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Smoke With Fire

by Karen (Kent)

For anyone who hasn't read about the Colonel's neighbours before,
they appear in `New Life And Friendships', and `Home Sweet Home'.
Both by Kazza. Both archived at Jackfic.com

And many, many thanks to Judy Gallagater and Sidney, who made many
invaluable comments and suggestions without which I would have
floundered. Any mistakes that remain are entirely mine.

And yes, it's true, I have a fixation with this episode!

Feedback would be appreciated. Many thanks.

Part 1

Jack O'Neill placed his feet on his fishing hamper, and settled back
in his chair to watch the water ripple outwards from his fishing
line, which caught, like a single strand of spider-woven thread, in
the gentle afternoon breeze. The sun lightly kissed his face, and the
only sounds to disturb him were birds calling to each other and
leaves rustling.

This was why he loved his cabin so much. Twenty miles from the
nearest town. Nothing but peace and quiet and fishing.

Life was truly wonderful up here.

He intended to enjoy every moment of this hard-won vacation time.

And make its memory last. Because hard-knocked experience had taught
him that life could turn around and bite you on the ass without
warning, at any moment.

Pulling his cap down over his eyes, he leaned back so that he could
just about keep an eye on the line from under the brim, *in case* it
should twitch, and smiled quietly to himself as he relaxed into the
moment.


********


Donna James smiled at the sounds of children playing in the street. A
full-scale game of street hockey was livening up the Saturday
afternoon. There were enthusiastic cries of encouragement, and shouts
of triumph as a goal was scored, followed by a chorus of approval and
applause. That was the Colonel's influence, she smiled. He maintained
that good sports players were magnanimous in both victory and defeat.
Whenever he played with the kids he always insisted in teams
applauding each other, and, even though he wasn't there with them
this afternoon, his influence was still being felt.

Donna smiled down at her baby son, as she finished changing his
diaper.

`Your godfather is a good man, Mikey,' she said approvingly.

Mikey gurgled back his agreement, with all the impressive discursive
ability of a seven-month-old. His mother nuzzled his bare stomach
with her nose, and blew raspberries against his skin. Mikey burbled
back at her happily.

`Right, we have to go check the Colonel's mail. Good thought, Mikey.'

Mikey continued to smile happily as Donna finished dressing him and
then lifted him into his baby sling, so that he rested against her
front, looking up into his mother's face.

`Michael!' Donna called.

Her husband appeared from the study where he was putting up a set of
new shelves.

Donna laughed at his harassed expression. Michael was not the world's
greatest home improvements' expert.

`I'm going to check the Colonel's mail.'

Michael nodded distractedly, and disappeared back into the study.

It was strange, Donna thought, as she crossed the road, keeping a
wary eye on the hockey game so that she wasn't caught up in either
team's mad scramble for a goal, that despite the fact that everyone
now knew that the Colonel had a name, as in Jack O'Neill, he was
still "the Colonel" too everyone in the neighbourhood when they
referred to him amongst themselves. Some had got to the point where
they called him Jack to his face, but old habits meant that most
still called him "the Colonel" in every other context.

She let herself into his house and cleared the mat of the day's mail.

Bills, again. And junk mail.

There was never anything else.

Donna went through into the kitchen and added the day's collection to
the pile of other mail delivered since the Colonel had left on
vacation, four days ago. She looked at it and sighed, as she had
every other day he'd been gone. As she did every time he was away. It
was beyond her comprehension why such a kind, considerate man
appeared to have no one in the world who cared for him, apart from
his neighbours and those he worked with.

Every time he entrusted her with keeping an eye on his house she
hoped to see a handwritten letter. Something, anything, to show that
he had a family somewhere. In six months there had been nothing.
Sure, loads of people emailed these days, but she still wrote long
letters to her parents who had yet to master the wonders of the
Internet, and they responded in kind. And, in pre-Mikey days, she had
enjoyed sending postcards to friends and family during vacations to
far-flung parts of the United States and Europe. But nothing of that
sort had turned up at the Colonel's door while she was in charge,
which had been a great deal of the time recently, as he seemed to get
called away a fair amount doing whatever it was he did in the
military.

In so many ways the man was a complete enigma.

She left the mail and wandered into the living room, checking that
everything was as it should be. A light blinked on the answering
machine but she left it alone. The Colonel had been very explicit
about things like that when he asked her to keep an eye on his house.
He needed someone to just pick up the mail, and generally check that
nothing was disturbed. That no one had got past the security system.

`I'd just feel happier knowing someone was keeping an eye on
things . . .' he'd let the sentence fade out while he assessed her
reaction. Maybe concerned that, on top of a new-born infant, this was
one responsibility too many.

`I'd love to,' she'd told him, only too pleased to repay her
considerable debt to him in this small way.

`Thanks. Old Harry Parker used to stop by, but now he's gone to live
with his daughter in Pittsburgh . . .' she'd sensed that he had still
been giving her the chance to opt out.

`Colonel,' she'd interrupted, emphatically, `I would consider it a
very useful means of monitoring the life style of my son's
godparent.'

He'd smiled that boyishly-wide, eye-creasing smile he didn't use
nearly enough, and said, `Yes, ma'am!' with a mock salute.

Donna checked that the patio windows were closed and locked, just as
the Colonel had left them when he departed for his cabin, and then,
laughing at Mikey's babbling, she settled down on the sofa for a
moment.

She liked to sit here, sometimes, and reminisce about her first
meeting with the Colonel.

The night Mikey was born.

`Hey, honey,' she said to her son as she lifted him out his sling,
and settled him on her knees. `This is where you were born.'

Mikey blew bubbles, and dribbled. Donna laughed and wiped his chin.

`Right here. On the carpet.'

Mikey seemed not the least bit embarrassed by this information.
Probably because he'd heard it so many times before. Sometimes Donna
would take a time-out break in the Colonel's living room. If she and
Michael had had a row, or he was making too much do-it-yourself home
improvement noise, like today, she was not above stretching her
visits beyond the necessary time. And she knew the Colonel wouldn't
mind. That was the kind of man he was.

`The poor old Colonel was already injured, and then he had to help
me, a stranger he'd never met before, give birth to you in his living
room.'

Mikey continued to sit on his mother's knees and burble happily.

It could easily have turned into the most embarrassing time of her
life. Yet, somehow, the Colonel had managed to help her, a complete
stranger, who had arrived on his doorstep in the middle of a
thunderstorm, through the pain of contractions until his friend
Janet, who was a doctor, had been able to get to the house. He'd
taken charge with a great deal of authority, the minimum amount of
fuss and without making her feel uncomfortable.

And one thing she had learned from that night was that the Colonel
had previous experience of being present at a childbirth, despite the
fact that he'd never referred to any kids of his own.

She'd often wondered if the Colonel had ever been married. It didn't
seem possible that such a  handsome, charming man could have remained
single his entire life. And yet, apart from the arrangement of awards
above the fireplace, there was no concession to a personal
background, that she'd seen, anywhere in the house. There were
certainly no pictures of any family.

She'd never asked, and he'd never said, and carefully discreet
enquiries amongst her other neighbourhood `Colonel Watch' friends had
revealed that they knew as much as she did.

Absolutely nothing.

Donna thought the possible fact that he'd never been married was a
crying shame, because she'd seen how he was with Mikey, and also with
the other older kids in the neighbourhood. He was completely at ease
with them. And she had absolutely no doubts that he would be a great
father.

Donna gave herself an extra half hour's grace before wandering slowly
back home.

Michael had seemingly given up on trying to put up shelves, and was
watching a news channel on the television.

`Hey, Donna,' he greeted her, not taking his eyes off the screen.

`Michael?' Something in his voice made her query him.

`There's been a shooting in Washington.'

`What!' Donna stood and waited for him to tell her more. Her grip on
Mikey tightening as if the news somehow meant that her son was in
danger. That they all were. `Who?' She caught her breath at the
thought of the worst. `The President?'

Michael glanced up briefly. `No. Kinsey. That Senator who's been
making all those speeches lately. The one they thought might get a go
at the Presidency, or at least get close.'

As he spoke, a face was pictured on the screen, and Donna realised
who he was talking about. A self-satisfied man with whitening hair.
His eyes were cold, despite lips that were curled in a smile.
Untrustworthy, Donna had thought every time she had seen him.

The newscaster proceeded to retell the day's events as she knew them,
and Donna sank down next to Michael to listen.

***********

Across the road from Donna and Michael James, Albert Johnson and his
wife, Sylvia, watched the stunning news story unfold throughout the
next day. At first there was considerable and frightening speculation
about terrorism: connections to various underground networks and
rebel factions, as well as a range of countries that bore the United
States no good will, were explored.

But, gradually, the theories were expounded with increasing
repetitiveness, as journalists tried hard to gloss over the fact that
no one seemed to really know anything and all the supposition ran its
course, as no one came forward to claim responsibility for killing
one of America's foremost politicians.

