilly.

 

First she wondered who would be calling Jack's house at this hour; it was too early for telemarketers, and anyone who would call regularly would be close enough to know that he had died.

 

Then she wondered if maybe someone already knew she was here.

 

Pushing herself into a sitting position, Sam picked up the phone and placed it to her ear.  "O'Neill residence," she said, even though it wasn't anymore.

 

No answer.

 

And then... click.  Click.  Click.

 

She threw the phone down, stood up.

 

That sound... it couldn't be a coincidence.  Couldn't be.  That tapping sound... tapping... tap...

 

What if his line had been tapped?  By Kinsey, by the NID, by whoever had ultimately decided he be killed.  Her heart pounding, she thought back to the previous weekend, to the morning before the night.  She'd been home, reading the paper, drinking coffee, and he had called. 

 

"Hey Carter, it's me.  Listen, I talked to Daniel yesterday and he keeps dropping hints about the food from the mess being hazardous to his health. Yeah, I guess Oma must have had better fare.  Anyway, thought since it's been a while we should try to get all four of us in the same place for dinner.  Yeah, we'd eat out, do you think he wants to be subjected to your cooking either?  Okay, okay.  Is tonight okay?  Do I already have plans?  Carter, you flatter me."

 

They'd settled on a place - the hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant - and a time.

 

He'd likely called her from home, as they'd all had the weekend off -- and unlike her, Jack had never been the one to put in extra hours when it wasn't specifically called for.  If someone had bugged his line - and it must have been his, because she hadn't noticed the sound until the day of the funeral - they would have known exactly where to find him, and exactly when.

 

And now they were listening in on her.

 

Why?  Was she getting close?  Were they - whoever they were - afraid that she was getting too close?

 

The thought was terrifying, but also exhilarating.

 

- - -

 

Arriving back home, she was surprised - yet not - to see a flower on her doorstep.  A rose, deep, dark red in color, still sporting thorns along the side.  Sam smiled, sighed, and brought it inside, placing it on the kitchen table.

 

She took some Tylenol to ease her headache and stood in the hallway for a while, her gaze repeatedly drawn to the pictures on the wall for reasons she couldn't understand.  There was a picture of her and Dad, a couple other snapshots, nothing that pertained to the matter at hand.  She didn't have any pictures of the team together, she realized with a jolt.  No pictures of Jack.

 

Someone knocked on her door, and immediately Sam's mind flew to the handgun in her bedroom.

 

But there was only a single figure silhouetted through the curtained front door, not a squad of men here to drag her away.  As she watched, frozen in the hallway, he shifted from side to side and then knocked on the door again.

 

Cautiously, preparing to dash for her bedroom and her gun, she crept closer to the door and called out, "Who is it?"

 

There was a pause, and then: "Detective Ramsey, ma'am.  Uh... it's Ethan."

 

Sam's shoulders slumped in relief, and then tightened.  Why was he here?  If he had news, he would have called, she thought, and a strong instinct almost compelled her to ignore him, leave him there, standing on her porch.  But it wasn't as though she could avoid him forever, considering who he was; more than that, she needed him on her side.  Reluctantly, she unlocked and opened the door.

 

He stood here, outlined against the bright morning sunshine, looking worse than she felt, wearing rumpled clothes and sporting an even more mussed hairdo.  He didn't expect to be let inside, and for that Sam was glad.  "Hi," she said, coolly.

 

"Hi," he echoed, with more than a little uncertainty.  "Uh... I was in the area, and, well... Kinsey's in town today.  Some campaign appearance.  I've tried to get a meeting with him but his schedule is too busy... of course.  But I thought I'd let you know... you know, just in case you have any way to..."

 

He shrugged the end of his sentence.  Sam gave a noncommittal nod, determined not to show her surprise that he had leapt so inelegantly into matters of business.

 

Ethan gave a nod of his own, turned to leave... and then stopped, pivoting quickly.  "Sam... I don't exactly remember everything we talked about... I mean, I remember the important stuff, there's no way I'd forget that, but I don't know if I... that is, I can't remember if I ever told you... I'm not married."

 

Sam raised her eyebrows, afraid of speaking a word, afraid that her voice would betray her.

 

"I'm not even... with anyone," Ethan continued nervously, his face flushing to match his hair.  "So... I just wanted you to know..."

 

"That last night wasn't an act of adultery on top of being a one-night stand?" she finished calmly.  It was fake calm, of course, not genuine, but the events of last night had eventually returned to her.  This wasn't news to her, but it was... odd.

 

His face burned even brighter.  "Uh, yeah."  He fidgeted.  "Just so you know, Sam... I don't do that.  I mean, I've never done that."

 

There was a tremor in his voice that was strangely appealing.  "Neither have I," she said, softening infinitesimally.

 

"Yeah, but you've had a hell of a week, you've really been having to deal with some terrible stuff... me... I don't know what my excuse was.  I- I guess what I'm trying to say," he stammered, "is that I'm sorry.  I should have been watching what I was drinking, but the things you told me and I... I didn't."

 

Sam couldn't put all the blame on him.  It had been her idea that they meet at a bar instead of her house, where she no longer felt completely secure, or the police station.  Besides, she had thought that a drink or two might help Ethan more easily accept what she'd decided to tell him about the SGC and the Stargate... and might help her shrug off the burden of grief for at least a few hours.  The problem was that one or two drinks had turned into three or four and more; how many exactly she didn't know, and she knew it had been a miracle that they'd returned to her house in one piece.

 

Whoever had made the first move, why she had reached out like that to Ethan when the man she truly wanted was unreachable, was all lost in the midst of an alcoholic haze, but at least she recalled enough to know she had consented.  Strange as it was, unlike her as it was, she had consented.

 

"Do you believe me?" she asked.

 

He frowned in confusion for a moment, apparently having expected a quite different reply, and then his expression cleared; he realized what she meant.  "That there are aliens among us?  That your friend Jack and Senator Kinsey had very conflicting ideas about how to deal with the threat?  About Kinsey trying to take over your base with his own people?"  He gave a nervous laugh.  "It's like something out of a book, a bad book, but God help me I believe you.  I don't know why, but I believe you."

 

Pleased, she gave him a small smile and a nod.  "I'll look into this public appearance of Kinsey's.  Maybe I can figure something out."

 

"Same here," said the detective, who looked even more relieved than she felt.  "Will it be okay if I call you later?  About the case, I mean."

 

"Of course," Sam answered, crinkling her brow at what seemed like a peculiar question.  "Although... my home phone's been acting strangely.  Maybe you should call my cell instead."  She gave him the number; he pulled the small notebook out of his back pocket and scribbled it down.  "If you get my voice mail, it means I'm at the base.  Just go ahead and leave a message.  I'll check it periodically."

 

Replacing the notebook, a preoccupied look crossed Ethan's face, and she guessed he was finally coming to understand the full impact of what she had told him the following evening: every day - or nearly so - she went to work in an underground base, trying to keep hostile aliens from overtaking the planet.  "Right," he said, absently.

 

"Oh," Sam remembered, stopping him before he could turn to go.  "I guess I should say... thanks for the flower."

 

Ethan blinked in confusion.  "What are you talking about?"

 

- - -

 

Even by ten in the morning, Sam could tell it was going to be an unseasonably warm day.  Stepping out of her car, she could feel the heat both rising off the ground and burning in the pristine sky.

 

Head raised, shoulders back, she stepped off the street and onto the grass between two rows of headstones.  She knew exactly where Jack's was.

