24: 6:58 AM - 12 Hours Later (3/3)
Jun. 3rd, 2007 01:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
knitwitficsFandom: 24
Characters: Jack Bauer, Ryan Chappelle
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A three-part story dealing with the events of the last moments of episode 3x18. A look into the minds of Jack Bauer and Ryan Chappelle in those last couple minutes.
Warnings: Character death, violence, language
Originally written: April 2004
It takes Jack a couple minutes to find the right key, but a quick comparison of manufacturers between the deadbolt and the keys on Chappelle's key ring narrows it down to two keys. The second is the right one, the bolt sliding home easily, the front door of Chappelle's ranch house emitting a little puff of cool air as the vapour barrier lets go of the doorjamb. Jack pushes the door open, then steps into the cool dimness of the front hall, shoving Chappelle's keys back into his pocket for the time being.
He'd found Chappelle's keys and wallet in the helicopter after handing the body over to Saunders' henchmen. The body, his body; the two phrases alternate in Jack's mind, and he's unsure which to use. His training demands the first. Detachment, objectivity, no matter how recently the person has looked him in the eyes or spoken, the now-immobile amalgam of flesh and bones must cease to be human, must be something instead of someone. Perhaps that was what would have come to him naturally, had he been forced to kill Ryan in some kind of conflict, in self-defence. Considering he hardly had a chance to see Chappelle's face after shooting him, it should have been easier to look at the body and not think of it as Ryan.
But despite his training, it's the second which is recurring most often in his own thoughts. In those last twenty minutes he learned more about Ryan Chappelle than he'd known in all the years they had worked together; he'd seen the man laid bare, stripped down to his deepest thoughts and fears in those minutes before a single shot had ended them. Those things aren't easy to erase from his mind, particularly now that the crisis is contained, now that he has a moment to tie up loose ends, that he has no one to hunt down. The second option is why he's here.
Jack closes the front door behind him, letting the deathly silence envelop him like a blanket. The security system next to the door is silent; he'd arranged for the security company to turn it off, as no one other than Ryan himself knew the code. The only sound is the steady hum of the air conditioner; something he'll have to remember before he leaves, one of the loose ends.
That's the excuse he gave Tony and Chappelle's colleagues at Division. He had Chappelle's keys, after all, he might as well do some of the little things that need to be done. After those at CTU had explained Ryan's death, Division had looked up Chappelle's personnel record, and found that some of the next-of-kin data was outdated. The only family members listed were an ex-wife and three children, but the address given was five years old, and the person who'd answered the phone at the number given hadn't known where to get in touch with Victoria Hays. They could have just put their digital bloodhounds on her trail; Adam, or Kim, or Chloe could probably have found the former Mrs. Chappelle in minutes, but everyone at Division was too busy, and the staff at CTU had just had the longest, roughest day of their lives. Sleep was what they needed now, not busywork. Besides, there were other things that needed to be done at Chappelle's place: turn off the water and air conditioning, unplug electrical appliances. Jack had taken advantage of the excuses, and now that he's inside Ryan's house, the thoughts of what he has to do are floating around in the back of his mind, but they're still just secondary, not the real reason he wanted to come here.
He kicks off his shoes so they don't leave dirty footprints on the off-white carpet, and walks into the living room, looking around. Looking for answers. He's never liked loose ends, unsolved puzzles, and after what he's seen today that's what Ryan is; one big, unsolved puzzle. He's not sure what exactly he's looking for, what he expects to find. Maybe it's just to see that there is--was--someone behind the Ryan he never really knew.
It's dark inside the house, but Jack doesn't move to turn on any lights, as though he shouldn't be there and doesn't want to leave any sign to the occupant that he was there. As though he's broken into the home of some suspect to plant a few bugs or look for evidence, and he doesn't want to tip them off.
The place is kind of surprising. From what he thought he'd known about Ryan, he would have expected something very minimalist and contemporary. But instead it looks both sleek and comfortable; lots of wood in the furniture, but in straight lines and geometrics; the upholstery in neutral colours, but soft and inviting. He doesn't know anything about decorating, but he remembers Teri enthusing over the work of Frank Lloyd Wright, which he seems to remember looked something like this.