Albert came back from trimming the colonel's lawns and hedges to find
his wife, with their friend Nettie Dawson, from next door but three,
watching yet another news round-up.

`There's nothing new,' Sylvia told him sipping her coffee. `They've
just been retelling everything and guessing and such. No one seems to
know anything at all.'

`There've been no other incidents, though,' Nettie said. `So that's a
blessing.'

Albert grunted as he poured himself a coffee from the pot.

`You've finished the Colonel's lawns then?' Sylvia asked idly.

Albert nodded. Ever since he'd taken it upon himself to mow the lawn
one weekend when the Colonel had been unwell, he'd somehow fallen
into the habit of carrying on with the routine. The Colonel was home
on such a haphazard schedule it had seemed to make sense to Albert
that someone trustworthy take care of the job regularly.

The Colonel had said, `Fine, Al. Thanks. If I don't want you to do it
any time, for any reason, I'll let you know.' And there had ensued
the friendliest of neighbourly rows about remuneration. Albert had
said none was needed. The Colonel had said he wouldn't hear of Albert
doing it for free.

A compromise consisting of a monthly bottle of a fine single malt had
appeased both parties.

And, so far, the Colonel's friend, Janet, had phoned only once to say
that the Colonel was a little under the weather, and would Albert
please not go round that particular Sunday.

The Johnsons, and Nettie, and Donna James were the folks behind the
now slightly infamous `Colonel Watch' in the neighbourhood. A group
who simply kept a weather eye on the comings and goings and general
well-being of a man who had gradually become a popular member of the
community, despite the fact that he was often away for long periods
of time.

Albert sat down in his armchair to catch the hourly update, and
reflected that the Colonel hadn't always been so well liked.

Sipping his drink, and with one eye on the recycled headlines, Albert
remembered when the Colonel had first bought his house, and kept very
much to himself. The Johnsons were not busybodies, but they liked to
keep an eye on things. You just never knew who you might be living
next door to these days, Sylvia had said. And it was true. It was
every responsible American's duty to simply keep up to date with what
was occurring in his or her neighbourhood. Both Albert and Sylvia
were retired, and had time to take note of what went on and who did
what around where they lived.

It hadn't taken them long to realise that the solitary man who had
bought the Pedersson place, across the way, kept odd hours, and liked
to watch the stars from a telescope he'd assembled on the decking
around his roof. Beyond that, they'd been able to illicit almost
nothing about him. He didn't appear to have a job, and didn't appear
to go out much. But he kept himself to himself, and did not trouble
anyone.

Emmett Trueman, who moved out of the house to the left nearly a year
after the Colonel became his neighbour, said only that the man was
prone to playing classical and operatic music quite loudly at times;
but that was the sum of any real gossip. Beyond that, no one had come
to know anything more about him.

Certainly no one had come to know *him*.

Then, suddenly, without warning, after a year, things had altered.
The Johnsons had noticed that the Colonel – they had still not known
he was a colonel then – had started to stay away for considerable
periods at a time, but no one had known any more than that.

Until he came home on a long convalescence leave, hobbling around on
crutches, and generally looking as if he'd fallen down a mountain, or
gone several rounds with Mike Tyson. He was home for an extensive
period, having, he said, been involved in a serious training accident
which had left him with a badly broken leg, internal injuries and
concussion.

Slowly, over the months that he was home recovering, he began to
spend more and more time outside on his back decking, reading and
playing music at an acceptable level. And conversations started over
the fence about his well-being, and his selections of literature and
music. The odd word or two to begin with, then, progressively, the
enquiries became more frequent and more sincere, about whether there
was anything the man, hindered by a hefty plaster cast and crutches,
might need.

So, gradually, a few bridges had been built: Nettie Dawson had begun
trimming his flower beds for him, and eventually started chatting
with the shy, be-spectacled, young man who came by and attempted to
mow the lawn; Albert had discovered he and the Colonel shared a
passion for ice hockey; Sylvia was pleased to find someone with whom
she could discuss the finer points of classical music; and other
folks found him to be a pleasant and polite neighbour.

Albert had also tried talking, with little success he had to admit,
to the tall dark-skinned gentleman, who appeared with take-out meals
much more often than Sylvia thought was good for the Colonel's
arteries.

There was also a leggy blonde and a feisty brunette, with neither of
whom he appeared to be romantically involved, much to the chagrin of
the romantically inclined in the neighbourhood, and the secret
delight of those in the neighbourhood who *wanted* to be romantically
involved, given half an ounce of encouragement.

It was hard to remember, now, how they had first found out he was a
Colonel in the Air Force. It had to have been one of those first,
early conversations about how he'd been so grievously injured. But
he'd hardly ever talked about his job, or himself for that matter.
Either then, or since.

Although he seemed to have to spend quite considerable amounts of
time convalescing, he always had a brief and perfectly rational
explanation for his injuries, which hadn't stopped people speculating
quite heavily at times. Working inside a mountain certainly seemed
rather oddly dangerous.

In fact, Albert thought as he picked up a doughnut from a plate on
the table, the man was really something of a mystery. They actually
knew very little about him at all. Despite everything.

`It is believed the shot was fired from across the street,' the on-
the-spot-reporter was saying.

Albert grunted, and cast half an eye on the screen. `They were saying
that last night.'

`However, the FBI now say that they believe the killer was a trained
professional, and that the murder was not the work of a crank with a
grudge.'

`That's new,' Nettie said sipping her coffee. `No one's mentioned
trained killer before.'

`Stands to reason, though,' Albert said, brushing crumbs from his
shirt front.

Sylvia eyed her husband, cautiously. Albert had a tendency to know-it-
all and be rather tedious in his viewpoints at times. She hoped this
wasn't going to be one of those occasions. She wanted to listen to
the reporter, but Albert was already expounding his theory.

`If it was a crank, he'd have wanted maximum attention. Done it all
up close and personal, like that guy that tried to assassinate Reagan
that time, so's he could let everyone know it was him. And get lots
of attention. It's all a sign of being unhinged.'

`And suicide bombers?' Sylvia asked sceptically.

`Different,' Albert said munching on his doughnut. `They want maximum
attention for their cause. No one's claimed responsibility for this
yet, so I guess it's not a religious group or anything. They'd have
been attention seeking by now. That means it's not political, and not
a crank. So it's probably someone with a personal grudge. My guess is
they'd hire an assassin.'

Sylvia snorted. `You, my dear, read far too many thrillers and spy
novels.' She tried to pick up the thread of where the reporters had
got to, but it all seemed to be familiar ground again, so she went
through to the kitchen to make more coffee.

When she got back her husband and Nettie had lost interest in the
shooting, and instead were discussing the upcoming church fair.

`Sylvia,' Nettie said, looking up from a pile of plans that seemed to
have magically appeared on the coffee table, `we thought we'd ask the
Colonel to open the fair this year. What do you think?'

`The Colonel?'

Nettie nodded. `He's well known, and popular. The children like him.
He's a good role model. I think everyone would be really pleased to
have him do it.'

Sylvia looked from her husband to Nettie. Albert shrugged in a this-
was-her-idea-not-mine, sort of fashion. Nettie was ten years older
than the Johnsons, who were both in their mid-sixties, and Sylvia
sometimes thought the lady didn't quite stay up with the plot anymore.

`Yes, Nettie, he is,' she agreed. `However, I can't see him agreeing
to do it. He's rather reserved about things like that you know.'

`Rubbish! He does lots of things around here, when he's home. Nothing
reserved about him at all. Not any more. I agree when he first moved
in,' she shook her head at the memory. But then her face
brightened. ` Now, though, he sponsors the local hockey team and
helps out everywhere.'

`Nettie, you only know he sponsors the team because Albert told you.'

Albert looked chastened.

Sylvia carried on, relentlessly, `He's never advertised it, or made
an issue of it. He appears to coach when he can, but that's not
often. Matt Simpson does nearly everything. The Colonel just helps
Matt out from time to time. In fact Matt would be a good person to
open the fair. He does a huge amount for the community.'

Sylvia could see that her words were not going down well. Nettie, she
knew, saw the Colonel as something of a mysterious hero-figure. And
there was no doubt that there was that side to him, if you wanted to
let your imagination run wild. Which groups of the local women had
been known to do, on occasion. Being tall, grey-haired, incredibly
handsome, possessed of the sexiest smile for miles around *and* to be
single to boot was a combination guaranteed to lead to gossip.

Not that the Colonel himself had a clue about his status as the
neighbourhood's most eligible bachelor, and Sylvia knew he'd be
mortified if he ever found out. Despite his gradual integration into
neighbourhood life, and despite his happy-to-help-out-if-I-can
attitude, he was still very much an unknown. And she knew that that
was by choice. He never talked about himself; about his family, about
his background or about his job. However, hockey, fishing, current
affairs, films or astronomy, and the Colonel was your man. You
couldn't shut him up.