 

The graves here were marked with placards set flush into the ground.  They were rectangular and they were square; they were granite and they were bronze and they were other shades of metal and stone.  The grass around each was kept trimmed by the cemetery staff, but the maintenance of the placard was up to friends and family of the deceased, as were floral displays.

 

Sam had visited her mother's grave infrequently when she'd been younger, more religiously as she'd aged and truly appreciated the divide between life and death.  She knew that flowers and gifts and sometimes even balloons most often adorned graves on holidays, such as Christmas and Easter, as well as dates that had other, more personal meanings.  Most of the arrangements on the gravesites before her were in poor condition indeed, baked and withered by several days of hot sunshine.  Some offering to the dead, Sam though glumly.

 

She had already been to Jack's grave three times since the day of the funeral.  Ostensibly it had been to clear away dead and dying flowers and to provide fresh water to those still living, but Sam knew in her heart that she'd made the frequent trips for a different reason: to stare at the name, the dates, to hammer home the fact that he was gone.

 

On her last visit she had brought some yellow daisies from her backyard, had placed them in the small metal vase that was provided at each grave.  Those flowers were gone now, apparently discarded by a more recent visitor, and on the grass, directly in front of the placard, were a fresh bouquet of roses.

 

Deep, dark red roses, their stems not yet stripped of thorns.

 

Shaking, Sam sank down on her knees and touched the petals, the leaves, the tissue paper that bound them all together.  They were there; they were real.  Somehow she'd known they would be.

 

Eleven thorny roses lay on the sun-warmed grass.  The twelfth, the last of the dozen, Sam knew, was on her kitchen table.

 

- - -

 

Instead of driving straight to the base, she stopped by his house first.  She half expected to find a thirteenth rose waiting for her there, but the front porch was flower-free.  Sam let herself through the front door and stood in his entryway for a few long moments.  Not really thinking.  Simply absorbing.

 

On an end table in the living room was a fat envelope with the logo of a local film developer.  It was still sealed, apparently full of photographs, which sent a surge of melancholy through Sam.  He'd brought in Saturday's mail, it seemed, and had never gotten around to opening it.  Maybe he'd forgotten, or maybe he'd planned on doing it that night, after returning from dinner.

 

Feeling vaguely criminal, she placed the envelope in her purse and left.

 

- - -

 

Being at the base was uncomfortable, and that in itself was depressing.  In other hard times Sam had always relied on the SGC and her work there to take her mind off one topic and focus it on anotherc.  There was always something to be done, even if it wasn't always precisely her responsibility, and by now the mysterious power source found in Greece should have arrived.

 

But she wasn't thinking about the shipment from overseas.  As she signed in, as she took first one and then another elevator down into the bowels of the mountain, she was thinking about him.  Half-expecting him to come strolling around the corner with his hands in his pockets.  Anticipating, when the elevator doors opened, that he would be there.

 

Naturally he wasn't there, and the realization always left her feeling more dejected and upset with herself.

 

The base seemed unnaturally subdued.  It wasn't because of Jack's absence, Sam knew, because they had lost people in the past and would in the future, and no single individual's passing in and of itself warranted a slowdown in the workload.  More likely it was simply one of those rare days when no teams were scheduled to go out or come back, no emergency was in progress, no crisis immediate, and everyone was hunkered down in their respective places, working on paperwork or something else they simply hadn't gotten around to yet.  The few men and women she passed on the way to her lab gave her brief, vacant smiles; only in a few faces did she find any indication of pity, and for that she was glad.

 

To Sam's surprise, the door to her lab was unlocked when she arrived, and there was somebody inside.  Not Daniel or Teal'c or even one of the base scientists she was familiar with, but a woman in her late forties with dark hair twisted and piled into an elegant bun, dressed in slacks and a brown blouse.  She was standing in front of the desk, her profile to the door, but didn't seem to have noticed Sam's arrival.  The reason was obvious: the woman's ears were covered by headphones, which were connected by a cord to an MP3 player clipped to her belt.  Standing in the doorway, Sam watched the other woman lean over a sheet of paper, jot down a few quick marks with a pencil, turn to her calculator and punch in a set of numbers, return to the paper, erase a previous calculation, all while tapping one foot to the beat of the music in her ears.

 

When at last she noticed Sam, she jumped, her pencil virtually flying from her hand.

 

Sam forced a smile, stepping into the room as the older woman pulled off her headphones, settling them around her shoulders with a sheepish smile.  "Sorry if I scared you," said Sam.  "You would be... Ms. Lencioni?" she asked, proud of remembering the name and happy when the dark-haired woman nodded

 

"Doctor Giovanna Lencioni," said the woman in a strong voice with a pleasing Italian accent.  "My colleague Doctor Papadakos and I found the artifact on Delos, off the coast of Greece.  It is an island of ruins," she explained, a smile playing on her lips, "a sacred place.  Birthplace of Apollo, god of truth and light.  When we realized there was low-grade radiation emanating from the summit of Kythnos... it took the Greek government a great deal of time to allow us to excavate."

 

What she didn't mention was that the US State Department, by request of the Air Force, had encouraged the Greeks to allow the excavation.  Lencioni and Papadakos had been able to make their find, but only if the artifact - the power source buried on Kythnos - was delivered to the SGC.

 

Lencioni was one of a relatively new breed of scientist: the kind that knew the SGC existed, knew alien beings had visited the Earth long ago and had left evidence of that fact... but did not know about the Stargate or any of the more recent alien-involved events.  Everything she had been told was strictly need-to-know.  She was aware that levels 27 and 28 were off-limits to her, that her security level would not let her into certain areas of the base and if she tried to breech them she would be arrested... but no doubt she simply attributed it to the paranoia and shifty dealings of the US military.

 

The Italian began to show pictures of the power source - until they figured out exactly what was powering it, it would be kept in a nearby bunker - as well as readouts, measurements, possible translations of various markings... but Sam's interest was already waning.  As long as Lencioni was still here, dabbling a bit at the science in her absence, Sam could turn her attention elsewhere.

 

She forced another smile.  "Doctor..."

 

"Please, it's Giovanna."

 

"Giovanna, would you mind if I... worked on another matter for a few hours... maybe the rest of the day?"  She was worried that Lencioni would be eager to return back home, perhaps confer with Papadakos or even revisit Delos, or that she would expect Sam's assistance.  But the woman's face brightened.

 

"Not at all," she said, lifting her headphones from her shoulders and adding, slyly, "if you don't mind these."

 

- - -

 

While Giovanna nodded to the beat of silent music, hunched over a steno pad full of notes and numbers, Sam sat in another corner of the lab.  She'd considered going to the locker room first, to change out of her civvies in case an emergency did arise, but the packet of photographs was still playing on her mind.  She stashed her purse under the counter, sat on a stool with her back to Lencioni, and opened the envelope.

 

She withdrew a stack of standard-sized glossies, shuffling through it one picture at a time.  The entire roll had apparently been photographed at the same place; Sam saw trees, a lake, a small, rustic-looking cabin...

 

Sam froze.  A cabin.  The cabin, and no doubt the lake.  The dock.  The fishing.

 

Her guts gave a hard twist and she almost put the pictures away.  Instead, biting her lip, she turned over the topmost picture to locate the date on the back.  These photos had been taken a couple weeks before Jack's death.  She hadn't even realized that was how he'd spent that stretch of downtime.  He'd never mentioned it to her.  Perhaps he'd just given up.