The L.A. Times lies open on the coffeetable, folded so only half of one page shows. Leaning a little closer, he can see it's the sports section, open to the baseball scores and league standings. After a moment of hesitation, Jack re-folds the section so it can be slipped back into the rest of the paper and put out for recycling. Something else to remember.
A few photo frames are arranged on a side table next to the sofa, and he leans in for a better look. They all look like they're of Ryan and his ex-wife and kids, obviously taken quite a few years earlier, before things changed in the family. Ryan's actually smiling in the photos, something Jack realizes he's never seen before. Usually the only time he saw Ryan was when something was going wrong, and even if not, the man was always businesslike, never smiling or making small talk. Always focussed on work. Was that what had caused the Chappelles' break-up? More unanswered questions.
Jack shakes himself and moves through the small dining room into the kitchen, trying to think of the errands he has to do, the things he told Tony he was coming here to do. A phone is mounted on the wall in the space between the countertop and the bottom of one of the cabinets, and he takes a look through the small pile of papers near the phone. Bills, mostly. No sign of an address book or notebooks with personal phone numbers, either. One of the techs had taken a look through Ryan's Palm Pilot and laptop earlier and hadn't found any personal contacts listed there, just work numbers and email addresses.
A plate and glass are on the counter near the sink, the plate dusted with breadcrumbs, one edge smeared with ketchup. A small frying pan is in the sink, half-filled with water, crusty bits of egg clinging to its edge. The paper, the dishes; in his mind's eye Jack can see Ryan hurrying into the kitchen carrying plate and glass, dropping both on the counter and quickly putting the pan to soak, rushing because he's spent a little too long reading the paper and is going to be late for work. Planning to take care of the mess when he got home, not knowing that he'd never get the chance to clean up.
Jack washes the dishes and sets them in the draining board, then grabs a half-full bag of garbage from under the sink; another errand. No one's sure when someone will be in to pack up the place, as that's usually the job of the next-of-kin. By the time Ryan's ex or one of his kids arrives to clear the place out, likely the food in the fridge will have gone bad, the smell of garbage will have permeated the whole house. Luckily for Jack, there isn't much that's perishable in the fridge or pantry, and he tosses everything in the garbage bag, pouring a carton each of milk and orange juice down the sink.
There are a couple bottles of beer in the fridge, which he leaves in place. Even though he knows Ryan will never be back to drink them, though they'll probably just be thrown out anyway, even though Jack feels like he could certainly use one at this moment, the idea of taking one just seems wrong, somehow, as does his being in the house at all. He can't help but have a feeling that any minute he'll hear someone unlocking the front door and Ryan will walk in, demand to know why Jack is in his house, poking through his things. In some small way, Jack wishes it could happen, one less thing for him feel guilty about today. Slamming the fridge door shut to try and rid himself of the thought, he turns and dumps the bag near the door in the front hall, then heads down the hallway in the opposite direction from the kitchen.
The first room on his right is a media room, a large entertainment centre dominating one wall. Ryan had most of the latest gadgets: flat screen TV, high-tech speakers, DVD player. There are quite a few shelves filled with DVDs, spanning a number of different genres. Other shelves are filled with stereo equipment, CDs, and even quite a few LPs. The CDs are as varied as the DVDs, though he notices that Ryan seems--seemed, he corrects himself, again--to like the Rolling Stones and The Who in particular. Switching off and unplugging the power bar feeding all the electronics, Jack has to wonder how many people ever actually knew what music Ryan liked, or how often he ever went to the movies with someone. Did anyone besides Ryan ever see this room, ever know any of these things?
The next room is an office, bookshelves lining both of the long walls, a desk with a computer and docking station for Ryan's laptop sitting under a window. There are no photographs here, just a few files on the desk, along with a phone and all the usual computer accessories. Division will probably want to take the computer in, make sure there's nothing left on the hard drive that the wrong people could get their hands on.
It's in the top drawer of Ryan's desk that Jack makes his discoveries. Sitting in the wooden swivel chair, Jack pulls out an old day planner first, obviously the precursor to Ryan's Palm Pilot. Most of the numbers appear to be for work, judging by the number of names Jack recognizes. There's only one Chappelle listed: David Chappelle, with a Seattle address. Not his son's name, Ryan's brother then, though who knows how old the address and phone number are. Flipping to the "H" names, Jack finds the rest of Ryan's family: Victoria Hays and Ryan, Caitlin and Christine Hays-Chappelle. There are a number of cross-outs here, new addresses written in underneath, but at a guess, judging by the number of changes, the numbers and addresses are probably fairly recent.