Sylvia had also noticed that he avoided any invitations to social
occasions. He was never present at barbecues or other get-togethers.
Hence her firmly held belief that he would hate to open the church
fair.


*****************

`Donna!' Michael's voice was impatient. `Donna!'

She finished Mikey's diaper change, and holding him went to
investigate what had upset her husband.

Michael, who had the week off work thanks to a recent thankless
overtime schedule, was standing at the window looking across the
road. Joining him Donna saw two long dark sedan cars, pulled up in
front of the Colonel's house. From which had emerged several men, who
had the stamp of officialdom written all across their dark suits,
nondescript ties and polished shoes. Sinister officialdom, too, she
thought. If the shades that most of them wore were anything to go by.

A huddle ensued as several of the men seemed to consult together.
Others were standing looking speculatively at the front of the
Colonel's house, as others looked up and down the street. It was a
school day. There were no kids playing, and most of the workers who
had to had departed to earn their daily crust. The street was empty.
Except for the gathered crowd of mysterious men.

Donna was certain she saw Nettie Dawson's curtain twitch, and she'd
be willing to bet a sizeable amount that others were doing a little
spying just as she and Michael were doing. Very Peyton Place, she
smiled.

She looked at Michael, who shrugged. `Not a clue, Dons,' he
said. `They've just all turned up. Looks serious though.'

They watched a little longer as the men gradually approached the
house then circled it with what Donna thought could only be caution.
There was something about the set of their shoulders, the careful way
they watched where they trod, the way they kept stopping and looking
up at the house, as if they expected it to blow up in their faces
without warning.

`Should I go and see what they want?' she asked frowning. `I mean,
I'm in charge, so to speak, if the Colonel's not here. They all look
rather strange to me.'

Michael considered the group of men for a time, and then said, `I'll
go.'

Donna watched him approach the suited men a few of whom, after
seeming to study the front of the house with some care, had
disappeared around the end of the Colonel's property. The others had
broken their huddle and appeared to be awaiting instructions from a
balding man speaking into a cell phone.

Michael spoke for some time to the men before coming back accompanied
by a man in a dark, well-cut suit. Donna took an instant dislike to
him. He hadn't opened his mouth yet, and she felt an aura of over-
self-confidence and arrogance.

`Mrs James?' His voice was oily, too.

Donna tried to take her cue from Michael, but he just shrugged weakly.

`I'm with the FBI. Agent Parry.' He flipped a badge in front of
her. `I understand you have key to the property across the street?
The one that belongs to Colonel Jonathan O'Neill?'

Donna could feel herself frowning. She hadn't really got a good look
at his ID, and she didn't like the way he was bull-dozing ahead with
his questions.

Still, she found herself answering, in a trained, well-brought up,
always-obey-authority response. `Ah, yes, yes, I do.' She was
frantically trying to get signals from Michael. Something, anything,
to give her an inkling about what was going on.

`Could you tell me, please, when was the last time you were inside
the house?'

Donna was momentarily flustered. `Inside?'

`Yes, ma'am. I'd appreciate it if you could try to remember. It is
very important.'

Confusion fogged her mind, for a moment, and then she began to claw a
little cohesion back. If this guy wanted something he could damn well
trade in return.

`Could you tell me what this is all about first?'

`I'm afraid not, ma'am.'

Well, that was successful. And what was with the ma'am thing? How old
did he think she was?

`Is . . . has anything happened to the Colonel?' She tried to read
his facial expression. Surely, surely these men weren't here because
something had happened to . . . no! Surely not?

She could feel her insides knot up tight.

And memories of a quirked half-smile and disordered grey hair came to
mind. She'd only spoken to him last week, before he set off for his
cabin, it wasn't possible . . . he hadn't gone on a mission. That she
*knew* of. What if the cabin had been a cover story? You never knew
with the military. And yet . . . she didn't think so. He'd had that
glint in his eye that suggested upcoming enjoyment. Had been talking
non-stop with Michael, about fishing and sitting for hours by the
side of a lake. About the quiet of the countryside. Miles from the
nearest town.

And yet . . .

Donna looked from Michael to the FBI agent.

`Ma'am?' He prompted. `Can you remember when you were last in the
house?'

She dragged her brain into gear. `Yes. It was Saturday. To collect
the mail. That's what I do. Sort the Colonel's mail and just
generally check that everything's okay. And when I got back Michael
was watching the news about the senator on TV.' Surely there couldn't
be anything wrong in saying that? It was the truth, after all.

The agent nodded. `And was there anything unusual about the house, at
all, that you noticed?'

Donna was confused. `Unusual?'

`Yes . . . ` he was obviously about to say something more, when the
bald guy Donna had decided was probably in charge came up to them.

The agent, whose name she'd already forgotten, began speaking to
him. `This lady has a key to the house. And was last inside on
Saturday.'

The bald man eyed her, and Donna gained the impression that he rather
thought she had crawled out from under a stone.

She was also aware of a gathering crowd in the background. Nettie,
and the Johnsons, and several other neighbours who had cause to be at
home were creeping ever closer in a laughably unstealthy tight-knit
group.

The bald guy spoke in a demanding voice that immediately made Donna's
ire rise. `Did you see anything unusual in the house?'

`I've already explained . . .' she began.

Baldy interrupted her very quickly. `Anything out of place? Anything
missing?'

Donna was completely confused now. Upset. Uncertain. And
worried. `Please,' she tried to stem the tide of FBI
questions. `Please, can you tell me if something has happened to the
Colonel? He's due back today.'

Baldy shook his head brusquely. `I'm sorry, ma'am, I'm not at liberty
to divulge anything to you at this time.' He didn't sound in the
least bit sorry.

The others were gathering in now, drawn like moths to the flame of
possible intrigue or news.

`Donna?' Albert Jackson appeared to be the designated
spokesperson. `Michael? Is there anything wrong?'

Baldy interceded before either of them could answer. `I'm sorry,
folks. There's nothing to see here. However, if you live on this
street I'd appreciate you giving your names and addresses to my
colleague over there. We will want to talk to you all at some stage.'

Despite queries, despite questions, they were shepherded away by
several of the suited men, and the Jameses were left with Baldy and
his associate.

`Now, Mrs James, if you could just describe the interior of the
house. Exactly as you last found it, please.'

Donna looked helplessly at Michael for support, and, after his
fractional nod, she did as she was asked.

*****

Jack O'Neill had never felt so helpless in his life.

Sure, he'd been held prisoner against his will by foreign forces on
several occasions, including a harrowingly remembered time in Iraq.
And he'd even been detained by his own side on the odd occasion:
Hammond had stuck him in a holding cell right back at the start of
things, when he was investigating the first Abydos mission; Doc
Fraiser had only just arrived at the SGC when he'd been locked up
because he was suffering from the Neanderthal virus; and then there
was the time his twin had returned from the blue crystal planet and
Hammond had locked the real O'Neill up, unknowingly, when he had come
home. And he'd also been detained when he and Carter were suspected
of being under the influence of the zaytark-thing.

But he'd never been officially arrested. Not in a `Read His Rights'
kind of fashion. Not in a `Assume The Position, Colonel' sort of way.

Nosirreeyabetcha.

And, more than that, he had a fair suspicion that the case against
him was going to be cut and dried, and he was going to be hung out
like freshly mangle-pressed laundry. Because he knew for an absolute,
cast-iron, sure-as-the-Goa'uld-were-scum-sucking-filthy-snakeheads
certainty that he hadn't killed Kinsey. Buuuuuuuuut . . . if the
military thought he'd finally lost his marbles and murdered the
slimeball, they had to have *some* sort of proof in order to arrest
him like this. Which meant he was probably already royally screwed,
and half-way to being handed a one-way ticket to Leavenworth.

So, crap, then.

He sat and contemplated the chains around his wrists. Thin. Grey.
Restraining.

Hateful.

Humiliating.

And tried to come to grips with how quickly his world had come
unglued. He'd driven back to the base, playing a classical music CD
the entire way back, because it relaxed him and also meant he wasn't
having to switch radio stations all the while. And, as he'd never
even contemplated disturbing his vacation with a dose of reality via
a radio or TV news broadcast, he'd heard nothing about Kinsey's
assassination.

Until his team had started to explain things, just before two tree-
trunk built SFs arrived to arrest him.

It was just incomprehensible. Totally. And if he weren't sitting in a
van with the aforementioned SFs watching him as if he were a maggot
that had just crawled out of the woodwork, he'd have said he was
dreaming. But the chains were all too real. He could feel their
narrow bands pressed against his skin. Could feel the restriction in
not being able to pull his wrists apart.

And it was all he could do to just sit, and stare. And hang on to his
temper. Because his little show of petulance downstairs had got him
nowhere.

`If you'll come with us, Colonel.'

`I don't *think* so.'

Yeah, right. Like that'd helped.