 

She should have gone.  She should have stopped finding excuses, should have stopped worrying about stupid things, should have just gone.  It would have made him happy; that was obvious enough.  She should have gone.  The pictures were pretty enough.  It was an altogether different wildness than the Rocky Mountain beauty she was accustomed to, but it still had appeal.  The lake was calm, peaceful.  The sky was clear.  She should have gone.

 

Sam reached the last photograph in the stack... and froze.

 

While every other picture had been either scenery or structure, the main focus of this one was a person.  A very specific person.  Seeming to stand on the dock in front of the cabin, facing the camera.  Wearing a blue t-shirt, his hands in the pockets of his jeans.  The sun seemed to be in his face; he was squinting slightly, and his gray hair was burnished gold.  He was smiling at the person behind the camera.

 

But... who?

 

Who had taken this picture?  There was no other human being featured in any of the other snapshots, she knew, although she double-checked to make sure.  But someone must have taken it; the only other possibility was that he had a tripod and a timer, and she had a tough time imagining Jack O'Neill going to all that trouble to take a picture of himself.

 

So who had it been?  Not Daniel or Teal'c; she'd seen them both that weekend.

 

Who?

 

The day had taken a surreal turn.  Was this pertinent to the case?  It had to be, Sam decided, standing.  Two weeks before he'd been killed, Jack had been in Minnesota with a mystery person... an individual whose identity and even existence Sam had been completely clueless of.  It opened up an entirely new, entirely frightening realm of possibilities.  She had to tell Ethan.

 

The laboratory phone rang before Sam could even reach out to it, startling her.  Lencioni, absorbed in her music and math, remained oblivious, even began to hum softly, but Sam's surprise deepened quickly into an alarm for which she had no explanation.  Yes, there was something strange with her phone at home, maybe it was even tapped, but there was no way a bug could have been placed in the base system.  No way... but then why was her heart racing?

 

Angry at herself, yet still afraid, Sam snatched up the handset.  "Carter," she said, more sharply than she had intended.

 

There was no deep silence, no strange clicking.  It was Davis in the control room, and there was someone here to see her.

 

- - -

 

He jumped out of his chair at the briefing room table as soon as Sam appeared at the head of the stairs, made a beeline towards her before she was even standing in the room proper, and hugged her with an intensity that was simultaneously surprising and comforting.  No one had hugged her like that since it had happened.  Even those she let get close to her were careful, gentle, as though they were afraid she might break.

 

Not Jonas.  He grabbed hold of her and held her for a long time, long enough for Sam's surprise to wear off and for emotion to come rushing to the surface.  By the time he let go, she was blinking away fresh tears.  "I'm so sorry I couldn't be at the funeral," he said, obviously upset, and then he hugged her again.  "I'm so sorry, Sam."

 

This time she found the wherewithal to return the embrace.  She couldn't say 'it's okay', because it wasn't, so instead she said, in what she hoped was a convincingly upbeat tone, "Nice to see you too, Mr. Ambassador."

 

Jonas pulled away again and she saw that she hadn't convinced him of anything.  The sympathy in his eyes was too much to take, so she stepped past him, motioning that he retake his seat at the otherwise empty table.  She took the chair next to him.  "How are you holding up?" he asked, leaning towards her.  "And don't tell me you're fine."

 

She tried to laugh - because he did have her pegged on that one - but she was afraid it would either come out hysterical or lead swiftly to tears.  "This is my first day back," she told him, bearing down on her emotions and thereby giving her voice a strangled quality.  "It's... ah... it's harder than I thought it would be."

 

He nodded, as though he knew what she meant.  Maybe he did.  "You think Kinsey is behind this."  It was a statement, not a question.

 

Sam sat back in surprise.  According to Davis, Jonas had only just arrived from Kelowna; in fact, he was still wearing his ridiculous little formal outfit, his hair slicked back away from his forehead in 'the popular style back home'.  There was no way he could have already spoken to Teal'c or Daniel.  "How did you..."

 

"He was my first thought, too," Jonas explained, his expression grave.  "And then I remembered... it's around the right time of year when he would begin campaigning for your presidency.  Maybe the Colonel threatened him somehow."

 

Sam frowned.  She hadn't thought of it that way; she'd simply assumed that Kinsey had gone after Jack preemptively, to keep him from bringing any unsavory information to light.

 

But what if Jonas was right?  After all, Jack had wanted to keep Kinsey out of the White House every bit as much as Kinsey had wanted to get Jack out of the SGC.  "Yeah.  I was thinking... along those lines."  She considered telling Jonas about the picture, back in her lab, but she wasn't sure how to bring it up without sounding downright paranoid.  Complaining that he had been up to his cabin a few weeks ago... that he had taken someone who wasn't Daniel or Teal'c, someone who wasn't her... she'd sound worse than paranoid.  She'd sound jealous.

 

And if she told him about the rose... she might just sound insane.

 

Jonas straightened.  "Well, I told my bosses back in Kelowna that I had to come here on 'official ambassadorial business', and they gave me two days before I'm expected back for more meetings.  So... what can I do to help?"

 

For the first time since that horrible moment in the parking lot, Sam smiled.  It was a real smile this time, genuine.  Then she reached over and mussed up that horrible hairstyle.

 

- - -

 

"I owe you one," said Sam.

 

"Not really," answered Agent Barrett, sounding vaguely pleased on the other end of the line.  "Kinsey's been a pain in our asses for a long time now, and it'll only get worse if he's elected.  Half the people are worried that if he becomes President he'll abuse the NID even more than he already has, the other half is worried if it happens he'll try to straighten up and fly right."

 

"And what fun would that be?" asked Sam wryly, exchanging an amused look with Jonas.

 

"Exactly."

 

"Well, thanks for calling me back.  I was starting to think we'd have to scale the side of the hotel."

 

"As long as you never mention my name, consider it my honor.  When you get off the elevator at the fifteenth floor," he repeated, "just tell them you're there to see Jim Marshall about the terrorist problem, and you shouldn't have any problem snagging a few minutes with the man himself.  Unless, of course, he has you tossed out the moment he lays eyes on you."

 

"Jim Marshall?"

 

"The name of the President in the movie Air Force One," explained Barrett sardonically.

 

Sam was incredulous.  "Harrison Ford's character?"

 

"What, you don't see the resemblance?"

 

She shook her head, glancing out the car window.  "Looks like we're just about there."  She'd called Barrett from the base, left her cell phone number on his message service, figuring he was the one person close enough to Kinsey who she could trust... and so far, the hunch had played out.  Leave it to Robert Kinsey to have some romanticized secret password.

 

"I'll let you go then," Barrett said.  He hesitated, and then... "Major... be careful, okay?  I don't know that I completely accept what you're saying, but I've seen too much in my line of work to discard it out of hand.  And if Kinsey is dangerous..."

 

"I could be making myself a target," finished Sam, eliciting a sharp look from Jonas.

 

"Exactly," said Barrett again, sounding pained.

 

The fact was, Sam didn't much care.  She didn't want to die, she didn't have a death wish or anything like that, but if she had to put herself in harm's way to make whoever had killed Jack pay... to stop him from ever taking anyone she cared about away from her again... she would do it.  "I'm a big girl," she told Barrett, because Jonas was sitting right next to her and she didn't want to make him think she had suicidal tendencies.  "And I have backup."

 

- - -

 

In fact, Jonas wasn't so much backup as a distraction.  The fifteenth floor was the topmost level, a private, apartment-sized suite reserved for dignitaries and politicians.  Of the three elevators in the lobby of this particular hotel, only one would take passengers to this floor, and it would be watched over by one of Kinsey's lackeys.  If your name wasn't on the lackey's list you couldn't get in, and of course Sam's wasn't.