He's getting ready to close the drawer when he see the other things inside and stops. A small photo album rests on top of a couple folded pieces of paper, and for a moment Jack isn't sure if he should look and see what they are. Whatever gut instinct makes him a good agent is now telling him these items are personal.
But he's always hated unanswered questions.
He looks at the small photo album first, the first few pictures like those in
the living room, but more candid. A family vacation, one of the kids' birthdays. Usually of the happy family celebrating, all smiling, looking like they're having fun.
The last few are different, though, more recent. Three different pictures of three different college graduations, one young man and two young women receiving their diplomas. Even though the pictures are taken at a bit of a distance, Jack can tell the photos are of Ryan's kids. The last one is a wedding ceremony, one of the girls, taken from quite a few rows back in the church.
Jack pulls out the folded papers before he has much time to think about the photos, wanting to know what else Ryan had stashed in his drawer. It's a motley assortment of ephemera; a child's drawing, a father's day card, a tiny handprint in blue paint with "Caitlin, Age 5" written in an adult hand underneath.
Leaning back in the chair, Jack looks at the things he's found spread out on the desktop. From what he can tell, Ryan's kids were in their early teens or pre-teens when he and Victoria divorced. Did Victoria take the other photographs when they split up, or are there more, stuffed in a closet somewhere? Why keep these items in his desk? They weren't out where Ryan could see them, so he must not have wanted to have the constant reminders staring him in the face. But they were in his top desk drawer, not the bottom drawer, not at the back of a bureau or closet. They were just far enough to be kept out of sight, but not far enough to be forgotten. The graduations, the wedding...did the kids know he was there, or did he find out about those events on his own somehow, show up for his own sake?
And why, when Jack had asked if there was anyone Ryan wanted to call, did he only mention his brother, not his wife or kids? Did he not want to mention his family to Jack, even in that desperation finding something he couldn't tell anyone about? Did Ryan not want to call them, afraid they wouldn't listen?
Or was it something more prosaic, the fact that he didn't have their phone numbers memorized? Or because there would never be enough time to say goodbye?
Unanswered questions. Jack closes his eyes, rubbing his forehead where a headache is beginning to build. The house goes silent as the air conditioner turns off, and the only noise is from traffic outside, other residents returning home after a long commute from work, from being stuck somewhere in the city during the state of emergency. A couple kids are playing basketball in a nearby driveway, and he can hear the rhythmic poing, poing, poing of the ball on cement.
It was stupid coming here for answers, Jack thinks to himself, All I've found are more questions. And though he doesn't actually think it, he knows his coming hasn't solved the other thing that has been dogging him all day, the other thing he subconsciously wanted to remove with a glimpse past the Ryan he always saw: the guilt for killing him. The guilt for giving in to the demands of a terrorist, and exacting that punishment from someone else.
With a sigh, Jack stands up from the chair, then replaces his discoveries in the drawer, except the day planner, which he takes with him. He quickly checks the other rooms, turning off Ryan's alarm clock, taking out the garbage bags in office and bathroom, then double-checks all the windows and doors, making sure they're locked. After turning off the air conditioner, he walks out to the garage where he turns off the water, then dumps the garbage bags in the trash can, the paper into the recycling bin. Someone from Division will drive out next week, make sure the garbage and recycling is out for trash day.
Using the instructions Ryan's security company gave him, he sets a new alarm code, scribbling it on the paper so that Division and whoever comes to sort out Ryan's things can get in. Jack pulls his shoes back on, then sets the alarm and walks out the front door, making sure the deadbolt is secure before swapping Ryan's keys for his own and climbing back into his SUV, sitting in silence for a moment.
It's getting dark now, and the streetlights are coming on. Porch lights have turned on up and down the street, lights inside the houses casting silhouettes on the blinds. In front of him, Ryan's house lies dark and empty, mute testimony to a life ended. And though it must have been lying there somewhere in his mind the entire time he was inside, for the first time he allows the thought to surface, allows himself to think back three years. If something had happened to him after he'd come back to CTU but before he'd had the chance to make things up with Kim, would someone have been doing the same things for his condo? Making sure it was safe, secure, tying up loose ends? Taking out his garbage, catching glimpses of his photos, of himself and Teri and Kim, smiling, a happy family; before things became strained, before Teri was murdered?