He'd been certain that the shock and incomprehension he'd felt had
been reflected on the faces of Carter and Jonas. Teal'c had looked
inscrutable, but Jack could see him taking his cue from Hammond, who,
having had prior warning, had been as blank-faced as Jack could ever
remember him being. He had acted the senior-officer-above-and-beyond-
reproach role with cold efficiency. But then, Jack knew, he'd had to.

Hammond had watched as the SFs asked his 2IC to lean in a spread-
eagled position against the wall, and had then searched him: running
their hands up and down along his pant leg seams, around his
waistband, and then around all the seams of his shirt. Jack had had
to hold on to every trace of self-control he had in order not to hit
out at them. He simply could not comprehend what was going on.

Kinsey was dead and people, for some crazy, unfathomable reason,
thought he was responsible. The world, so far as he was concerned,
had gone stark staring mad. He'd shaken his head in an attempt to
clear it, and caught Hammond's eye. The general had shaken his own
head in turn, a clear sign that he knew as little about what was
going on as Jack.

Then they'd shackled him, and looped a chain belt around his middle
so that he couldn't move his hands more than a few inches away from
his body. He supposed that he should be thankful they had saved him
the humiliation of the leg shackles until he was in the van. They had
obviously wanted to leave the SGC as quickly as possible, and having
him shuffle at snail's pace through the corridors wasn't going to
achieve that. So they'd simply marched him out between the two of
them.

Which had been hard enough to take.

He'd kept looking straight ahead. Not making eye contact with anyone.
Simply shutting out the shame of being shackled. Ignoring the
surprised remarks he could hear.

Surviving almost on automatic pilot he had managed to get to the van,
where they had finally secured his legs.

He felt a lurch, as the driver engaged the gears. Heard a crunch as
the tyres took their grip in the shingle and grit. Tried to sway with
the movement of the van. Was acutely aware of the shackles that
restricted his movements.

And wondered how the freakin' hell it had come to this.

And how the freakin' hell it would all end.

The whole thing was completely incomprehensible.


*******

Donna had been watching developments at the Colonel's house with
something akin to complete incomprehension. Something was seriously,
seriously amiss. That was all she could fathom. And the sooner the
Colonel arrived home and sorted things out the better.

The FBI had made her describe everything in the Colonel's house: the
layout of the furniture, the arrangement of wall decorations,
position of rugs of the floor, the whereabouts of light fittings in
the ceiling; everything. Ridiculous details about things of which
Donna could not even begin to understand the importance.

They'd made her sit in one of their cars and draw diagrams. Speak at
length into a microphone. Sign a statement that anything she divulged
or was asked about was Top Secret, and she could be sent to prison
for talking about it.

By the end she was feeling bewildered and sick. And still did not
understand what was happening. None of them did: the Johnsons,
Nettie, Michael and others in the street. They'd all been given the
third degree treatment about the Colonel and their relationships with
him.

But Donna most of all.

`Tell me, Mrs James,' Baldy had finished, almost as an aside, `did
you ever see a gun in the house?'

`A gun?' Compared to light fittings and how far from the front door
the side-table was and how many steps led down into the lounge area
this was a totally left-field question. And she sensed he'd meant it
to be. And was watching her, like some forensic pathologist examining
what he thinks might be a significant clue under the microscope.

`Yes,' he said coldly, studying her. `A gun.'

Donna shook her head. `No.'

`You're certain?'

`Yes. He might have one somewhere, although I seem to remember he
once said that he wasn't keen about the idea.'

Baldy's eyes narrowed. `No. Perhaps he wouldn't be,' he said
cryptically, without enlarging further on the point.

His colleague pressed her, `You never saw a large black packing case;
that might have held, say, a hunting rifle?'

Donna was out of her depth now. Way out of her depth.

`A hunting rifle?' she queried. `No. Never. He fishes. That's all, I
think. I don't think he's the hunting rifle type.'

Baldy had given no indication about whether that was a useful answer
or not. He had simply reminded her about not discussing what she'd
said with anyone, even her husband, and said she could leave.

Michael had hugged her tightly and they looked at each other in
bewilderment. Then Michael had  gone to feed Mikey whilst Donna
watched the FBI wrap tape around the Colonel's home. Yellow tape that
signified quarantine. It was as if the house she'd visited countless
times had suddenly acquired a contagious disease, and had to be
treated as such. Shut away from the world—apart from the FBI, who had
stalked around the house all day. They had approaching it at first as
if they feared it might bite them and infect them, too. They had
tentatively peered through the windows, looked under bushes in the
back yard and examined the barbecue decking. But in all this there
was immense caution, as if they could be tainted by simply touching
the place.

Then, they'd taken Donna's set of keys and used them to enter the
building. She'd been reluctant to let them, but simply didn't know
what else to do. She could feel her grasp of reality being eroded by
the continued mental-battering from the FBI officers, who were
relentless with questions and enquiries.

And the entire time she'd prayed that the Colonel would simply drive
up in his truck and sort the whole sorry mess out.

But he hadn't.

She wondered if he was still at the cabin, but there was no phone
there and his mobile emergency number wasn't responding. Possibly he
was stuck in traffic on his way back. She had even tried the Mountain
Base, in case he had called in there first, before coming home, but
was told the Colonel wasn't there. The officer had sounded odd, she
thought, when she asked after him, but she hadn't pursued the
conversation.

The FBI went into the Colonel's house after using a mechanised robot
which she guessed had searched everywhere first, although what they
were looking for was beyond her thought processes. She'd been in the
house on Saturday, today was Monday. What could have changed? What
were they looking for?

In open-mouthed astonishment the whole neighbourhood had watched as
the Colonel's home was then raided by a host of flak-jacketed men,
with guns at the ready, who looked like something straight out of the
latest blockbuster cop movie. They had been inside for hours, and
when they had finally departed they had left a couple of agents
behind on guard.

And they'd taken Donna's keys.

Which was fine, because she had a second set they'd never asked her
about, but even so . . .

******

The following day everything exploded in their faces.

Unexpectedly.

Without warning.

`It is believed that the man in custody has a long-standing grudge
against the senator which has led to previous threats in the past.'

`There,' Albert said, gesturing triumphantly at the TV screen with
his folder containing church fair details. `Personal vendetta. What
did I say?' He smiled at Sylvia. `Too many spy novels my foot.'

They were completely unprepared for what came next.

A picture of a grey-haired man, looking sober and sombre in a smart
Air Force dress blues uniform, while the voice-over said:

`The man being held has been named as Colonel Jonathan O'Neill who
works for the Air Force at the Cheyenne Mountain Base in Colorado
Springs. He was arrested as he returned to the base yesterday, after
allegedly taking a vacation in Minnesota. Detectives are trying to
verify the Colonel's story as we speak.'

It was a hard-run race between recognition of the face in the
photograph and recognition of the name in many homes in Colorado
Springs.

Albert Johnson's jaw dropped.

Sylvia Johnson dropped her coffee cup.

Nettie Dawson murmured, `No, no. He couldn't possibly have,'
continuously under her breath.

Donna James stared in complete disbelief, then looked at her husband
in shock.

And Mikey began to cry.


**********


Jack O'Neill stared at the cell ceiling and tried to remember if they
had the death penalty for first degree murder in Washington D.C. He
felt so freakin' helpless. Having to rely on Carter, Teal'c, and
Jonas to sort everything out. If they could. And it was a pretty
big "if", at that.

`I don't think the alien technology defence is gonna fly,' he'd said
this afternoon. And it wouldn't. Couldn't. So he was screwed. Unless
his team did something awesome. If they didn't pull this out of the
fire he was going to face the death penalty, or life behind bars.
Which was, effectively, exactly the same thing so far as he was
concerned. And there was nothing he could do about it. Absolutely
zilch. Except lie here and gaze at the grey-painted ceiling and hope
his team could sort out the whole sorry mess.

Everything was out of his hands. He was as helpless as  . . . he had
been as he watched Charlie's life slip away. Don't go there, Jack.
Okay. As helpless as when he'd had to leave Daniel behind on the
Jaffa ship. Or when he'd had to let Daniel go do his airy-fairy
thing. Or when he'd had to hand Teal'c over to Maybourne when he was
infected with the insect virus. Or when he'd had to shoot Carter with
the zat gun to kill the Entity that possessed her.

Crap.

Okay, so he'd some experience of feeling useless and helpless. But
he'd had something to do. Something to channel his energy on those
occasions. Hadn't he?

Digging the heels of his hands into his eyes Jack decided he was
going around in circles without getting anywhere fast. And only hoped
his team was having more luck.

Otherwise he was royally screwed.

As had been ably illustrated by Teal'c and Jonas this afternoon.

Now *there* was an exercise in embarrassment. Having to appear before
them in hand and leg cuffs. Which meant he couldn't move his hands
very well, and was reduced to an awkward half-stride. And there was a
heck of a distance between appearing in front of them shackled
because some Goa'uld was pissed at him, and being chained up by the
US government for a crime he hadn't committed.