 

Jonas' visit couldn't have been better timed, Sam reflected.  Teal'c was too conspicuous for this particular mission, and even Daniel might have been recognized.  Besides, she was reluctant to bring either of them into this and perhaps put them in danger as well.  Jonas would be gone again in a few days, but the others didn't have the same luxury.

 

They idled in the lobby for a few minutes, avoiding eye contact with the bellhops and glancing occasionally at their watches with an exasperated air, as though waiting for someone to arrive.  When a large enough group finally came in off the street - a cluster of silver-haired women who looked as though they might be attending the hotel's bingo convention - Sam and Jonas melted into the crowd and drifted along with them to the bank of elevators.

 

The idea had been for Jonas to draw Kinsey's guard into an argument over his list, to somehow get him away from his post for a few seconds, perhaps even bringing the hotel staff into the disagreement.  The hotel was upscale, at least for Colorado Springs; they wouldn't want a large commotion in front of a sizable audience of guests.  Of course, there was always the possibility that Jonas would be recognized as the instigator and promptly tossed out... but they had to risk it.

 

As it turned out, all their careful loitering and planning was unnecessary.  The elderly women were the one to start the hullabaloo; several were indignant that they should be disallowed access to any of the elevators for any reason, no matter who was staying on the fifteenth floor, on account of what they were paying as well as simple principle.  They were loud, obnoxious, and gripped their bingo-decorated satchels almost threateningly.  The guard was obviously trained to deal with single would-be assassins but apparently didn't know how to handle a coven of senior citizens armed with tote bags.  With an anxious look he tried to flag down one of the hotel staff, and when that didn't work he was forced to jog over to the front desk.

 

Still clucking indignantly, the women piled into the now unguarded elevator, and Sam managed to squeeze in front of them before the doors slid shut.  Jonas gave a small wave, and then he was gone.

 

- - -

 

The bingo enthusiasts got off at the ninth floor.  Sam continued up to the fifteenth, smoothing down her black slacks and taupe blouse.  She'd immediately decided to forgo her uniform for this visit, and she remembered from somewhere that neutral colors were supposed to seem less threatening.

 

A second guard was standing in the foyer when the doors opened again; he could have been the twin - or perhaps genetic clone - of the first.  "I'm here to see Jim Marshall," said Sam, meeting the man's eyes directly, and he let her pass without a second glance.  There was only one door in front of her, and she opened it.

 

The suite was done all in pastels: butter-cream yellow, rose-petal pink, seafoam green, lilac.  In start contrast to these soft colors were the two people in the room: a young man dressed in black with bleach-blonde hair and dark glasses, seated on the couch, and the gray-haired man pacing in front of him, wearing the beige carpet thin, giving off an aura darker than his suit.  He seemed to be practicing a speech; as Sam entered, she heard him say, "...will not allow the greatness of this country to be destroyed by those who would..." and then he turned around and saw her.

 

"You," he spat, eyes alight with instant recognition.

 

The blonde aide leapt to his feet, looking worried, and Sam was afraid he might grab the phone or shout for the guard outside.  She raised her hands to show that they were empty.  "I'm just here to talk," she said calmly, her eyes on Kinsey.  "That's all."

 

The Senator sneered, "How did you get up here?"

 

"That's not important," she answered, determined to keep her voice level and her emotions under control.  They had planned this so carefully, been over everything that she would say to the man, but now that she was actually in his presence she was so overwhelmed by anger, by disgust, that it was hard to remember what was next.  This living, breathing scrap of pond scum, who had caused them so much trouble and so many headaches over the years, had done this to her.  He had taken him away from her.  And she had to tread so carefully, so very carefully, if she had any hope of coming away from this interview with any useable information.  "I need to talk to you alone."

 

Kinsey gave a derisive laugh.  "As though I would want to be left alone with any of Jack O'Neill's people," he said scornfully.  "Anything you have to say to me, Major, you can say in front of Cecil.  Unless you're worried about witnesses," he added.

 

"I think you're the one who should be worried about witnesses," said Sam coolly, but Kinsey didn't rise to the bait.  "I know what you did," she said finally.  "We don't have physical evidence yet, but it's only a matter of time.  Give me the name of the person you hired, and you'll be free to keep running for President."

 

Finally the man had the good sense to look concerned.  It was all a lie, of course; once Kinsey gave them the name of the shooter, Sam was prepared to connect him with the Senator if it was the last thing she did.  It wouldn't be political, it wasn't about campaigns... it was about justice.  Even if she couldn't put this cretin behind bars, she was going to ruin him and make his life hell.

 

"What in God's name are you talking about?" asked Kinsey after a long pause, during which Cecil slowly returned to the sofa with a look of studied disinterest on his face.  "I think you've been spending too much time underground, Major.  It's begun to affect your br--"

 

"You know what I'm talking about."

 

"I haven't a clue."

 

"Don't you stand there and lie to me."

 

"How dare you speak to me in this fashion!  At least O'Neill..."

 

A change came over Kinsey's face then, a mixture of emotions that twisted and deepened the lines on his face... and then he smiled.  It was not a friendly smile.  It was rather like the smile a fish might see in the instant before it was devoured by the shark.

 

"That's it," said Kinsey.

 

Sam couldn't think of what to say.

 

"That's it," the man repeated, and incredibly his posture relaxed.  "That's why that detective's been on my case for the last week.  You think I had something to do with Jack O'Neill getting himself killed."

 

He was a good actor.

 

Kinsey laughed.  Sam's hands tightened into fists.  The Senator didn't notice, but Cecil did.

 

"Let me tell you something, Major," said Kinsey, still chuckling to himself.  "O'Neill wasn't the innocent little angel he probably led you to believe, and I'm not the Big Bad Wolf.  He was around long enough to piss off plenty of people a lot more dangerous than me, a lot more risky than me.  Do you honestly think that I would even dream of compromising my chance to be President by having him killed?"

 

The tightness of her fists had traveled up her arms and neck and into her jaw.  "You were afraid he would talk.  He knew something that..."

 

"He knew I had connections with the NID," he said dismissively.  "That's old news, Major, and even if I had wanted to keep him quiet I could have done it with a lot more..." he pondered for a moment "...finesse."

 

"Is that what you call it?"

 

He smiled again.  "We lead such different lives, you can't begin to understand.  All you know is that if you want to shut somebody up, you put a bullet in them.  You go for the vulnerable side, the unprotected spot.  But sometimes that spot isn't always in the body.  Sometimes it's in their mind.  Their heart.  Their soul.  Sometimes you can avoid a whole lot of mess if you just aim for the right target."  His eyes narrowed thoughtfully.  "His soft spot was always you... all of you.  But now you come barging in here like this... and I have to wonder..."

 

She didn't want to know what he wondered.  She didn't want to know at all.

 

Kinsey nodded, as though reading her mind.  For a blustering old man, he was chillingly predatory standing in the pastel room.  "You can let yourself out," he said.

 

Cecil was looking up at the Senator, admiringly.

 

- - -

 

When Sam returned to the lobby, she was surprised to see that Jonas wasn't the only one waiting for her.  Standing with him, chatting amicably, was Ethan Ramsey.  He saw her first, and if Sam wasn't wrong he looked almost embarrassed.

 

"Well?" prodded Jonas.  "How did it go?"

