Chapter 3

Clara sat behind the wheel of her red hatchback, en route to her brother's house from the morgue. She'd picked up coffee and some bagels on the way, knowing that Lincoln was just as much a morning person as her. Which was, well, not at all. Neither of them should be told any serious information or asked to make big decisions without, at least, two cups of coffee under their belt.

But really, even with coffee in hand, she honestly didn't know how she was going tell him the news. Today had been the most horrible day of her life, what with all the pain and suffering she'd felt. Having to identify her parent's bodies was the hardest thing she'd ever had to do. She really wished she could spare her brother this pain. But knew there was no way around it. He had to know.

Clara picked up her phone; speed dialling Lincoln's number for what felt like the millionth time. Of course, it went straight to voicemail, "Hey little bro. In case you get this in the next," she looked at the clock on the dash, noting the time, "ten minutes, I'm heading over to your place now. I know it's early and you're probably still sleeping but I really need to talk to you. See you soon."

She hung up, throwing the phone on the passenger seat then returning her hand to the wheel to concentrate on navigating the road.

After helping Clara through the ordeal of identifying her parents and subsequent stomach evacuation attempt, Dr Goodwin had taken her, Gibbs and Delaney aside to explain her preliminary findings. She said that Jason had indeed suffered a heart attack, as Gibbs had said, which in turn had caused him to lose control of the vehicle. However, the doctor had expressed her interest in having toxicology reports done; to be sure nothing else had contributed to the fact, as Jason was a very healthy man.

Clara found it hard to believe that her father would drive under the influence of anything. He just wasn't that type of person. His family was everything to him. He would never do anything that would risk harming them, especially something as idiotic as DUI. He'd seen enough death in his career. Having been in the Middle East, he'd watched humanity tear itself apart, seen the results of humans' cruelty and viciousness toward each other. He was certainly never going to be the cause of a death by mistake. It just wasn't in his nature. He wasn't a careless man.

She'd said as much to the M.E. who had informed her that toxicology reports were just a precaution and fairly standard operating procedure with cases involving motor vehicle accidents.

Her mother had died, ultimately, from a broken neck. Most likely caused from smacking her head into the dash during the crash. If her other injuries hadn't killed her then the broken neck certainly would have. She'd also had superficial head injuries, like Jason, and a broken rib that had punctured her lung. But again, she'd been informed that there would be full autopsy's carried out on both her parents. God, she thought. This was a nightmare. She prayed it really was. That any minute now her alarm clock would go off and wake her up from this horrible nightmare. She would sit up in bed, shake of the bad feelings that remained and laugh at the unlikelihood of it all.

Now there was an idea, maybe this all was some terrifying dream. She pinched herself in the arm, just to be sure. Closing her eyes briefly, taking in a deep breath and letting it out again. She cracked one eye open, looking around. Nope. There was no fog like dispersing of the world around her. Just the continuous rows of street lights lining the road and the fast approaching peach of dawn creeping over the horizon. She huffed out a breath. Ridiculously, disappointment washed over her. As if she had actually had some hope of it being a dream. Ah well, it'd been worth a try.

Trying to distract herself from her ever darkening thoughts, Clara reached forward and flicked on the radio. Music filled the silence of the car as Creedence Clearwater Revival's 'Bad Moon Rising' came on. She sang along softly and for a moment her troubles seemed to weigh a little less on her.

"I see the bad moon arising. I see trouble on the way. I see earthquakes and lightnin'. I see bad times today. Don't go around tonight. Well, it's bound to take your life. There's a bad moon on the rise."

This song used to be her and her mother's favourite. The band had been her mother's favourite from the 60s. They'd sung it on their girls' day out's when they'd gone to lunch, shopping and the movies. 'The lyrics tell a story, Clara," her mother had said when she'd asked her why she loved it so much. She hadn't understood them then. She did now. It appeared as if she had to experience true loss to get it.

"Hope you got your things together. Hope you are quite prepared to die. Looks like we're in for nasty weather. One eye is taken for an eye."

The song ended with the radio announcer's voice coming over the air waves. His loud flamboyant voice kind of annoying to the senses but it was better than silence.

"Time for our news broadcast, now," he said with way too much cheer for such an ungodly hour.

"Leading the news today, Greenpeace has criticized a BP internal report on the Gulf of Mexico oil disaster as, 'a sorry attempt to spread the blame, ' and says the only way to avoid future catastrophic oil spills is to ban deepwater drilling." Yeah, that needed to happen but like it was ever going to, Clara thought.

The announcer continued on, "In sport, it's shaping up to be a major event in New Orleans on Thursday, as the Saints take on the Minnesota Vikings in the Superdome to kick off the NFL season. A parade and concert will accompany the game, and last-minute preparations are well underway for all the festivities." She'd had great tickets to that game; she really didn't feel like going now though. She should ring Sam from work and give him the tickets. He was always pestering her to go with him anyway.

"-and lastly, there was a horrific accident off the I-10 East last night, between Baton Rouge and New Orleans. The incident occurred when the driver had a heart attack resulting in two fatalities. Both the driver and the passenger died on impact. Our condolences go out to the family who we believe are locals of-", Clara slammed her hand onto the 'off' button on the radio, silencing the overly enthusiastic presenter. There was no way in hell she could listen to that. To the details of her parents death laid out so factually and uninvolved.