Jack shakes the thought away and turns his key in the ignition, the engine springing to life. Backing out of Ryan's driveway, he heads away from Ryan's home and back to his own, the ghosts of unanswered questions his companions for the drive.
Characters: Jack Bauer, Ryan Chappelle
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A three-part story dealing with the events of the last moments of episode 3x18. A look into the minds of Jack Bauer and Ryan Chappelle in those last couple minutes.
Warnings: Character death, violence, language
Originally written: April 2004
It takes Jack a couple minutes to find the right key, but a quick comparison of manufacturers between the deadbolt and the keys on Chappelle's key ring narrows it down to two keys. The second is the right one, the bolt sliding home easily, the front door of Chappelle's ranch house emitting a little puff of cool air as the vapour barrier lets go of the doorjamb. Jack pushes the door open, then steps into the cool dimness of the front hall, shoving Chappelle's keys back into his pocket for the time being.
He'd found Chappelle's keys and wallet in the helicopter after handing the body over to Saunders' henchmen. The body, his body; the two phrases alternate in Jack's mind, and he's unsure which to use. His training demands the first. Detachment, objectivity, no matter how recently the person has looked him in the eyes or spoken, the now-immobile amalgam of flesh and bones must cease to be human, must be something instead of someone. Perhaps that was what would have come to him naturally, had he been forced to kill Ryan in some kind of conflict, in self-defence. Considering he hardly had a chance to see Chappelle's face after shooting him, it should have been easier to look at the body and not think of it as Ryan.
But despite his training, it's the second which is recurring most often in his own thoughts. In those last twenty minutes he learned more about Ryan Chappelle than he'd known in all the years they had worked together; he'd seen the man laid bare, stripped down to his deepest thoughts and fears in those minutes before a single shot had ended them. Those things aren't easy to erase from his mind, particularly now that the crisis is contained, now that he has a moment to tie up loose ends, that he has no one to hunt down. The second option is why he's here.
Jack closes the front door behind him, letting the deathly silence envelop him like a blanket. The security system next to the door is silent; he'd arranged for the security company to turn it off, as no one other than Ryan himself knew the code. The only sound is the steady hum of the air conditioner; something he'll have to remember before he leaves, one of the loose ends.
That's the excuse he gave Tony and Chappelle's colleagues at Division. He had Chappelle's keys, after all, he might as well do some of the little things that need to be done. After those at CTU had explained Ryan's death, Division had looked up Chappelle's personnel record, and found that some of the next-of-kin data was outdated. The only family members listed were an ex-wife and three children, but the address given was five years old, and the person who'd answered the phone at the number given hadn't known where to get in touch with Victoria Hays. They could have just put their digital bloodhounds on her trail; Adam, or Kim, or Chloe could probably have found the former Mrs. Chappelle in minutes, but everyone at Division was too busy, and the staff at CTU had just had the longest, roughest day of their lives. Sleep was what they needed now, not busywork. Besides, there were other things that needed to be done at Chappelle's place: turn off the water and air conditioning, unplug electrical appliances. Jack had taken advantage of the excuses, and now that he's inside Ryan's house, the thoughts of what he has to do are floating around in the back of his mind, but they're still just secondary, not the real reason he wanted to come here.
He kicks off his shoes so they don't leave dirty footprints on the off-white carpet, and walks into the living room, looking around. Looking for answers. He's never liked loose ends, unsolved puzzles, and after what he's seen today that's what Ryan is; one big, unsolved puzzle. He's not sure what exactly he's looking for, what he expects to find. Maybe it's just to see that there is--was--someone behind the Ryan he never really knew.
It's dark inside the house, but Jack doesn't move to turn on any lights, as though he shouldn't be there and doesn't want to leave any sign to the occupant that he was there. As though he's broken into the home of some suspect to plant a few bugs or look for evidence, and he doesn't want to tip them off.