Go figure.

Jack sighed deeply and looked at his wrists which had been circled by
tough, shiny, grey cuffs for the visit of his two associates. And
tried hard to believe that the three members of SG-1 who were not
locked up behind bars could sort this out.


*********

To say that the Colonel's neighbours were glued to their television
screens over the next few days monitoring developments would be the
understatement of the decade. And if they weren't, they were on the
telephone to each other discussing the latest developments. Or
passing on the latest developments. There was no other topic of
discussion except the Colonel. And the killing.

Within the hour of the breaking of the news the pushy FBI man was
back on Donna's doorstep.

His eyes were hidden behind his clichéd sunglasses, and his suit was
the same clean-cut dark material. Donna was almost pleased to see
that his top shirt button was undone and his tie slightly askew, or
she would have started to think the whole thing was one great big
cliché. If it hadn't all been so serious.

`Ma'am.'

Donna swallowed hard and tried not to squeak. `Yes?'

`I'm sorry, but we need to ask you some questions.' He flipped his
badge at her again, looking anything but sorry. `I take it you've
seen the news on the television?'

Donna could only glance over her shoulder back into the living room
where Michael was still watching the reports as they came in on
various 24-hour news channels.

`About the Colonel?' Stupid thing to say, she knew, but somehow there
didn't seem to be anything else *to* say.

He smiled thinly. `Yes ma'am.'

`Well, yes. We have. Both of us . . . my husband, Michael, and I. We
were very shocked.'  Her tongue seemed to be either stuck to the roof
of her mouth with nerves or ready to babble into overdrive. She could
feel her heart pounding loudly against her ribs. She was certain he
must be able to hear it.

He might think she knew something unless she got a grip on herself.
Which thought simply mired her in guilt. There was *no way* the
Colonel had done this. It was all a terrible mistake. They would sort
it out quickly, and get on looking for the real culprit. How could
she even begin to think people would think she *knew* something.
There was nothing to *know*.

`I'm sure you're very shocked,' he smiled carefully. Like a snake
assessing its prey Donna thought, feeling sick.

`We are,' she nodded. `The Colonel just doesn't seem that sort . . .'

`They never do.' His eyes were hard as he removed his glasses. `If I
could just come in?'

Donna took a steadying breath. `What do you need to ask us?'

`Just a few more routine questions. If the Colonel is innocent,' his
eyes seemed to bore into her, `as you seem to think he is, then your
answers might help us prove that.'

There was no saying no to him after that.

Michael looked nervously up from the television as Donna said, `The
FBI want to ask us some more questions, Michael. About the Colonel.'

The agent showed his badge to Michael and then made himself at home
on the sofa.

`Agent Parry,' Michael said. And Donna could tell he was nervous,
just like her.

`There's no need to worry, Mister James.' So Parry had noticed
Michael was nervous. Or maybe he was used to people being edgy and
tense around him. Donna hoped it was that. She knew that her face had
settled into a worried frown, and she felt she was watching Parry
like a small cobra-hypnotised animal. She couldn't help it.

In a couple of hours their lives had been thrown into turmoil.

Oh, God. Their lives? What about the Colonel's? She wondered briefly
where he was right now, as Parry flipped open a notebook.

`How long have you known Colonel O'Neill?'

Strange to hear that title when they were so used to simply `the
Colonel', Donna thought.

She saw Michael glance briefly at her before he answered. `Seven
months.'

Parry frowned. `You can be that precise?'

`Absolutely. We've been moved in seven months, and my son is seven
months old.' He pointed to Mikey who was sleeping soundly in his
travel buggy, blissfully unaware of his parents' distress.

`Mikey was the reason we met the Colonel,' Donna cut in. `I went into
labour, and Michael wasn't here. It was a thunderstorm. All the power
was out. And the phones. I saw lights at the Colonel's. Of course I
didn't know he was a colonel then.' Donna was aware she was babbling,
but couldn't stop. Somehow it seemed important to get out her side of
things, to put in a good word for O'Neill before Parry could stop
her, or ask something else.

`He helped me, even though he didn't know me. Helped me give birth to
Mikey. When he could have turned me away. He sorted everything. Got
me a doctor. Everything.' She knew there was something defiant in her
last word. Daring Parry to doubt her.

He let the tide of her words wash over him. Wrote a few words in his
notepad, and then looked up with cold eyes. `Regular saint, then?'

Donna flushed. `He's always been a gentleman. Kind, thoughtful. Ask
anybody.'

`Oh, we will, Mrs James. We will.'

Somehow that deflated her. His neutrality in the face of her staunch
defence brought an awareness of what was really going on.

`Tell me, what exactly do you know about Colonel O'Neill?'

Donna opened her mouth. And stopped.

Her thoughts about his seeming lack of family and friends, outside of
his work colleagues, as she had gathered his post just the other day,
came fluttering back like traitorous fingers of dread and anxiety up
her spine. `Well . . . ` she paused, and looked at Michael.

Who shrugged.

`That's not the point,' Donna exploded defensively. `You don't need
to know every moment of someone's life, or every private detail, to
tell if they're a good person or not.'

Parry quirked an eyebrow. His eyes remained cold.

`Colonel O'Neill is a good man.' Which made her cross, because she'd
been drawn into calling him by Parry's designation, and not her own.

`Has he ever discussed his political affiliations with you?'

Michael looked at Donna apologetically, before he took over answering
for them both. `No.'

`His job?'

`No.'

`His background in the Air Force?'

`No,' Michael shrugged. `As my wife said, he didn't need to. It
wasn't common ground between us. We talked about other things.'

Parry looked marginally interested. `Such as?'

`Fishing. He's got a cabin in Northern Minnesota.'

`Yes, we know.'

Donna couldn't help it. `He's there now.' She stopped. Of course he
wasn't there now. `He *was* there,' she finished, quietly.

Michael asked the inevitable question. `Where is he? The Colonel?'

`In custody. I can't say any more.' Parry glanced towards the
television. `Although, if you keep watching, I daresay you might
learn what you want to know.' Just for a moment there was a glint of
humour. But only for a moment, and then it was gone.


*******

The whole neighbourhood was under siege. Or so it seemed. Kinsey's
death had made national and international headlines. And eager
journalists from newspapers and television stations were everywhere
trying to dig up a little dirt. The FBI kept them away from the
Colonel's house, but that didn't stop them from scavenging around
like locusts where they could. They parked vans so that cameras on
roofs could be aimed into the Colonel's back yard. They invaded local
businesses to see where the Colonel bought his groceries. They door-
stepped houses and threw questions like bullets at anyone unlucky
enough to be caught in their cross-fire.

`How long have you know O'Neill?'

`How often was he home?'

`What sort of person was he?'

All of which gradually became:

`Did he have a grievance with anybody?'

`Did he keep himself to himself?'

`Did you trust him to be around your children?'

`Did he talk about himself?'

And no matter what answers they were given words were rearranged to
suit the needs of those whose job it was to sell papers and not to,
necessarily, express words in the way that they had been meant.

`The Colonel kept himself to himself at first,' became `Kinsey
suspect Colonel is a recluse'.

`He didn't talk about himself much,' somehow transformed itself
into `Assassin suspect suspiciously secretive'.

No matter that the neighbours tried hard to support their colleague,
everything they said was twisted and slanted in such a way that, very
quickly, they came to realise the whole thing was little short of a
witch hunt. If they said O'Neill was kind and generous, he was
portrayed as ingratiating and devious. It seemed he was damned if
they didn't support him, and twice as damned if they did.

*********

Evidence that was leaked out seemed to damn O'Neill. There were
unsubstantiated rumours, served up gratuitously by reporters, that
the murder weapon had been found, hidden close to where the Colonel
had a holiday cabin. His defence that he had been on vacation at the
time of the killing, another explosive exclusive revealed, appeared
to have been blasted out of the water by the fact that it was
believed a videotape had been found which proved that not only was
O'Neill in Washington, and not Minnesota as he had claimed, but he
was in a building across the street from where Kinsey had been shot
just moments after the fatal bullet was fired.

`I can't believe it,' Sylvia Johnson said to anyone who would listen,
as they made their way into the church hall. Word had been spread
discreetly and it was hoped that the meeting would be able to proceed
out-of-camera range long enough for folks to have a say on things.

`The press are treating him as if he's guilty until he's proven
innocent,' her husband said, shaking his head. `How the hell can he
hope for a fair trial? Everyone's judging the case already.'

Matt Simpson, the local youth worker who had dealings with the
Colonel because they both coached the local ice hockey team, handed
out mugs of coffee as people took their seats.

`Personally,' he said with his deeply impressive baritone voice which
always made folks stop and listen to him, `I don't think Jack
could've done this. But,' he studied the gathering carefully, `how
well do we really know him? I mean *really* know him?'

