>CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
>INSIDE THE LEMONBROOK APARTMENTS
>0250HRS…///

“Clyde has family on the way, I don’t know the ETA.” Donnelley said into his phone. They were waiting to reach their floor, the three of them packed in the elevator.

Foster’s came from the other side, starting with an annoyed sigh, “Make sure they don’t see you. The last thing we need is them calling security because some strangers are going through his things.”

“Obviously,” Donnelley muttered, “Get me a good picture of his son. Facebook, you know what that is?”

“I’m not that old, prick.” Foster chuckled, the line cut off and Donnelley shoved his phone back in his pocket. He rubbed his face, letting go of yet another annoyed sigh. “Well, fuck. At least we have Laurie and Gomez on the welcoming committee.”

[i]Ding[/i]

Laine kept her face averted when the old man with the dog spoke to Donnelly, acting like a bored, disinterested youth hoping that's what he would take her for and the dimness would hide her mature features. What he must think, the three of us, "friends" showing up in the middle of the night to clear his apartment. They looked more like a trio that would rob an old man rather than befriend one.

"Son?" She asked as he hung up, "Is it his son the way we're his friends or his actual offspring?"

"We don't know anything about the son, too easy to get duped," Jason said. "Old business friends looking to crash after a night of drinking is what I'd go with. Close enough to the truth."

Not that it mattered much, either way it meant they had to move quickly. Dr Laine stayed between the men as the elevator slid to a stop. As it dinged, she reached into her pocket to get the small digital camera and held it against her palm. No matter what Donnelly said about natural death, she would treat it like a crime scene.

“Either Laurie and Gomez stop a bewildered young man in the lobby or we get into a gunfight.” Donnelley shrugged, “Either way, we’re finishing this.”

At the mention of a gunfight Jason appeared bewildered. He checked the ceiling of the elevator for cameras then pulled out his .45 and racked the slide, the weapon close to his body and the safety still on. To Donnelley he gave a wary glance, and to Dr. Laine an expression of rumination. Jason was thinking, but of what was buried behind an intensity.

Donnelley looked back at the two of them and the look on their faces was priceless. If only they knew it was a possibility. Or maybe they did, either way, they weren’t thrilled. Less so when he casually smirked at them and turned around, stepping out of the elevator as he chuckled, “Relax. Clyde never had any enemies.” Donnelley walked on, he knew that was a lie. Clyde was a Cowboy, an outlaw, his years in Delta Green smack dab in the era where the government itself was hunting down the only heroes it had. 

He counted the numbers on the doors they passed, glancing at the number on the key he held intermittently, “That I know of, at least.”

She noticed Jason’s intent expression and when he pulled his weapon as she had her camera and for a moment she felt silly and vulnerable. Laine was treating this like a crime scene, after the danger had passed and all that was left was to piece together the puzzle of a broken life. Danger was still in the air, the unknown and secrecy added to her unsettled feeling. [i]Stop it, this was an old man who died of being old. If he had enemies, it was cholesterol and hardening arteries. [/i]

Clearing her throat, she asked them, “Do you expect he did anything to his apartment? Any ah...security measures?”  

“I knew a guy once. We were after a very hard-to-catch individual with a propensity to murder others for a cause.” Donnelley said, pausing at a door and checking the number on it against the key. He shook his head, continuing on, “We’re close. Anyways, the case was a hard one. If the man knew we were onto him he’d likely come after us. Spook or not, you’re mortal.”

“And the mortality rate for spooks? Don’t get me started. Well, this friend of mine who was helping me find this elusive murderer had jury-rigged a claymore mine to be set off if somebody entered their front door without doing the proper procedures.” Donnelley sucked at his teeth, looking at a door and then the key and then nodded. He slipped the key home, the sound of it rattling the tumblers graced his ears and he smirked as he turned it. He placed his hand on the doorknob, turned it and then opened the door without much ceremony.

“But Baughman didn’t have many enemies that would be dissuaded by a claymore mine.” Donnelley took the first step in. What greeted them was surprisingly normal to the other two. And, perhaps, maybe a little surprising to Joseph.

The doorway only offered a slice of the normality of the small apartment. It told the story of a man who lived like just about anybody else would, waiting out his retirement years with the usual fineries of a middle-class man. There was an empty coffee cup on the living room table, a tv that had gathered some dust on the screen and a dvd/vcr player under it in the entertainment station. Unopened envelopes and junk mail were spread out on the same table. Other than the paper, everything was just clean enough to look lived in but not dirty enough to tell of a man who lived a hard life of tragedy.

