Chapter 7
Any comments, suggestions or questions can be directed to the author.
Thank you for taking the time to read and I hope you found something that you could
enjoy.


Disclaimer: I do not own anything in relation to C.S.I., Alliance Atlantic, CBS, William Petersen, Jorja Fox or
any other characters contained herein... I just like playing with them now and then while stretching my writing
muscles. And if you think  there's any money to be gained by suing me, you're in for a horrible
disappointment.
Check out All the Author's Works in Progress at FanFiction.net
Completely surrounded by various brown paper packages bearing the names of retailers from all over the internet was not how
I thought I would spend my Christmas this year. I was convinced it would be spent far away from the lights of Las Vegas, curled
up in front a large fireplace, a glass of mulled wine in one hand and Sara in the other as we spent the holiday in quiet repose
at the cabin I rented for us. It was supposed to be our honeymoon.

When the woman from the rental company called to confirm our reservation I was floored. In the chaos surrounding Sara’s
leaving, I had all but forgotten about our little vacation. And with that phone call, it was brought back to me in full living color.
As I cancelled the reservation I felt as though another small piece of me died.

My situation was made even more difficult by the fact that I was being forced to take the vacation days I had scheduled for the
trip. Catherine stepped in and told Conrad that I needed some time away from the lab, and apparently she needed some time
away from me as well. I was informed that I needed to get my head on straight, or she would administer a suitable punishment
for my crimes. Actually, the wording she used was far more common, and just a touch a vulgar, but I’ve come to expect as
much from her.

As I looked around at my living room, I began to wonder if internet shopping hadn’t become my escape from reality. How could
one person make so many purchases without realizing what he was doing? But as I watched Hank crunch and devour one of
the green dog bones I had found for his atrocious breath, I decided that all internet shopping wasn’t so bad.

Rising to my feet, I came to the conclusion that all of the boxes needed to be sorted, properly stacked, and stowed in order to
clear all of the clutter from the room. I was actually surprised the mess had not bothered me until then. But it probably had
more to do with the fact that I wasn’t spending any time in the living room. There just never seemed to be a point anymore.

I scanned the room for all of the boxes marked with the sideways smile logo of an incredibly addictive internet retailer and
began to stack them all up in one corner. Next, in order of prevalence were the boxes marked with that circular letter logo,
another dealer for multitudes of items I never knew we needed. After that, it became a far less daunting task; a small
bookseller here and there, a natural products company, a law enforcement supply house, and a smattering of trinkets and
collectibles found on that most heinous of auction sites.

Once everything was neatly stacked, I glanced down at my watch and discovered that it was nearing the time Henry would be
dropping by for the final delivery before Christmas. It was the morning of Christmas Eve, and this would be my last chance to
reward the man who had been tending to my shopping addiction, as well as my anxious waiting for anything from Sara.

Actually, Henry delivered part of the Christmas bonus on Saturday. I had begun to worry it would not arrive in time, and even
contacted the seller again to confirm it had been shipped. It was a signed, commemorative baseball card from Hank Aaron. It
wasn’t vintage or anything, but it was something I felt he would appreciate. After all, Hammerin’ Hank is the common thread that
drew him to Sara and our Hank, so I felt the gesture was warranted. And despite all of Sara’s insistences from the Christmas
before, I still included a check for the man. She was certain that giving him something as impersonal as a check was
inappropriate. However, knowing that these men and women must endure far more than their pay provides for, I couldn’t
imagine that he didn’t have any use for an extra fifty dollars for his troubles, especially after the mass of packages that had
been delivered in the last couple months.

I put Hank on his leash and we both went to spend a little quality time out front, waiting for Henry to make his delivery. The sun
was shining today, and it made our attempts at levity pleasant. Hank chased the ball a few times, and ran around me once or
twice, but in the end we just had a seat and quietly read the paper as we waited.

When Henry finally pulled his truck up in front of our house, I wondered why he wasn’t walking his normal route. I also began to
scan my memories to see if there was some other massive package yet to be delivered, but my mind drew a blank. As he
jumped out of his truck, I had to fight to restrain my laughter. The man was actually wearing a Santa cap with a brim on his
head and a bright red and green scarf around his neck.

“Dr. G! Have I got something for you!” he called out from the truck with such an excited tone that I, too, was caught up in the
moment. When he approached, Henry was carrying a digital clipboard and one of those cardstock mailers. “This must’ve been
pretty darned important for her to send it Global Express, all the way from Italy. That’s a serious chunk of change, ya know.”

He handed me the clipboard and I signed for the envelope. The whole thing occurred in a blur, and I was simply happy that
Henry seemed to still have all of his faculties. In my haste to sign for Sara’s package, I almost forgot our gift for Henry.  It wasn’t
until the man knelt and began scratching at Hank’s ears that I remembered.  