 

She was tired.  God, she was tired.  She didn't want to have to deal with Ethan, didn't want to make the return trip to the base, didn't even want to answer Jonas' question.  She just wanted to find the closest room in this hotel with an empty bed and sleep.  Sleep until all of this just went away.

 

In fact, to hell with the bed.  She could sink down right here, right now on this tile floor and nap just as well.

 

"I got into a bit of an argument with the guard over there," said Ethan, nodding at the elevators.  "You friend Jonas here took it as a good sign.  Is he really from another planet?"

 

"Sam?" asked Jonas, frowning.

 

She closed her eyes.  She could sleep standing up.

 

"I saw him," she said at last, when she realized that they weren't going away, none of it was going away.

 

"And?"

 

"And..."  She opened her eyes.  "And he didn't do it."

 

Ethan looked surprised.  Jonas just sighed and shook his head.

 

"Are you sure?"

 

"Yeah."  Sam sighed.  "I'm sure."

 

- - -

 

For the next three days Sam stayed home, sick.  It wasn't just depression, either, as she knew the others suspected.  She was physically ill, with a high temperature and aching joints, and there were times when she was simply unable to get out of bed.

 

Of course, depression was a part of it.  Gripped by fever, tossing in and out of strange memories and stranger dreams, she was aware of crying.  She hated the tears of self-pity and she cherished the tears of remorse, but it was impossible to tell which was which and it never made sense anyway.

 

It wasn't Kinsey.  He wasn't that good of an actor.  And what he had said rang true.  He wouldn't bother with murder when blackmail would work just as well.  And Kinsey had seemed to think it would.

 

No one came to visit during those three days, but only because she virtually ordered them away.  They called a lot, though.  Sometimes Sam answered the phone, but more often than not she let the machine pick up.  Sometimes when the machine picked up, no one was on the other end.  There were only a few clicks and then silence.

 

On the morning of the fourth day, her fever was gone and she felt more normal than she had in weeks.  She got up, dressed, and drove to the base.

 

- - -

 

"I don't want it."

 

From across his desk, Hammond blinked at her in surprise.  "Excuse me, Major?" he asked, more confused than annoyed.

 

Flatly, Sam replied: "You were going to offer me command of SG-1.  I don't want it."

 

He stared at her for a few long seconds before finally leaning back in his chair.  "You sound like you've already made up your mind about this, Sam."

 

She refused to be swayed by his informal address.  "I've given it a lot of thought," she said dispassionately.  "This is what I want."

 

"Can you tell me why?"  He worked his hands into a ball, rubbing the joints.  "Because I have to tell you... Jack would have wanted you to take over.  As a matter of fact, it's what he did want.  We discussed it at length."

 

Although she knew it was rude, Sam let her gaze drift away from the General and into her lap, where her own hands were folded.  "That's what I mean."

 

A pause.  "I'm afraid I don't follow."

 

"Jack gave up years of his life for SG-1," she explained, her voice uncharacteristically soft.  "More than that.  He gave up his free time, his peace of mind, his chance at any kind of family, any kind of normalcy... he gave up his life on several occasions.  And why?  To save the world?"

 

"I... I suppose so.  For his country.  For the world."

 

"Why?" she asked, her voice softer still.  "Why give up all that for a country that doesn't know?  Why give up all that for a world that doesn't give a damn?  He put so much into his job, General, he put his heart and soul into what he did and no one knew, no one cared.  He did it because he was expected to, but what was the point?  What was the point of saving murderers like the person... like the animal who killed him?"

 

Another thoughtful hesitation.  "Because Jack knew... for every animal out there, there are even more people who deserve to live, Sam.  They deserve to be saved.  There are good people out there, too.  They're just mixed in with the bad ones."

 

His voice was unbearably gentle.

 

"Isn't that the problem?" she asked.  "It's just like the Goa'uld... walking around in human hosts with no one the wiser.  Evil people walk among good ones, and nobody knows the difference.  No one can tell which is which until it's too late.  If that wasn't the case, if there was some way we knew what was inside a person, we would have gotten rid of all the bad apples a long time ago.  But they just keep coming."  She looked up.  "We tell ourselves that there are more good people than bad, more people who are worth saving... but how do we know?  How do we really know?  Maybe we're just deluding ourselves, General.  Maybe they're all bad except for us.  Maybe we're bad too, and we just don’t know it yet, we won't know until it's too late?"

 

- - -

 

Sam had only just returned to her lab when Teal'c came to find her.  Giovanna Lencioni was there, working zealously at a laptop computer, but her headphones were on and she seemed completely oblivious to their presence.

 

"You turned down command of SG-1," said Teal'c, an accusatory note in his voice.  At one point Sam would have been bothered by that tone, her self-confidence shaken; she would have worried that she had made the wrong choice.  But not today, not anymore.

 

"Word travels fast," she said, lightly, cleaning up a counter simply to give her hands something to do.

 

"Do you not wish to take O'Neill's place?"

 

This time the intentional blitheness in her voice was harder to maintain.  She put a stack of diagrams in one drawer, pulled them out, put them in another drawer.  "No, I don't."

 

Teal'c softened slightly.  "Perhaps that was the wrong way to say it," he admitted, stepping closer.  "O'Neill was proud of you, Major Carter.  He told me this on many occasions."  He paused.  "Not told," he corrected himself.  "We both know... O'Neill was not a man to put such things into words.  But it was obvious in all things.  He was proud of you as an officer, and a human being.  More than that..."  He glanced towards Giovanna, who was tapping one foot to the beat of her music.  "He cared about you a great deal, and he would be saddened to see you like this.  To see you missing this opportunity."

 

It was perhaps the most Sam had ever heard Teal'c say at once, particularly on a subject not related to the freedom of the Jaffa, and she found herself blinking away unexpected emotion.  At one point she would have been ashamed of her earlier behavior; she would have rushed to Hammond and told him and she'd been a little fool.  But not today, not anymore.

 

"I'm tired of putting my life in danger when nobody gives a damn, Teal'c," she said, putting the diagrams back in the first drawer and shutting it with a loud snap.  "Look at everything Jack did for this planet, everything we've done, and nobody knows.  Nobody cares."  She turned to face him, hopping her face wasn't too terribly red.  "I just went through all of this with Hammond.  I'm not interested in rehashing it."

 

Teal'c hesitated for a moment... and then gave a small nod.  He would indulge her on this.

 

"Anyway," continued Sam, relieved, "Hammond wants to give me a few days away from the base to 'think it over'.  Who knows?" she said, smiling slightly.  "I might change my mind."

 

He straightened, appreciating the unlikelihood of that happening.  "Will we be permitted to visit you this time?" he asked, an unusual note of sarcasm sharpening his words.

 

Sam opened her mouth to answer... and then stopped.  From the corner of her eye she had noticed the last item remaining on the otherwise tidy counter: the packet of pictures she had taken from Jack's house.  "Actually," she said slowly, "I'm going to be out of town."

 

Teal'c raised an eyebrow.

 

"Minnesota," she said, reaching out and picking up the pictures.  "I mean... he willed the cabin to me.  I don't know what I'm going to do with it, but... I should at least go there.  Fly up for a couple of days.  He'd like that," she added, tentatively.

 

He nodded his agreement.  "Indeed."

 

- - -

 

She went home and began to pack.  Only when she passed through the living room on the way from taking her suitcase to her car did she notice her answering machine.

 

25 messages were waiting for her.

 

Gaping, she hit the play button... and was greeted by silence.  Clicks.  More silence.  More clicks.