Directly ahead was a sliding glass door that led out onto a balcony with a humble view of Charleston. As Donnelley walked further in, he looked around. To his left was the bathroom, door still open. He looked along the wall and spotted the light switch, flipping one turned on the hallway lights. The other illuminated the doorway and living room. To his right and down a very short hall was the only bedroom, file cabinets and plastic containers were full of documents, some of which may or may not be interesting to Donnelley and his team. 

A few steps toward it was the kitchen, and something caught Donnelley’s eye on the fridge- that looked to have been made 20 years ago. A crudely drawn family portrait, a collection of four people rendered by a child’s sloppy hand as smiling stick figures. The signature at the bottom- ‘for grampa.’ There was a stove that hadn’t been cleaned for a week, maybe, dishes in the sink. Donnelley shook his head and sighed. There was long-staled toast still in the toaster slots. He turned away, pushing the door open to the other room next to the bedroom. Only more paperwork and a computer in the office, the desk that held the computer had a file cabinet squatting next to it, parts of the paint flaking away to reveal bare and rusted metal. Whatever was in there was old. Case files?

Above all else, the only thing that Donnelley knew about Clyde’s apartment was there was going to be an effort to meticulously search every goddamn piece of paper in every container, folder, drawer, envelope.

“Feel free to take a look around. Doubt the old man would mind right now. We should go through those papers.” Donnelley said, looking around him reminded him that ‘those papers’ referred to a great many of the piles. “A lot of goddamn clutter, Clyde…”

When the lights came on, Dr Laine stood in the doorway, taking a long look at the apartment before raising her camera and snapping a picture, the muffled click the only sound.  It looked normal, nothing overly clean and it was not a hoarding nightmare, both signs of mental instability in her opinion. She walked into the living room, taking in the details as her sharp green eyes gleamed behind her glasses. 

“Fairly normal,” she commented, “Of course they’re always normal until you find the jar of severed fingers in the fridge. Not that Baughman would, I just...” 

Laine trailed off as she made her way into the hallway, her FBI training taking over as she noted any smudges on door frames or stains on the carpet. Upon entering the bathroom she caught her reflection in the mirror, her short dark hair slightly mussed from the breeze outside and she reached to smooth it down. Then she opened the mirrored cabinet, looking at the contents. A razor, bottles of aspirin and Tylenol and the ubiquitous orange-brown prescription bottles of anyone over 35. Curious, she took one and read the label. Viagra. 

She huffed a soft laugh and put it back, checking the others. Typical high blood pressure pills, the guy probably popped an artery trying to get it up. [i]For who?[/i] The thought passed her mind but that was not what they were here for, and time was ticking.

Laine closed the cabinet, and checked under the sink, nothing but cleaners. She lifted the lid of the toilet tank, checking to see if anything might have been hidden in a plastic bag or container. Finding nothing but water, she closed it and moved out of the small room into the hallway. 

Jason was the last to enter, hovering around the living room and taking the apartment in. Dr. Laine was right, normal was the perfect descriptor. [I] Baughman was anything but normal[/I], Jason reminded himself. Whatever he was a part of, what they all were now a part of, was beyond normalcy's fringe. The pattern, the eccentricity, just had to reveal itself. 

Jason opened the coat closet and finding nothing of interest he grabbed a cloth bag with leather handles, the type that looked weathered but too sturdy of quality to be anything modern. 

The doctor entered the bedroom, taking a picture of it before digging into the first tote, dumping it onto the bed and setting the empty bin next to her feet as she began shuffling through the documents. She dumped the old bills and junk back into it, hunting for something out of the ordinary. As Laine went through the paperwork, something Donnelly said came back to her. She must have missed it but now it planted itself forefront in  her mind,[i] “...Baughman didn’t have many enemies that would be dissuaded by a claymore mine.”[/i]

Pausing, gripping a manilla envelope in her hand she ran over the sentence, perhaps it was just his way of speaking, that slight Texas accent and manner but what would not be dissuaded by a claymore mine? Frowning slightly, she stored it back to ask later then folded the brass clasp to open the envelope.

“What am I even looking for?” she muttered, pulling out a tax return from 2002. 

Jason passed the bedroom door and threw the bag on the bed next to the pile of letters Dr. Laine was sorting through. "If we find anything to haul," he said, and disappeared down the hall. 

[hr]

“Bills, junk mail, junk mail, bills.” Joseph leaned back in the couch and sighed, “It’s like I’m going through my own mail.”

Just then, he felt his phone vibrate. He tapped the power button and it came to life, showing a notification from Foster. Opening it revealed the face of Sam Baughman, as evidenced from Foster’s message below, ‘This is Sam. Be careful if you’re caught by him. Followed his daddy and he’s Army. At least you, Justin, and Sam can trade stories about being Rangers.’