The place is kind of surprising. From what he thought he'd known about Ryan, he would have expected something very minimalist and contemporary. But instead it looks both sleek and comfortable; lots of wood in the furniture, but in straight lines and geometrics; the upholstery in neutral colours, but soft and inviting. He doesn't know anything about decorating, but he remembers Teri enthusing over the work of Frank Lloyd Wright, which he seems to remember looked something like this.
The L.A. Times lies open on the coffeetable, folded so only half of one page shows. Leaning a little closer, he can see it's the sports section, open to the baseball scores and league standings. After a moment of hesitation, Jack re-folds the section so it can be slipped back into the rest of the paper and put out for recycling. Something else to remember.
A few photo frames are arranged on a side table next to the sofa, and he leans in for a better look. They all look like they're of Ryan and his ex-wife and kids, obviously taken quite a few years earlier, before things changed in the family. Ryan's actually smiling in the photos, something Jack realizes he's never seen before. Usually the only time he saw Ryan was when something was going wrong, and even if not, the man was always businesslike, never smiling or making small talk. Always focussed on work. Was that what had caused the Chappelles' break-up? More unanswered questions.
Jack shakes himself and moves through the small dining room into the kitchen, trying to think of the errands he has to do, the things he told Tony he was coming here to do. A phone is mounted on the wall in the space between the countertop and the bottom of one of the cabinets, and he takes a look through the small pile of papers near the phone. Bills, mostly. No sign of an address book or notebooks with personal phone numbers, either. One of the techs had taken a look through Ryan's Palm Pilot and laptop earlier and hadn't found any personal contacts listed there, just work numbers and email addresses.
A plate and glass are on the counter near the sink, the plate dusted with breadcrumbs, one edge smeared with ketchup. A small frying pan is in the sink, half-filled with water, crusty bits of egg clinging to its edge. The paper, the dishes; in his mind's eye Jack can see Ryan hurrying into the kitchen carrying plate and glass, dropping both on the counter and quickly putting the pan to soak, rushing because he's spent a little too long reading the paper and is going to be late for work. Planning to take care of the mess when he got home, not knowing that he'd never get the chance to clean up.
Jack washes the dishes and sets them in the draining board, then grabs a half-full bag of garbage from under the sink; another errand. No one's sure when someone will be in to pack up the place, as that's usually the job of the next-of-kin. By the time Ryan's ex or one of his kids arrives to clear the place out, likely the food in the fridge will have gone bad, the smell of garbage will have permeated the whole house. Luckily for Jack, there isn't much that's perishable in the fridge or pantry, and he tosses everything in the garbage bag, pouring a carton each of milk and orange juice down the sink.
There are a couple bottles of beer in the fridge, which he leaves in place. Even though he knows Ryan will never be back to drink them, though they'll probably just be thrown out anyway, even though Jack feels like he could certainly use one at this moment, the idea of taking one just seems wrong, somehow, as does his being in the house at all. He can't help but have a feeling that any minute he'll hear someone unlocking the front door and Ryan will walk in, demand to know why Jack is in his house, poking through his things. In some small way, Jack wishes it could happen, one less thing for him feel guilty about today. Slamming the fridge door shut to try and rid himself of the thought, he turns and dumps the bag near the door in the front hall, then heads down the hallway in the opposite direction from the kitchen.
The first room on his right is a media room, a large entertainment centre dominating one wall. Ryan had most of the latest gadgets: flat screen TV, high-tech speakers, DVD player. There are quite a few shelves filled with DVDs, spanning a number of different genres. Other shelves are filled with stereo equipment, CDs, and even quite a few LPs. The CDs are as varied as the DVDs, though he notices that Ryan seems--seemed, he corrects himself, again--to like the Rolling Stones and The Who in particular. Switching off and unplugging the power bar feeding all the electronics, Jack has to wonder how many people ever actually knew what music Ryan liked, or how often he ever went to the movies with someone. Did anyone besides Ryan ever see this room, ever know any of these things?
The next room is an office, bookshelves lining both of the long walls, a desk with a computer and docking station for Ryan's laptop sitting under a window. There are no photographs here, just a few files on the desk, along with a phone and all the usual computer accessories. Division will probably want to take the computer in, make sure there's nothing left on the hard drive that the wrong people could get their hands on.