Quickly, I fished the envelope out of my jacket pocket and, when Henry stood, I held it out.  I hoped that I didn’t look nearly as
awkward as I felt. Thankfully, the gracious man never gave any indication that I had made such a mess of the offering.

He thanked me generously and shook my hand before reaching into his own pocket. When he held up a colorful cellophane
bundle of dog biscuits he grinned from ear to ear and then said, “Don’t worry, Doc… The wife made these special for the little
guys on my route. She says they’re much better than the ones I give ‘em now. Supposed to be healthier or somethin’. I don’t
know about that, but I’ve never met a dog that didn’t love some peanut butter.” He dropped the bag into my open hand and
tipped his cap before walking back to the truck. As he climbed up into the truck he called out, “Merry Christmas, Dr. G. and
here’s to a happier New Year!”

For several long moments I stared after the amiable postman, nearly forgetting about the items in my tight grasp. That
changed when Hank reminded me with a rather demanding bark that I had something belonging to him.

Once inside the house, I gave Hank one of the pungent, obviously homemade dog biscuits in the shape of a mailbox, and I left
him to consume it in peace. I held the envelope in an iron grip and made my way to the couch.

As I sat down, I noticed that there was something decidedly not a letter in the package. It was hard, and slightly round, though
it felt like there was some kind of padding wrapped around it. Squeezing the envelope between my fingers, I continued to try
and discern the item from the outside, instead of opening it up to see the thing. It was an act of futility, but I had a sense of
foreboding doom regarding the contents of such a precious envelope.

My stalemate was broken when Hank had finished his Christmas biscuit and came into the living room to inspect my present.
After a few sniffs of the envelope in my hands, he laid his head down over my knee and gave me that look that always melted
any resolve I had. I patted his head and thanked him for the encouragement. “Okay, Boy… We’ll open it together.”

With a quick and fluid pull, the envelope was opened. The only left to do was to look inside. I reached in to retrieve the
contents and found what felt like a greeting card and another envelope, but that one was of a standard variety. Carefully, I
slipped them both from inside, but despite my care, another item fell from the envelope and into my lap. After a few moments of
trying to keep Hank from inhaling the thing, I managed to retrieve it.

My suspicions were confirmed, and in my hand I held a small, delicately bubble-wrapped item. Looking at the other contents of
the mailer, I found that one of the inner envelopes had writing on it. On the greeting card it bore the words “Open First,” in a
very familiar scrawl. I made a table of the mailer upon my lap and set the other two items on top of it to keep them safe and in
view.

Inhaling sharply, I worked up the courage to unfold the flap on the greeting card. Once open, I quickly removed the card to
gaze upon the front. Without a moment’s hesitation I instantly recognized the crystalline Gothic glory of the Duomo di Milano.
From the accoutrements visible in the photograph I could tell it had been taken during Christmastide. It was simply
breathtaking, and a location I had longed to see since I was a boy.

Opening the card, I found only Sara’s handwriting, and the small caption, in Italian, naming the location and date of the photo.
The small smooth disk of amber warmed in my fiercely rigid fist. As I choked back the emotions percolating to the surface of my
barely contained façade, I set the card down upon the makeshift table and reached for the other envelope.

Deliberately swallowing a few times, I attempted to keep the lump in my throat from cutting off my airway. Then I opened the
letter. The first thing I noticed; it was handwritten.
I gingerly set the letter and the card down on the coffee table and reached into my pocket for the cell phone when I got up from
the couch.

“Jim… Do you still have any contacts in the JAG Corps?... Can you reach out to them and have someone vouch for Sara with
the Italian customs office?... It would take far too long to explain. She’s in Gaeta with family, and they confiscated property
because it tested positive for residue…” As I tried to explain the circumstances of Sara’s predicament, I walked into the spare
room.

“Yes, I know every one of us would do the same, but she doesn’t have her law enforcement identification with her… Petty
Officer John ‘Jack’ Sidle…” Opening the door to the closet, I instantly recognized a large brightly wrapped box on the top shelf.
“That’s right… Thank you, Jim. Goodbye.”

I shut off the phone before I returned it to my pocket and reached up for the box. There was a tiny gift card tied to the bow that
I opened and read, “I know how much you like quirky headwear… Wear it in good health, pardner. Love, Sara.”

Lifting the lid from the box, I was blown away by the contents. Inside the hat band of what appeared to be a genuine Roy
Rogers style Stetson hat was another note.
I spent the next day sitting on the couch; the hat box in one hand, and the amber with the butterfly inclusion in the other. The
only time I moved to was to take care of Hank, who seemed to sense my mood, because he never left my side the whole week.

New Years was spent much the same way.
PREVIOUS
NEXT