He snorted, texting back, ‘Thanks. Maybe one day you’ll be a real man too.’

He forwarded the picture to the rest of his team with the warning, ‘Careful, he’s a Ranger. Take care.’ 

He looked around the room, his eyes snagging on a row of key hooks, on which three of the four were taken up. He stood, walking over and plucking one of them off the hooks and checking it against the door key. Not a match, another place he was staying? It was for a house or apartment, that was apparent.

The other was smaller, made for a storage unit or mailbox, perhaps… the mailboxes downstairs. He smirked, pocketing the mailbox key and the other, just in case. The other was for a car, but they weren’t in the business of repossessing his belongings. “Jason,” he fished the mailbox key out of his pocket, “Run this down to Gomez and Laurie.”

"Roger that," Jason replied from the hallway. His heavy steps entered the living room before he did but he was quick to take the keys, not stopping his stride to the front door as he asked, "We find anything worth while?"

“So far? Just the key. Maybe he’s got something in the mail but if he was as good at his job as I’m led to believe then we’ll never find anything classified here.” Donnelley shrugged, “I’ll message you and everybody posted while we look through this shit.”

Laine gave Jason a small smile and thanked him for the bag, then went back to tearing through the useless junk. Hadn't Baughman heard of a shredder? After she cleared the bin and put all the expired credit offers and bills back she got up to stretch her legs.

She wandered around his room, looking over the dresser and picked up the portrait of Clyde and his wife, she could see their matching wedding bands in the photo.They looked normal, smiling the happy couple smiles into the camera. She wondered briefly if his wife had any idea what her husband did for a living or was she blissfully ignorant. Laine wasn't even sure what Baughman had done for a living only that it had been secret and dangerous enough that a spook and his team were burglarizing his home. Flipping it over, she slipped the latches from the cardboard and removed it to see the back, checking for any writing or hidden items. 

Once she checked that, Laine opened the top drawer and noted the gun and loose rounds, leaving them there for now. She scooped up the photos, thumbing through them.

“What’chu got?” Joseph asked, stepping up behind Laine with his hands in his pockets, casually surveying the aftermath of the tornado Laine was on the once peaceful stacks of otherwise useless mail and files.

“By the way, I was thinking of ripping open the computer and looking through that file cabinet he’s got.” Donnelley shrugged, “If you’re not too busy looking at… Clyde’s wife.” He said as he peeked over Laine’s shoulder.

Dr Laine jumped at the sound of his voice, turning halfway to see Donnelly just behind her. At the mention of the computer and filing cabinet, she nodded then glanced back at the couple in the photo. 

"Do you think she knew?" Laine asked, looking back up at Donnelly. "About his work, I mean?" 

Donnelley’s otherwise lackadaisical demeanor fell away for only a second. Clyde’s life told the same story as his own, but with happier endings. It made him jealous, almost. He remembered the arguments with Holly when he came back from Afghanistan.

Now those smiles that Clyde and his wife had in those photos could never be had with Donnelley and Holly. Tilly neither. He stepped up beside Laine, looking at the photos as she thumbed through each one. He shook his head, “No.” he said, “No, they never do. Work isn’t allowed to be talked about. You wouldn’t ever want to, anyways, if you knew what was good for them.”

Laine watched him, catching the movement of his expression, a flicker of emotion in his calm face. He recovered quickly, moving closer as she searched the photos. 

Turning to him she made a guess and asked, "What did you tell your wife when the things you see and know keep you up at night, that make you bolt out of sleep and haunt your thoughts?"

Her gaze met his, "Did she want to know?"

Donnelley shrugged, shaking his head, “Maybe.” He frowned, working at the words though it felt like he had to pry them loose. He looked at Laine and shook his head, “Maybe not. I think she- all of them. Husbands, wives, they all think talking about it will make it go away. Sharing a burden, for better and for worse.”

“They weren’t thinking about people like me when they wrote that.” He sighed, leaning closer to Laine and holding her gaze long enough with that face of his. Could she understand until she saw for herself? Not just the black slab, but the things that put it there? Still, he stared into her, leaning just a hair closer, “Eyes peeled. Ears open.”

He turned and left, disappeared around the corner into the office. Whether she followed him or not was her choice, but her prying left a bad taste in his mouth with every word she let tumble out of him. Maybe he wanted to talk, after so long of just not. Even so, he called over his shoulder, “I don’t think the mission left any room for picking my brain, Doctor.”

Dr Laine kept her gaze steady on his blue eyes, she had stared into the eyes of dangerous men before, monsters wearing human flesh. Donnelly might have been CIA and a killer but he wasn't one of them, there was still too much humanity in his eyes. Sadness, regret perhaps, and he confirmed her guess at being married or at least had been so. She set the pictures back in the drawer and called after him, "Maybe you're right, but I'm here for information. And you..."