 

She stood in her living room for almost fifteen minutes, her anxiety growing, listening to the strange sounds emanating from the tiny speaker.  Not all of these were from when she had been sick.  In fact, she'd erased the tape after that period of time, hoping that she could erase her memories along with it.  It had been bad enough lying in bed, listening to these odd sounds echo from her living room, but it was even worse standing here and listening to them all at once.

 

There was one new development.  In a couple of the calls she noticed something she hadn't before: a soft sound far in the background, unidentifiable, almost indistinguishable between the clicks and occasional static.  But it was there, some kind of background noise; she was sure of it.  Perhaps she was only noticing it now that she was listening to the call on speakers, instead of through the handset.  Even small noises would be amplified.

 

She felt a rush of excitement.  If she could filter out the other sounds, concentrate solely on whatever was rustling in the backdrop of the call, maybe it would give some kind of clue as to who was calling her.  If it was the sound of traffic, maybe, or music, or perhaps even words... maybe she could figure it out.

 

Otherwise, she was simply going to have to change her number.  Change all of her phones.  She couldn't keep living with these freak calls.

 

The last message on the tape - and therefore the least recent - was from Ethan.  It was short and to the point.  "Sam?  It's Detective... it's Ethan.  Give me a call?  Bye."

 

She took the small tape out of the answering machine and tucked it into her purse.  She would give him a call on her way to the base.

 

- - -

 

"Detective Ramsey speaking."

 

"Hi.  It's Sam Carter."

 

She detected a note of surprise in his voice.  "Sam!  Hi!"

 

Turning onto the drive that led up to the mountain, she asked, "You called?"

 

"Oh, right.  Actually, I'm sorry I didn't try to get in touch earlier, but things have been crazy around here.  They dumped a couple of new cases on my desk and it's been madness..."

 

Sam's stomach sank along with her heart.  New cases for Ramsey obviously meant that they were giving up on Jack's case, and although she had all but done the same, it didn't seem fair for the authorities to quit without her permission, without something.  "I see."

 

He must have heard the note of resignation in her voice, because he was quick to reassure her.  "That doesn't mean we won't continue looking into--"

 

"It's okay," interrupted Sam, although it really wasn't.  "You don't have any leads.  What can you do?"

 

Ethan was silent for a moment.  Finally, he replied, "Something will turn up, Sam. I'm sure of it.  If it was a professional, well, no one's perfect.  Eventually he might get picked up.  You never know.  And if it wasn't, if there was something else going on, well, these slimeballs never stay quiet for long.  They like to brag.  If they talk to the wrong person, we could have our man."

 

If.  Eventually.  These were not words to raise Sam's spirits.  "I understand.  Is that why you called?"

 

He coughed.  "Actually, I wanted to make sure you were okay.  You seemed pretty out of it at the hotel..."

 

"I'm fine."  She was being short with him, even curt, she knew it but she wasn't ashamed of it.  What was happening to her lately?  She'd never been obsessed with what others thought of her, but she'd at least been aware of how she came off to others.  She'd cared at one point.

 

"I also wanted to see," Ethan continued, "um, I wanted to know if you wanted to have dinner... some time."

 

She didn't know how to reply to that, curtly or otherwise.

 

He seemed embarrassed by her silence.  "Maybe... maybe I'm completely out of line here, I mean, your friend, and I'm... we didn't get off to the best... and I don't even know if..."  He laughed self-consciously.  "I swear, I'm usually a lot more articulate than this."

 

Sam licked her lips, cleared her throat.  "I'm going to be out of town for a few days," she said quickly.

 

"Oh."

 

"Northern Minnesota.  A place that Jack owned.  He was always trying to... he was really proud of the place and since I guess it's mine now, I figured... I should go up, take a look around and..."  She was babbling now.  "It's about ten miles northeast of Lake George, I'll be there for a couple days but if you need to get a hold of me you can call my cell phone... you have the number, right?"

 

"Right."

 

For the first time in a long time, Sam felt badly.  Not a lot.  Just a little.  But he sounded so damn depressed.  "We'll talk when I get back," she promised... and then she wondered what she had gotten herself into.

 

- - -

 

Sam eventually located Davis in the commissary.  She sat down across from him without waiting for an invitation, and he looked up from his lunch, surprised.  "Major?"

 

"Sergeant."  She smiled winningly.  "I need to ask you for a favor."

 

He set down his sandwich.  "Of course."

 

She pulled the mini-cassette out of her purse and placed it on the table in front of him.  "I've been getting some... strange calls at home."

 

He frowned.  "Strange?  You mean, threatening?"

 

"Well, not exactly," said Sam, although she had found them exactly that.  "At first I thought someone was tapping my line, and I guess that could still be the case, but..."

 

"But?" Davis prompted, wiping off his hands and picking up the tape.

 

"But now I wonder if someone's actually calling me.  Maybe they want to tell me something, but they're afraid."  And maybe that something, she thought, had to do with Jack's killer.  Her mouth went dry at the notion.

 

He turned the cassette over in his hands.  "Have you ever thought of star-sixty-nining them, ma'am?  You know, calling them back?"

 

Sam was surprised by the question, but she was even more surprised that she hadn't thought of it before.  "Actually, I haven't."

 

Davis looked up from the tape.  "I take it you'd like the calls cleaned up and the background noise enhanced and analyzed?"

 

She went back to focusing on smiling and looking eminently agreeable.  "If you wouldn't mind."

 

"Not at all, Major."

 

Relieved, she pulled a pen out of the pocket of her leather jacket and grabbed a napkin to write on.  "I'm going to be in Minnesota for a few days.  Here's my cell phone number... and if you can't reach me that way and it's something really important..."  She wrote down the location of the cabin, as well as she could remember from Jack's papers.

 

Looking over the napkin, Davis asked, "I take it that this is pretty important, ma'am?"

 

"Yes," she said immediately, with a confidence that surprised her.  "I don't know why, but I think it is."

 

- - -

 

Walking out of the commissary on her way to see Hammond, to let him know about her plans, she ran into Giovanna.  In actuality it wasn't much of a chance meeting; the other woman had been looking for her.  "I heard you were on the base," she said.  Her MP3 player was still clipped to her belt, the headphones around her neck.

 

"Not for long," Sam admitted.  "I'm going to be out of the state for a few days.  Business."

 

"Ah, I see."

 

Sam felt a twinge of guilt.  "Giovanna, I'm sorry I haven't been around much lately.  It's not fair to be expecting you to do all the work yourself, and now I'm leaving again..."  She had a jolt of inspiration.  "Why don't you call your partner?  He could be at least some help while I'm gone."

 

Giovanna smiled.  "Actually, I believe Doctor Papadakos is away on vacation.  I have not been able to get in touch with him since arriving in America."

 

Now she felt even worse.  "I'll get back as soon as I can," she promised.  "You're probably looking forward to getting back home... or taking a vacation of your own."

 

The other woman laughed.  "Vacation?  I think not.  My life is my work, Major, and my work is my life."

 

Sam chuckled.  "I know what you mean."

 

"Oh.  Before you go..."  Giovanna reached into the pocket of her slacks and pulled out a small camera.  "I found this in the lab.  Is it yours?"

 

Sam reached out, took the camera and turned it over in her hands, as Davis had with the mini-cassette.  It wasn't her camera, but it did seem somewhat familiar.  There was no film in it, no label or name or other identification - it was just a small, simple 35mm camera - but she had a niggling feeling that she had seen it before.  Could it have been Jack's?  But who would have left it in the lab without saying anything?  "Thanks," she said, pocketing the camera, her mind turning over the possibilities.