People settled down. That was the point of the meeting. People had
talked; in groups, in clusters, carefully, trying to avoid the press
for the main part. And yet everyone had felt that the neighbourhood
was being picked apart. Placed under a media microscope.

And, as generally happens, people wanted reassurance from others, or
to simply to feel that, in the midst of the media scrimmage, they
were not alone.

A united front seemed to be in order.

Starting with an assembly to air opinions. There were, after all,
those who knew O'Neill well. And those who didn't.

The Johnsons looked at each other. Donna James felt a wave of guilt
sweep through her as she thought of her encounters with the FBI and
the answers she and Michael had not been able to give. She risked a
sideways glance at her husband, and knew he was thinking the same
thing. Nettie Dawson was obviously thinking hard, as were others in
the room: parents of the hockey team O'Neill helped coach, other
residents of the neighbourhood who had had dealings with the colonel
because they serviced his truck, sold him groceries, or simply were
on speaking terms with a man who had now become an instant national
celebrity for all the wrong reasons.

There were thoughts of a ready smile. A willing hand. Suppressed
boyish energy and charm. And yet . . . when angered, there were those
who knew the Colonel was capable of narrow-eyed coiled-spring rage.

But . . . did that make him capable of a cold-blooded killing?

Silence descended. As they all reviewed what they did, and didn't,
know.

Simpson, who seemed to have set himself up to play Devil's Advocate,
spoke again. `We know he's military. So we can assume he's trained to
operate a gun. Possibly a sniper's rifle like the one they say was
used in Kinsey's shooting. We can also assume he's trained to kill
people.'

There was an uncomfortable silence. It was clear that folks were
trying to equate what Simpson was saying with the familiar figure
they all knew. And yet, they realised, it had to be true. O'Neill
would have to be capable of killing someone to serve in the armed
forces.

`They kill in battle, though,' Nettie Dawson said, quietly. `It's not
the same thing. That's when it's kill or be killed. This was in cold
blood. Callous.'

Simpson nodded. `Yes, it was.'

`Doesn't mean he couldn't do it, though,' Albert Johnson said,
slowly. `He's a Colonel. He must have seen action somewhere. We don't
know his service record . . `

`He never talks about himself,' one of the hockey parents
interceded. `Frankly, I find that kinda suspicious.'

`Not necessarily,' another joined in. `I don't talk about my job
much, it's just a boring city job. I'd rather talk about the kids and
their team.'

Heads nodded.

A general murmuring of, `Yes, that's what we have in common, so
that's what we talk about,' could heard rippling through the group

`Seems kinda strange to me, though,' continued the parent who'd said
things about O'Neill were suspicious. `The guy's got no kids, spends
lots of time around other folks' kids, no one appears to know
anything about him . . . `

`Marcus,' Simpson interjected strongly. `I think you need to stop
that train of thought right now. We have no suspicions about Jack in
any way regarding inappropriate behaviour with kids. In fact I
contacted his CO for a reference when Jack first volunteered to help
out. He had first class references.'

`Well, he would, wouldn't he? And the Air Force obviously doesn't
know him that well, if he goes around killing people like this.'

There was a murmuring of agreement from various areas of the room.

`We don't know that he did,' Simpson said heatedly.

`He's under arrest, isn't he? I don't hear about them looking for
anyone else. Sounds like they feel they've got their man, to me. And
the weapon, I hear. And a videotape placing him across the street
from where it happened. And the guy's been coaching my kid for nearly
a year.' Marcus Royce stood up, an impressive man at over six foot,
he was at least the height of Matt Simpson. `Me, I'm going home to
talk to my son, and I suggest that others of you do the same. A guy
who goes loopy and shoots someone like that could do anything.'

Only one or two other parents followed in Royce's wake as he pushed
his way out of the meeting, but the atmosphere he left behind was
tainted and unpleasant, as if a smothering sulphurous gas had been
released into the room.

A heavy silence settled as Simpson grimaced and tried to work out how
to continue.

He could see heads being shaken, people looking after Royce in
uncertainty, folk shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

Undercurrents of uncertain conversation started at indeterminate
parts of the room. And began to grow.

Things were about to come apart. Simpson could sense it.

`Mind if I say something?'

Simpson scanned the assembly. And smiled gratefully. `Sure, be my
guest.'

Jim Gallagher moved to the front of the hall. Surveyed the gathering
quietly, and waited for the restlessness to quieten and for people to
give him their attention.

`Most of you know me,' he began with a smile. People smiled with him
and Matt began to relax. He trusted Gallagher implicitly. Of course
the folks knew him. He was the recently retired, well-respected,
former principal at the local high school.

Gallagher took a while to make eye contact with people in the room.
Settle them. Calm them. As a practiced public speaker will. `I met
Jack O'Neill for the first time a few months ago,' he began in an
efficient clipped voice. `I'd heard quite a bit about him before
that. My grandkids think he's a great guy. Like most of your kids, I
suspect, they're upset as hell about what's going on. Both Matty and
Hannah think the world of him, and can't understand how anyone could
believe O'Neill could do such a terrible thing.'

Gallagher paused, and Simpson could sense the changing mood in the
room. He watched as people exchanged looks, saw a few agreeing nods,
and knew that Gallagher's kids were, indeed,  not the only ones on
O'Neill's side.

`They say you can't fool animals and kids,' Gallagher continued. `And
I have so far found Matty and Hannah excellent judges of character.'
He smiled, `Hell, they think I'm great.' The tension evaporated in a
cloud of nervously released laughter.

Gallagher gave them time to recover, and then continued with a bite
of steel in his voice. `The first time I met him, Jack O'Neill looked
me in the eye and shook my hand. Means a lot when a man can do that.
He didn't say a lot, but he didn't have to. He never tried to impress
me, he never tried to ingratiate himself with me. But every time I
met him he had a ready smile, and a good word to say about Matty and
Hannah. And every time he talked to me he looked me in the eye, and
every time he said `Hi' he shook my hand. I've met men I've trusted
and respected to heck `n' gone who've done much less.'

He paused, then continued, `Do I think O'Neill could do this thing
he's accused of? I guess. He's a military man, as has already been
said. But,' he stopped abruptly, and many raised their heads to look,
the tone of his voice was demanding and inflexible, `*but*,' he
repeated, strongly, `the man *we* know deserves every support we can
give him, because every single word of our constitution demands that
a man is innocent until proven guilty. And every tenet of common
decency says that that is the way it should be.' Gallagher paused
again for a long moment, before finishing,  `And, if he is found
guilty, he will need our support and prayers far, far more.'

No one said anything for a time after Gallagher had finished
speaking. Simpson knew that everyone was thinking about their own
meetings with O'Neill. And he guessed theirs were little different
from his own. Pleasant, seemingly straightforward, and generally
accompanied by a joke or a self-deprecating remark. Sure he kept his
private life to himself, but that did not make him a criminal
mastermind. Or an assassin.

And if, as Gallagher had said, for whatever reason he had killed
Kinsey, he would be in sore need of their support and prayers.

Simpson hoped with all his heart it wouldn't come to that.

********

Jack O'Neill hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Although, if it did, he was beginning to hope they would just
schedule the execution and get it all over with. Life behind bars was
becoming harder and harder to contemplate.

He was being driven slowly insane already, and he'd been locked up
less than a week.

A lifetime didn't begin to bear thinking about.

He knew how many bricks made up every wall of his cell. He knew how
many tiles made up the ceiling. He knew how many squares made up the
pattern on his mattress. He'd even contemplated counting the weave of
his regulation blanket.

He'd paced his cell until his troublesome knees had complained, and
he'd welcomed the pain as a familiar friend.

He'd recited the military regulations forwards and backwards. Then
tried to remember every mission report he'd ever handed in to
Hammond. But that had become too depressing. It reminded him too much
of the freedom he had lost. Of the faceless conspiracy against him,
that was threatening to destroy his career, rip apart his reputation,
and eventually, one way or the other, take his life.

He'd tried not to lose hope. Tried to put on a good face for Fraiser
when she visited. She was the only contact he'd had with the SGC
since Carter had been to inform him about the mimic devices. That
little snippet of information had explained many things, but not how
he was going to beat the murder charge he faced.

Fraiser kept telling him that the rest of his team were working flat
out on the case, that Hammond sent his best wishes, and that everyone
else at Stargate Command supported him one hundred per cent. But it
was so hard, and getting harder with every passing day.

He looked at the bedside table. Cassie had made him a card, and
decorated it with photographs of her dog, Fraiser, and SG-1 at
barbecues and birthday parties. Picking it up, Jack studied the
familiar smiling faces. He ran his thumbs across their features.

At least he had this one tangible thing to hold, and to look at. In
Iraq he'd had nothing but memories to sustain him.

He sighed deeply. In Iraq he'd had the whole US military and
government working to win the war, and free him. Here he had a few
faithful friends who believed in him. Everyone else . . . well, if
they didn't think he was guilty after what he'd been told about the
security videotape they needed their heads examining. Hell, if he
didn't know better he'd think he was guilty himself.