Then he was gone.

She let him go, bending to open the next drawers, searching through them, her hands reaching into the back of each drawer. Her fingers slid across smooth grain until she felt an irregularity at the back. Something had scratched or indented the wood so she pulled out the drawer until it hung down so she could examine it in the light.

Laine used her fingernails to pry at the indents, to see if it perhaps opened a false bottom or back."Better not chip a nail," she muttered.

Finally, the bottom gave way. The only contents were an envelope labeled, ‘Mr. Green,’ a green triangle drawn next to it.

Laine pulled out the envelope, turning it over and studying the writing for a moment. She should out in the bag and give it to Donnelly so he could dispose of it, whatever it was it had been hidden well. She should.

Instead, Laine slid a black laquered fingernail under the flap and opened it, removing whatever was inside. 

It was a single sheet with an address written neatly across. Her heart sank a bit, nothing about murders or stones but it was a start. 
[hr]

“Fucking finally.” Donnelley muttered to himself, looking at the computer tower in pieces. He snatched up the hard drive and put it in his hoodie’s pocket, opening one of the drawers of the file cabinet. Empty.

He furrowed his brow and checked the second one down, empty. Third? Empty, but the fourth held something. Two Manila folders. He hiked up the legs of his pants and squatted down, flipping open one of the folders. He read the document inside. After a few seconds of reading, it was apparent that the paper was a therapist’s report on his mental health.

He reached down and grabbed the folder up, reading the second page. Nothing out of the ordinary, just talking about how he missed Marlene- so that’s her name- and he had ‘work-related stress and nightmares’ and he always wondered if he did the right thing. “Don’t we all, Clyde.”

Other than that, there was nothing else worth anything to Donnelley in the file cabinets. He leaned his head into the bedroom, “I’ve got the hard drive.”

She set it on the dresser and snapped a picture of it just as Donnelly poked his head in. Stuffing the small camera back in her jacket pocket quickly, she turned to him then grabbed the envelope and paper, handing it over. 

"An address," Laine said, then gave him a curious smile, "Do you have code names? Like in Reservoir Dogs? You know, Mr Pink?"

She held up the envelope, "Mr Green, for Baughman?"

Donnelley raised his brows, nodding at the envelope in Laine’s hands. Mr. Green, the green triangle. “Something like that, sure.” He looked at Laine, “Let’s go join the others. Whatever that address is could be important, huh?”

With that he left the room, tucking a ncigarette between his lips just waiting to be lit while the man himself waited for Laine to join him so he could very literally close the door on this part of the mission.

Dr Laine put the contents back in the drawer and pushed it into place, the totes now sealed and shoved into their corners. She started to walk out when she remembered the portrait and clipped it back into place under the glass, setting it back on the dresser. 

"Tidied up a bit," she said, hurrying out to where Donnelly waited. Laine tucked her hands in her jacket, the leather creaking softly in the quiet apartment.
"That's it then?" 

Donnelley and Laine went out the way they came in, flicking the lights off and shutting the door of Clyde’s apartment. Donnelley locked it, stepping back and nodding. “That’s it.”

The two continued down the hall from whence they came, walking fast and not making any small talk. At least not until they got to the elevator. They stepped inside, quiet for only a few moments while Donnelley pressed the Lobby Button. “What was that, back there?” Donnelley looked sidelong at Laine, “You usually just try to psychoanalyze your co-workers?”

In the elevator she met his glance and shrugged slightly, "No, just my bosses."

After a beat, she turned to look at him fully,"Mr Donnelly, it was only a question because I am curious about you, I apologize if it seemed I was trying to put you on the couch."

“I don’t know you. Least of all know you well enough to spill the shit about [i]my life.[/i]” Donnelley spoke, the dangling cigarette jumping with each word, though not altogether fuming. He did shake his head, “It’s just…”

Donnelley chuckled ruefully, rubbing his eyes, “Ain’t professional, s’all.” Although he did turn his head to look at her, “You did good back there. Crafty.”

[i]Ding[/i]

He stepped off the elevator and away from her before she could reply. He looked right, then left, scanning for his team. When he spotted them huddled around the mailboxes, he raised his hand as he approached them, “Care for a smoke?”

Laine watched him walk away, perhaps he was right but there were so many unanswered questions. About him, about Foster and who, other than the mystery government types, they were and why the motley team was put together. But that wasn't why she had asked, not wholly. 

She followed behind, reaching up into her pocket to find the pack of Djarums, feeling the stick of gum beside it. She pulled out a black cigarette and held it between her fingers as she fished out the cheap Zippo from her jeans.