 

- - -

 

She didn't arrive at the cabin until three a.m. that night, after a long layover in St. Louis and a longer wait at the rental car company.  Initially, Sam had been worried that she might get lost once on the road, but the directions the rental company gave her were clear, and once she was on the main road there simply weren't that many opportunities to make wrong turns.

 

The moon was large; it would be full the following night.  Sam got out of her rented Honda and stood in front of the building for a few minutes.  In the cool light, surrounded by trees and birdsong and the gentle lapping of water in the lake, it was strangely beautiful.

 

Why hadn't she come here before?

 

Exhausted, she pulled her suitcase out of the trunk and went inside.

 

- - -

 

The food was good, the service reasonable, and the company better than she remembered.

 

They split the bill, paid the tab.  They walked outside, across the dark shopping center lot, to where both their vehicles were parked in the same general vicinity.  The Colonel was mocking her tastes in motorcycles.

 

Suddenly, she remembered, and put out a hand to stop him.  Time slowed to a crawl.

 

Still smiling, he looked across at her, puzzled.  "What is it, Carter?"

 

She was frozen with fear, paralyzed with terror.

 

"Carter?"

 

"You're going to die," she whispered.

 

He laughed.  "Yeah, well, this is life.  No one gets out of it alive, you know."

 

Her voice caught in her throat.  "Jack, I'm serious."

 

"Me too.  Listen, Carter, do me a favor."

 

"Huh?  What?"

 

"Take a step forward.  Just a half-step, actually.  That should be enough."

 

Although she hadn't meant to, she did.

 

Then it got bad.

 

- - -

 

She slept into the afternoon, stretched out on his couch, the cold musty scent of the cabin filling her nose.  It wasn't entirely unpleasant.  In fact, it was fitting.

 

There was no food in the cabin, only a couple gallon containers of water, but Sam had planned for this.  She had packed some nonperishable items - mostly cans of soup - into her luggage.  The screener at the airport had given her a strange look, but apparently aluminum cans weren't considered to be weapons.

 

The stove worked just fine, and she heated up some clam chowder for a late lunch.  She ate on the porch, sitting in an old wooden chair, looking out on the lake, feeling more peace than she had in a very long time.  The insects were a pain, and it was unseasonably chilly, but she could understand why he had liked this place so much.  It was so... away from everything else.

 

As it got darker, she spent time wandering around the small house, looking for any sign of who had been up here with Jack those few weeks ago, who had taken the picture of him on the dock.  She didn't know exactly what she expected to find - a second toothbrush, hairbrush, shampoo... she even checked his bedroom for mysterious articles of clothing - but she didn't find it anyway.  If this place had secrets - and she was convinced it did - it wasn't interested in giving any of them up.

 

Half an hour after the sun had set, Sam was sitting on the porch again, contemplating her return home.  Although this had been nice - nice enough that she'd now decided against trying to sell the property - she felt as though something important had not been accomplished.  She should have done something, and she hadn't, and that knowledge kept buzzing around in her brain like an angry honeybee.  She sighed.

 

Her cell phone rang.

 

Surprised, Sam pulled it out of her pocket and checked the caller ID.  She caught her breath.  It was a number from the base... it had to be Davis.  Standing up and moving away from the chair, she answered the call and pressed the phone to her ear.  "Hello?"

 

"Major Carter?"

 

Oh, God bless him.  "Sergeant," she replied, trying not to sound too anxious.  The connection was static-plagued, not perfect, but good enough.  "What do you have for me?"

 

"Ah..."

 

"Sergeant?"

 

"To be honest, Major, I'm not quite sure."  He was the one who sounded anxious, Sam thought.  Although that wasn't quite the right word.  There was a tremor in his voice that she had never heard before, not during any Stargate emergency, a tremulous quality that seemed unlike him.

 

"Can you just tell me?" she prodded, taking a few steps towards the lake as though that would bring her closer to the SGC.

 

His voice dropped, became almost hushed.  "Actually, I think it would be better if you heard it yourself, ma'am."

 

"Can you patch it through?" she asked, curious and increasingly wary.

 

"Yes... I'm bringing it up right now."  He paused.  "It's a little loud... the quality isn't as good as I'd hoped, but... you can hear it."

 

Sam swallowed thickly.  "Okay.  Put it through."

 

"Here goes, Major."

 

There was a buzz on the line, a sound very unlike the clicking sounds she'd become so familiar with, and then a fierce rush of static: the amplified recording.  Sam pressed the cell phone to her ear and concentrated hard, but Davis had been right.  It wasn't hard to make out at all.

 

"...missed... missed the shot..."

 

A voice.  Shouting, shouting with all its might, but still faint; coming from a far distance.  Echoing, fading in and out, but decidedly there.

 

"...missed the shot..."

 

She held the cell phone tighter.

 

"...aiming for you..."

 

That voice.  Shouting.

 

"...aiming for you, Sam..."

 

That voice.

 

"...she was aiming..."

 

That voice.  How?

 

"...aiming for you, Sam... she was aiming for you... she missed the shot..."

 

The message continued to repeat, he continued to shout, but an anguished sound tore from Sam's throat and momentarily drowned him out.  She was shaking.  She was laughing.  She felt horror and disbelief and joy all in the same moment, and then she heard something else.  A voice that wasn't on the phone.  A voice tinged with a pleasant accent.

 

"Put down the phone, Major."

 

Still holding the cell, still hearing his warning calling to her over and over, Sam turned and saw Giovanna standing in the moonlight, a pistol in her hand.  A different weapon than she had used to kill Jack, perhaps one she was more comfortable with.

 

"Put it down."

 

She hadn't heard an engine.  Had Giovanna come in on foot, or had she been so transfixed by Davis' call that she'd simply been unaware?

 

She heard the Sergeant's voice come back on - "Major?  What was that?  Major?  Are you there?" - but decided that the scientist's threat was not to be taken lightly.  With her thumb she switched off the phone and dropped it in the dirt.

 

The woman in front of her was so different than the one Sam had met in the lab; if she hadn't heard Giovanna speak, she might not have realized who it was.  Her hair was down around her shoulders, she was dressed completely in black and her eyes were hard, cold anthracite in a pale face.  For once she wasn't listening to music... but now Sam guessed that she never had been.  The humming, foot tapping, head bobbing had all been a ruse.  When they thought she'd been absorbed by the music, she'd been listening to them.

 

"Onto the pier," said Giovanna.

 

Sam didn't move.  "What are you doing?"

 

"The pier."

 

"Not until you answer my question."

 

Giovanna pressed her lips together.  "What do you think?" she asked, disgusted.  "I am taking back what belongs to me.  You think just because you help our excavation, that it belongs to you.  It doesn't!"

 

Sam felt her jaw slacken.  "This is about the Kythnos project?"  Of all the stupid things...

 

"Apollo meant for me to find it," Giovanna hissed, thrusting out her gun hand.  "Not you.  Not Papadakos."

 

Sam swallowed thickly.  Giovanna had told her that Dr. Papadakos had been incommunicado.  Now she guessed that the unfortunate Doctor was on a permanent vacation.

 

"He tried to take it from me," said Giovanna, tossing back her hair.  "And so did you.  The pier, now!"

 

Sam took a slow step backwards, in the direction that the crazed woman had indicated.  "Why did you kill Jack?" she asked, buying time.  She didn't need to ask.  She knew.  He had just told her.

 

Giovanna lifted one shoulder in a shrug.  "Mistake.  I am not so good with long range as I used to be.  My father would be disappointed."