Each day Fraiser had tried so hard to be upbeat. She'd told him about
the progress the others were making, as much as she knew of it. Then
she'd quickly side-tracked to Cassie and her in-school and out-of-
school life. It was good neutral territory, safely away from the
trouble Jack was in. He missed his team. He missed the SGC. But there
was nothing he could do about that. He simply had to lockdown his
emotions and thoughts, and try and stay optimistic.

Try.

When everything reminded him of how pessimistic his situation was at
present. The stale grey paint on the walls of his cell. The recessed
light which switched on and off at another's whim. The scratchy
blanket and over-starched bed linen. The depressingly-dark grey
uniform which was such a stark contrast to his usual BDUs, smart
dress blues, or his favoured casual slacks, lumberjack shirt and
fleece jacket.

And, above all, the lack of liberty.

Every time Fraiser came he was chained like a mad dog. He had to
place his hands through the small section in the bars where his meals
were delivered every day. They were chained in front of him. Then he
had to turn and stand whilst they shackled his feet together. That,
more than anything, he detested. Freedom of movement was something he
treasured above all things. He always had. He'd always been a
restless person. How he'd ever thought he'd sit in a confined cockpit
for hours and fly a plane was beyond him. He needed to poke his
elbows out, kick things with his feet, twist and twiddle objects with
his fingers, gesticulate with his hands. And walk. Stride. March. Set
the pace.

None of which he could do adequately with handcuffs pulling his
wrists together and ankle cuffs that meant he was unable to do
anything beyond an awkward half-shuffle.

Each time she visited he couldn't look Fraiser in the eyes until he
was seated, elbows on knees leaning slightly forward, hands down
below the level of the table where they could both try and ignore the
shaming shackles that bound them.

He was grateful that she came, and yet half-wished that she wouldn't.
They both had to ignore so much. Pretend. And they both knew how
grave the situation was.

There weren't even daily torture sessions to relieve the boredom.

God forbid.

Just lights on. Followed by inspection.

Stand by the bed, for crying out loud. Like he was a freakin' cadet.

Breakfast. No fruit loops.

Then hours to wait until lunch. No Jello.

Fraiser managed a visit in the afternoon.

Then he got exercise, because after Fraiser left they could shuffle
him, still chained, down to the yard. There they removed the
shackles, and for half an hour he got to play solo basketball, or
simply stand and breathe in the fresh outdoor air.

Then, chained once more, it was back to his cell.

Fetters removed, it was time for his evening meal. Still no Jello.

Then empty hours until lights out at twenty two hundred hours exactly.

And his cell was the only occupied one in the whole block. Christ
knows whether it was a slack time for misbehaviour, or they'd moved
everyone else out. But it was freakin' lonely with only a guard or
two for company. Who were as talkative as folks who'd had their vocal
cords removed.

Yep. He was slowly going nuts. Wacko. Getting more fries short of a
Happy Meal with every passing hour.

Yeahsureyabetcha.


********

Donna settled Mikey on her knee sitting across form Michael in the
living room. The television was on, as it had been almost constantly
over the last week. One of the twenty-four hour news channels was
always running, even if the sound was turned down. Just in case.

But, slowly, the story they were interested in had been superceded.
An airline disaster. Questions about the economy. A mother accused of
killing all four of her own children. A sex scandal involving a state
senator.

With no new developments to report, the Kinsey murder was yesterday's
news.

The number of camera crews and reporters intruding on the
neighbourhood dwindled and, a week after the Colonel's arrest, there
were only a hardy few left.

And yet, still, somewhere, Jack O'Neill was in custody. Accused of a
heinous crime. Just because no one reported on it anymore didn't mean
he wasn't still under suspicion. Still in prison.

The FBI still had someone stationed outside O'Neill's house, and
access had been denied when Donna had asked. The yellow tape remained
as a fading symbol of remembrance for a man who was goodness only
knew where.

People's lives were returning to normal after the turmoil of the past
few days. The press's retreat was allowing the neighbourhood to lick
its wounds and recover after their invasion. And yet, Donna found it
hard to concentrate at times. Several times a day she found herself
gazing across at the Colonel's property garlanded by its yellow
decoration. Always there was a dark-suited man wearing shades,
standing on the porch, or, as the days passed, sitting reading a
newspaper, as if certain that nothing was going to happen.

Donna couldn't help but continually wonder where the Colonel was.
What he was doing. What he was thinking. What he was feeling. *His*
life was certainly not getting back to normal.

She couldn't, no matter how hard she tried, imagine him killing
Senator Kinsey in cold blood. No matter how much he had disliked the
senator. The reports had been vague about the nature of the
disagreement between the two men. Just as, in truth, they had been
vague about many things. An Air Force spokesman had simply confirmed
that, at the time of his arrest, Colonel Jonathon O'Neill had been
serving at the Cheyenne Mountain Base Complex, attached to a unit
dealing in Deep Space Radar Telemetry. He was not at liberty to
discuss any further details of the Colonel's career as these were sub
judice. He warned that any reporting would possibly hinder both the
prosecution and the defence, and that any such breaches would be
dealt with very severely.

Donna looked at the pile of papers she had collected. It seemed
rather morbid, but she knew she wasn't alone. Others were scouring
the reports, sometimes for a tidbit they could gossip about,
sometimes for their own names and sometimes just because they were
living in a little reflected glory from owning a house in the same
road, or the next road, or down the road round the corner and on some
ways, from the suspect in the case.

There was no doubt that the Colonel looked handsome in his dress
blues, hat tucked under his arm, in the only official photograph that
had been released so far. No one in the neighbourhood had ever seen
him in anything but civilian clothes. It was as if he completely
divorced his service and off-duty lives.

She had so wanted to give them a cheery portrait of him with his
godson in his arms, taken at Mikey's christening, but the lady
reporter hadn't seemed interested. Simply wanting to know if Donna
*really* trusted O'Neill with her son. As if he was some kind of
pervert.

The reporters had tried to find something, some scandal, but there
had been nothing to find. O'Neill's life was a closed-tight book. And
it was only as the questions were asked to them that many folks
realised how little they *did* know of a man who had lived amongst
them for seven years.

For some it became a reason for suspicion. Others simply remembered
the man they had known and stood quietly in his defence. The
neighbourhood was divided by its opinions, although there was no
doubt that the support camp was much the stronger. The suspicious
camp were, however, the more vocal, although generally made up of
people, like Marcus Royce, who had not met the Colonel often, if at
all. Those who had were very much in the defence league.

`Come on, Mikey, time for bed.'

Donna carried her son through to his bedroom, and laid him in his cot.

And quietly said her nightly prayer:

`Dear Lord, watch over my son as he sleeps. Give him good thoughts
and a restful night. Thank you for the day we had today. With your
grace I hope for the same tomorrow.' She smiled at Mikey who was
sleepy eyed already, his fists curled up on either side of his head.

And Donna finished with the extra words she'd recently added to her
familiar daily litany:

`And, Lord, please watch over my son's godfather wherever he may be.
Please give him the strength to endure whatever he has to. Amen.'

And she hoped that, wherever he was, Jack O'Neill felt the good
wishes she was sending him, and sensed that he was not alone.

*********

O'Neill had never felt so alone.

They had transferred him to Washington D.C.

Miles and miles from the SGC.

States and states from the SGC.

They had done it late at night to avoid, he supposed, prying
intrusion by the press and any other interested parties. And he could
only suppose that there had to be other interested parties. The party
who had set him up, for a start.

The whole procedure had been just one more exercise in humiliation.
But, he guessed, he would have to get used to it. If Carter didn't
come up with something there would be plenty more to come. The whole
public trial for a start. And his mouth went dry every time he
thought about that.

Public.

Trial.

As in, sit in a court-room. With a lawyer. A jury of his peers. The
press reporting every twitch he made. And a gloating District
Attorney making the easiest case of his career. Because the accused
had no reasonable defence to offer.

He was on a security videotape.

Carrying a gun case.

Leaving the scene of the crime.

So . . .

Guilty.

Like any other verdict was possible.

Christ.

Every time he ran through the sequence he wanted to kick or punch
something or someone. Hard. Again and again.

Yeah. Like that was gonna help.

He tried not to think the worst, but it was getting more and more
difficult to think of anything else.

A judge looking down at him with revulsion in his eyes, and a self-
righteous voice declaring:

`Jonathon O'Neill you have been found guilty of murder in the first
degree. It is now my duty to sentence you . . . `

To life without parole?

To death?

He still didn't know.

Was almost afraid to ask.

Was it a case of where there's life there's hope?

He couldn't really decide.

But the thought of however long it might take to clear his name was
frightening.

Was clearing his name even going to be possible?

Maybe Hammond could appeal to Thor to beam him up. And away. Forever.

Christ.