She continued the rest of the journey to Lincoln's house in relative quiet. Turns out, listening to the radio wasn't better than silence.

Pulling up to the curb in front of Lincoln's house, a few minutes later, Clara grabbed her purse, the coffee and bagels from the passenger seat. She balanced her items in her arms as she slammed the car door shut and walked up the footpath to his front door.

When she stepped up onto the porch, glass crunched under her feet. Looking up, she saw that the light over the door had been smashed. Unease crept through her. Why would someone have shattered the bulb? What could be gained from that? The answer ran through her mind even as the question did. Someone at his door hadn't wanted to be seen. By him or by his neighbours, she didn't know.

Clara knocked on the door. After a moment, when there was no answer, she tried again, calling out this time, "Linc? It's Clara. Are you there?"

Again, there was no answer. With her heart in her throat, she tried the handle. The door swung wide open - it hadn't even been locked. She stood outside on the porch, peering inside, the house was dark, with no lights on and all the drapes pulled closed over the windows. What the hell was going on?

"Linc?" for some reason apprehension filled her at the thought of stepping over the threshold. But it had to be done if she was to investigate further. She stepped into the hall, placing her purse and breakfast on the side table beside the door. Continuing to call out his name as she went, she slowly made her way further into the house. Feeling ridiculous as she kept her back to the walls as if something or someone was going to jump out and get her. Why she felt that way, she didn't know. She just felt as if something was horribly wrong.

Passing the living room, she saw a vase had been knocked off the kitchen counter and had splintered into a million pieces on the floor. Moving further down the hall, Clara came to Lincoln's bedroom. The sheets on the bed were thrown back as if he'd gotten up quickly and not bothered to remake it. She could barely make that out however through the clothes strewn all over the mattress and on the floor. The closet door and several of the dresser drawers also lay open with clothes and underwear hanging half out.

Heading left, into the ensuite, she paused. Everything on the vanity had been knocked to the floor - swept there as if by someone falling. The shaving cream lay cracked open, oozing its contents onto the tiles. His razor and soap lay in a puddle caused by the black glass bottle of Paco Rabanne's 'Black XS' cologne that had broken when it hit the floor. There was a crimson stain on the edge of the basin that had dripped into the puddle of everything else on the floor but had long ago since dried. Someone had been bleeding in here she realized, and quite a lot by the looks of it.

It was probably nothing, she tried to reassure herself. He'd probably just cut himself shaving or sliced his hand at work which had come open again when he'd had a shower. There was absolutely no reason to think that something suspicious was going one. Except, why had everything been knocked to the floor in here and why were there clothes everywhere in the bedroom?

She made her way back out to the bedroom, walking over to check out the open closet. His favourite jacket was still there, a New Orleans Saints black, gold and white leather bomber jacket. She looked up on the top shelf and saw that one of his two suitcases was also gone.

Suitcase gone, clothes everywhere. Where had he gone? But more to the point, why would he go? His jacket was still here and he never went anywhere without the thing. He'd had it since he was a teenager when their father had given it to him one birthday. It had been his first NFL game when they'd moved to the States. It was kind of worn out, now. But he didn't care, he loved it anyway. And what was with all the broken stuff and blood? None of this made any sense.

Turning, she made her way back to the table where she'd left her purse. Perhaps it was time to call the police.

Clara waited outside for the cops, who had obviously decided that her call hadn't been an emergency and arrived over a half an hour later. The marked car idled up the street before pulling up the driveway. It was a moment before Officers Gibbs and, unfortunately, Delaney, stepped from the car. Neither seemed in any particular hurry to come to her aid. Good to know that her fears didn't rate of much importance.

"Thanks for getting here so quickly," she said mildly as they wandered up the driveway towards her.

"What seems to be the problem, Miss Daniels?" Gibbs said when the two came to a stop in front of her.

Clara sighed. So this was how they were going to play it? Fine. "As I explained on the phone, my brother is missing."

Gibbs nodded. His many chins wobbling, "Missing, you say?"

"Yes, missing. How many other ways can I say it? Missing; absent, lost, not there, gone-"

He cut her off, "Yes, yes, Miss Daniels. I know what 'missing' means."

"Yeah well, I'm sorry. It seemed like you didn't understand the word." She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot in impatience, "So are you going to help me or not?"

"What evidence have you seen to make you think your brother is missing?"

"Again, as I said on the phone, his apartment is a mess. Someone smashed the light over the front door. There's blood everywhere."

Gibbs rose up and down on his toes while rubbing his chin, "Right well, let's have a look then. Lead the way Miss Daniels."

Ok, clearly they'd decided there was nothing unsavoury waiting within the apartment to jump out and attack them when they entered. Seeing as they were sending her in first and all. Or maybe that was their reasoning. Let the criminal take her out and she'd be a lot less annoying for them.

Clara stopped at the porch to show the officers the broken glass. Gibbs looked from the socket on the roof, to the glass on the floor then back at her, "And you saw someone smash this?"