 

Sam had taken a half-step ahead of Jack at just the wrong - or right - moment.  He had caught the bullet meant for her.

 

She took another step back.

 

"I thought it might work anyway," Giovanna admitted, following closely but not too close, always about ten feet away.  "But you did not want to take whatever command you were offered.  I knew you wanted Apollo's treasure.  You were so eager to have me away."

 

I never cared about your damn find, Sam wanted to scream.  You can have it, you can have all of it, I don't care!  But it was too late for that.  Far too late.

 

A third step back.  Her booted foot touched wood for the first time.

 

"Your friends will be so, so sad," Giovanna reflected, mockingly.  "They thought you were getting better.  That you had gotten over him.  But you came here to be away and... you killed yourself.  So sad, Major."

 

Now it was Sam's turn to be scornful.  "I killed myself, huh?  Shot myself from ten feet away, I guess?"

 

"Oh no," said the other woman, her eyes full of faux sorrow.  "You drowned."

 

"Drowned?"

 

"In a few days, after they find you, they will look through your computer.  They will see the last time you logged on, you wrote the note.  Said it was too hard losing your friend.  Your lover," she added with a salacious smile.  "And then you came up here, all by yourself..."

 

"You're full of shit," Sam informed her, anger burning in her stomach.

 

Giovanna appeared not to hear her.  "You will turn around and jump into the water and let yourself sink down, and you will take a nice deep breath and it will be all over.  No more sadness.  You can be with him again so quickly."

 

Sam snorted, not feeling the bravado she was trying to portray.  "Sorry.  I'm not walking the plank just because you ask."

 

"Oh, I do not ask.  I am very good with this weapon," she said, indicating the pistol.  "If you do not jump, I shoot you.  Nowhere fatal, just a little bit at the time, until the pain is worse than a lung full of water."

 

Heart racing painfully, Sam shook her head.  "You shoot me, there goes your whole suicide idea."

 

"I think not," said Giovanna casually.  "I think once you have enough, I think I fish you out of the water and I bury you somewhere where you'll not be found.  Or maybe just leave you for animals.  There must be animals around here."  She glanced around appreciatively.  "All they know is you are missing.  You will be gone."

 

"Do you really want to take that risk?" Sam demanded, remembering what Kinsey had said.  "You're not going to have an alibi for whenever I went missing.  Eventually they'll find out what happened to Papadakos and they'll come after you."

 

A shadow of doubt flickered in Giovanna's eyes, but then she smiled beatifically.  "Apollo will protect me," she declared.  "There are so few who follow him now, so few, but I am still faithful.  I believe!  That is why he let me find his treasure.  He will let me keep his treasure."  She set her jaw.  "Now, Major.  Jump.  Breathe deep."

 

"No."

 

A gunshot exploded into the twilight and Sam fell into the hard deck, unable to muffle a cry of pain as the bullet tore into her right thigh.  The shot had been loud - birds in a nearby thicket had taken flight - but she knew from speaking to the woman at the rental company that this area was almost uninhabited.  And even if someone did hear the shots, or her screams, no police would arrive quickly enough to save her.

 

Giovanna smiled, gratified.  "Too many try to take what doesn't belong," she said softly.

 

Gritting her teeth against the searing heat that had consumed her entire right leg, Sam rolled onto her left side.  She was still wearing her jacket, and something in the pocket was pushed painfully into her side.  The camera, she remembered.  Jack's camera.  But what good was that?

 

Masking her actions with a struggle to stand - and in fact she did have to struggle - Sam pulled out the camera anyway, holding it close to her side as she clambered to her feet.

 

Giovanna appeared delighted.  "Very good!" she enthused.  "I think the bullet went right through.  No lead to worry about.  Jump, please.  Dive in."

 

"Screw you," said Sam, breathing hard against the pain.

 

The other woman sighed, looked frustrated, and raised the gun again.

 

Sam raised the camera.

 

There was no film, but it did have a flash.  Maybe it would blind the scientist temporarily, give Sam the second she needed...

 

She pushed the button.

 

And something amazing happened.

 

The flash went off... and lit the entire sky.  It was as if the Earth had been pushed back in its rotation around the sun half a day, forced back into high noon.  The sun burned overhead, its light bright and ferocious but somehow not affecting Sam's eyes.  Not to the extent that it affected Giovanna's, at least; she threw her free arm across her face and shrieked as though she were a vampire prone to burning in the faintest natural light.

 

"...Apollo, god of truth and light..."

 

The flash faded quickly, but not so quickly that Sam didn't see the figure standing on the dock in front of the cabin... and not so quickly that she wasn't able to lunge for Giovanna.  The woman recovered quickly but not quickly enough; Sam landed hard on her, right leg screaming in pain, as though it were being torn off at the hip, but that pain was suddenly welcome because it meant that she was still alive, still had a chance.  Sam grabbed for the gun, didn't pull it away as Giovanna expected but twisted it, twisted it around until it was pointed away from her, and then let up on the crazed woman's hand.

 

Eagerly, unaware, Giovanna pulled the trigger.

 

- - -

 

Groaning, slightly faint, bleeding far too much, Sam pulled herself towards her dropped cell phone.  With great concentration, she turned it on.

 

It immediately rang in her hand.

 

The SGC.

 

- - -

 

Davis brought a CD and a CD player to the infirmary.  It contained all of the enhanced calls that he had taken off her answering machine tape.  There were 24 in all.

 

The Sergeant was blushing.  "There were things he said that were... well, I shouldn't have listened to them," he said.  "They were obviously for your ears only, and..."

 

Sam shook her head.  "It's okay, Walter."

 

He swallowed.  "Major... I heard right, didn't I?  I know that voice... at least I thought I did.  Was it really..."

 

"Jack?  Yes."

 

- - -

 

Daniel and Teal'c brought her the packet of photographs from her lab, although she didn't specifically tell them why.  Davis had heard the proof for himself, it had been inevitable, but explaining the truth to others was a different matter.  The three of them talked for a few minutes, specifically about how lucky Sam had been to escape major damage to the femoral artery in her leg, and then they left.

 

She opened the envelope and looked through the pictures.  She almost expected it not to be there, but it was.

 

He was standing on the dock in front of the cabin, facing the camera.  Wearing a blue t-shirt, his hands in the pockets of his jeans.  The sun seemed to be in his face; he was squinting slightly, and his gray hair was burnished gold.  He was smiling at the person behind the camera.

 

Although there had been no film in Jack's camera when she had snapped the flash in Giovanna's face, even though there was no date stamped on the back of this photograph, she knew that a picture had been taken and developed.

 

He was smiling at her.

 

- - -

 

She listened to the CD of his calls.  She cried.  It seemed like she was crying all the time now, and she felt a little silly, but it felt good.  It felt right.

 

He said a lot of things.  Things she wished Davis hadn't heard, but not exactly because they were embarrassing.  Because they were so true and so meant for her.

 

He asked her to look for him when she came over.  He said he'd be looking for her.

 

He told her that Ethan Ramsey was an okay guy, that he'd checked with the people that mattered.

 

He said the things that he had not said in life, things that Teal'c had nevertheless always known.

 

He shouted all these things from a great distance, but she heard him.

 

He ended every call with the same words.

 

- - -

 

Three months later, she was sitting at home reading mission reports.  She'd never truly appreciated how exhausting Jack's job had been.  Maybe that was why he'd always been so determined that she end up with it, she thought, smiling.

 

The phone rang.

 

She picked it up.

 

 

What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.
-Crowfoot