Guilty.

Life imprisonment.

Branded a murderer.

For life.

He rolled over on the bunk and gazed at the vomit coloured wall of
his new home.

Years and years.

Waiting.

Looking at vomit coloured walls.

Seeing the sun for half an hour every day.

If he was lucky.

He'd rather die.

He'd rather die.

Oh, God. He'd been here before.

He sat up suddenly on the edge of his bunk and tried to banish the
depressing thoughts. And couldn't.

Sitting here was so very like sitting on the edge of another bed.

When he'd held a loaded gun in his hands, and wished he could find
the strength and courage to pull the trigger and end it all.

He'd wanted to die then. By his own hand. But had lacked the will-
power.

Now . . .

He looked around at the bare cell. The bleak concrete walls. The bare
concrete floor. The bunk. The shamefully unshielded toilet bowl. The
shelf for which he had no possessions; except Cassie's card, which
looked orphaned and forlorn standing by itself.

Now . . .

He might die. But not by his own hand.

He'd always figured that would be how it would be.

Death. At another's hand.

But not this way.

Christ.

Lethal injection? Someone sliding a fatal needle into his arm as he
lay strapped and helpless. Letting the poison flow into his veins.
Overtaking him. Until he died.

Electric chair? Led forward. Seated, strapped and helpless. As the
electricity ripped through his body. Convulsing him. Until he died.

The gas chamber? Led forward. Seated, strapped and helpless. As the
gas enveloped him. Choking and clogging his lungs. Until he died.

And if not . . .

Life imprisonment? Confined and helpless. As useless years withered
his mind and body. Decaying him. Until he died.

If that was to be his fate would he have the spirit to complete a job
he'd tried to finish seven years ago? Find a way to end things
himself. Put the clock back seven years.

Or would he continue to struggle on, through each painful day? As
he'd done before? Just hoping that things would get better. And that,
unlike Charlie, which was his responsibility fair and square, with
this they'd eventually prove he hadn't killed the senator.

Set him free.

As Charlie's death never could.

His mind started to play over old regrets. He couldn't help it. There
was so much time to give over to that sort of thing.

So much similarity between the two incidents.

And if he drove his mind with a determined effort down other avenues,
somehow it still ended up in a cul-de-sac of regretful thoughts.
About people he'd known, who'd died. About things he wished he'd done
differently.

The depressing cell was closing in on him. Pushing his spirit down,
no matter how he tried to stay positive. He had far too long to
think. And far too much time with nothing to do.

Empty time that seemed to drag and pull at his mind.

And pass with the patient slowness of a practiced torturer inflicting
pain on a helpless victim.


*********

The neighbourhood could hardly comprehend the speed with which events
changed. Suddenly, their man wasn't a despised killer. Instead, with
relish, the news channels offered wall-to-wall coverage of how the
entire thing had been a necessary ploy to draw elements of the
underworld out of their dark burrows. And that Kinsey, far from being
dead, was very much alive. Although, there had been an attempt on his
life.

Colonel O'Neill was not a man to be reviled, newsreaders announced.
Instead, according to sources close to Senator Kinsey, who wasted no
time in getting their profiles in front of a television camera, his
part had been necessary in order to lull certain suspects into a
false sense of security.

The Colonel was, in fact, a highly decorated soldier who was well
thought of by those he served with. There were still no details of
the gallant Colonel's career, despite several pointed questions from
journalists. The senator's press office simply said that the news
people would have to speak to the Air Force. Who were conspicuous by
their absence. But rest assured, said Kinsey's well-groomed public
speakers, with their unbelievably straight, gleaming-white smiles,
the Colonel really was a hero, not an assassin.

And, suddenly, O'Neill and the Kinsey case were front page news,
again.

`Kinsey's after all the publicity he can get,' Albert Johnson said,
biting into a doughnut.

`I don't like him,' agreed Nettie Dawson, who'd come over to watch
the broadcasts with her friends.

Sylvia nodded. `He's too . . . slick,' she judged.

`I mean, did the Colonel know about all this?' Albert pursued.

`Who cares,' Nettie shrugged. `He didn't do it. That's wonderful.
He'll come home and we can give him such a welcoming party.'

It was obvious to her two friends that Nettie was in Colonel-hero-
worship mode again. O'Neill had been cleared, and Nettie was
positively glowing. To such a degree that Sylvia had been heard
muttering  uncharitable things about retired widows and toy-boy
Colonels.

Albert had merely smirked into his coffee.

`Nettie,' Sylvia said, refusing to look at her husband, who she knew
was biting into his doughnut to avoid saying anything he might
regret, `I really don't think he'd want that. He probably wants to
just come home and forget all about the whole thing.'

`'Cause I'll bet he didn't know anything about it,' Albert continued
his own conversational thread. `It would have had to look real, so
their fall-guy would have to act the part real well. Best way to do
that is to make sure he doesn't know anything for real.'

Sylvia realised he was back with his conspiracy theory. And yet . . .

`It doesn't matter if he did or didn't, now,' she said trying to
steer her husband away from his track.

`Bet it mattered to him at the time,' Albert persisted. `I
mean . . .  how would you like to go to jail for a murder you hadn't
committed?'

`The poor man,' Nettie sighed. `The poor, poor man.'

And Sylvia sent a look towards her husband that would have pierced
the hide of a rhinoceros.

`What?' he pleaded innocently.

In the James' household observations of a similar nature were being
exchanged.

`And,' Michael queried, to no one in particular, `if it was all a
planned set-up, how come they ripped his house apart like that? They
didn't need to do that.'

Donna nodded, feeding Mikey while keeping one eye on the TV screen.

`They said they had to make it look real,' Michael continued to
muse. `And they sure did that. Dragging a man's good name through the
dirt like that.'

`He's in the military, though. Maybe they have to put up with things
like that.'

`Maybe they have no choice with *things like that*. And he seemed
damned happy when he set off up to the cabin. He was really looking
forward to the vacation. There wasn't a cloud on his horizon.
Grinning like a big kid he was.'

`And he'd've hated being in the papers like he has been,' Donna said,
encouraging her son to eat just a little more. `He's such a private
person.'

Michael looked at her, and nodded. `Yeah. That's true. My bet is,
someone, somewhere, came up with this whole thing and the Colonel got
bulldozed into it.'

The Jameses looked at each other in uncertainty. If they continued to
dig, who knew what dirt they might dig up. Perhaps, after all, it was
best to just believe what they were told at face value and leave well
alone.

And, yet, they were both thinking that the whole country had taken
things at face value for a week, and had read nothing but a man's
reputation ripped to shreds. His future consigned to the garbage can.

What was real?

Donna had seen the FBI leave soon after the shock morning news which
had interrupted main programme scheduling.

And had hurried over.

The place was a  mess.

Drawers had been pulled out and contents piled up after quite
obviously being rifled through. Books had been pulled from shelves
and piled on the floor so that the shelves were laid bare. Cupboards
had been emptied and the contents again stocked up on the floor. In
the bedrooms it was just the same. Everything had been gone through,
some rooms with more care and consideration than others. And although
it wasn't a completely disordered trashing it was still obvious that
everything had been taken out and examined.

It had made her angry and upset to see someone's home scrutinised and
picked apart like this. Almost as if it had been burgled. The
violation was the same. People you did not know working their way
through your life.

She had wanted to cry, as she wandered from one plundered and raped
room to the next.

Unsure what to do for the best, or where to start clearing up, she
had decided to wait and come back when she felt calmer.

Now, sitting in the shelter and security of her own home, she could
only think about O'Neill's ransacked home. Had he really known what
was going to happen when he'd left for the cabin? Had he been party
to it all?

Everything about his demeanour the morning he'd left said no.

How must he have felt? Arrested? Charged? Imprisoned? Innocent.

Donna felt sick.


************


Jack O'Neill was going to puke. Right over Kinsey's shoes if he could
manage it.

Bastard.

Freakin' slimy snake-in-the-grass.

Bastard.

The man was greasing his way into a position of more importance and
O'Neill was unwillingly on his hands and knees in front of him, with
a polishing rag in his hand.

Shit.

Crap.

Life was a real bitch sometimes.

This was just the same as being in prison. The same as being shackled
and helpless. He was not in control of events.

And he hated that.

And he so wanted to wipe the smile from Kinsey's face.

Punch him. Hard.

Yeah, like that's going to help, Jack.

I'll feel better.

Yeah, and end up right back where you started. Only this time it'll
be for something you actually did.

Yeah, well, think of the satisfaction.

Think of the court martial papers.

Crap.

` . . . the only way you're going to get public vindication is if the
two of us appear on the six o'clock news, shaking hands.'

Oh, yeah. He knew that. They'd done a real sweet number on him, all
right. Colonel Jack O'Neill, The Assassin. Fabulous.

His face had been plastered, in a starring role, across the front
pages of every newspaper in the country. He'd even made a guest
appearance internationally.