It's in the top drawer of Ryan's desk that Jack makes his discoveries. Sitting in the wooden swivel chair, Jack pulls out an old day planner first, obviously the precursor to Ryan's Palm Pilot. Most of the numbers appear to be for work, judging by the number of names Jack recognizes. There's only one Chappelle listed: David Chappelle, with a Seattle address. Not his son's name, Ryan's brother then, though who knows how old the address and phone number are. Flipping to the "H" names, Jack finds the rest of Ryan's family: Victoria Hays and Ryan, Caitlin and Christine Hays-Chappelle. There are a number of cross-outs here, new addresses written in underneath, but at a guess, judging by the number of changes, the numbers and addresses are probably fairly recent.
He's getting ready to close the drawer when he see the other things inside and stops. A small photo album rests on top of a couple folded pieces of paper, and for a moment Jack isn't sure if he should look and see what they are. Whatever gut instinct makes him a good agent is now telling him these items are personal.
But he's always hated unanswered questions.
He looks at the small photo album first, the first few pictures like those in
the living room, but more candid. A family vacation, one of the kids' birthdays. Usually of the happy family celebrating, all smiling, looking like they're having fun.
The last few are different, though, more recent. Three different pictures of three different college graduations, one young man and two young women receiving their diplomas. Even though the pictures are taken at a bit of a distance, Jack can tell the photos are of Ryan's kids. The last one is a wedding ceremony, one of the girls, taken from quite a few rows back in the church.
Jack pulls out the folded papers before he has much time to think about the photos, wanting to know what else Ryan had stashed in his drawer. It's a motley assortment of ephemera; a child's drawing, a father's day card, a tiny handprint in blue paint with "Caitlin, Age 5" written in an adult hand underneath.
Leaning back in the chair, Jack looks at the things he's found spread out on the desktop. From what he can tell, Ryan's kids were in their early teens or pre-teens when he and Victoria divorced. Did Victoria take the other photographs when they split up, or are there more, stuffed in a closet somewhere? Why keep these items in his desk? They weren't out where Ryan could see them, so he must not have wanted to have the constant reminders staring him in the face. But they were in his top desk drawer, not the bottom drawer, not at the back of a bureau or closet. They were just far enough to be kept out of sight, but not far enough to be forgotten. The graduations, the wedding...did the kids know he was there, or did he find out about those events on his own somehow, show up for his own sake?
And why, when Jack had asked if there was anyone Ryan wanted to call, did he only mention his brother, not his wife or kids? Did he not want to mention his family to Jack, even in that desperation finding something he couldn't tell anyone about? Did Ryan not want to call them, afraid they wouldn't listen?
Or was it something more prosaic, the fact that he didn't have their phone numbers memorized? Or because there would never be enough time to say goodbye?
Unanswered questions. Jack closes his eyes, rubbing his forehead where a headache is beginning to build. The house goes silent as the air conditioner turns off, and the only noise is from traffic outside, other residents returning home after a long commute from work, from being stuck somewhere in the city during the state of emergency. A couple kids are playing basketball in a nearby driveway, and he can hear the rhythmic poing, poing, poing of the ball on cement.
It was stupid coming here for answers, Jack thinks to himself, All I've found are more questions. And though he doesn't actually think it, he knows his coming hasn't solved the other thing that has been dogging him all day, the other thing he subconsciously wanted to remove with a glimpse past the Ryan he always saw: the guilt for killing him. The guilt for giving in to the demands of a terrorist, and exacting that punishment from someone else.
With a sigh, Jack stands up from the chair, then replaces his discoveries in the drawer, except the day planner, which he takes with him. He quickly checks the other rooms, turning off Ryan's alarm clock, taking out the garbage bags in office and bathroom, then double-checks all the windows and doors, making sure they're locked. After turning off the air conditioner, he walks out to the garage where he turns off the water, then dumps the garbage bags in the trash can, the paper into the recycling bin. Someone from Division will drive out next week, make sure the garbage and recycling is out for trash day.
Using the instructions Ryan's security company gave him, he sets a new alarm code, scribbling it on the paper so that Division and whoever comes to sort out Ryan's things can get in. Jack pulls his shoes back on, then sets the alarm and walks out the front door, making sure the deadbolt is secure before swapping Ryan's keys for his own and climbing back into his SUV, sitting in silence for a moment.
It's getting dark now, and the streetlights are coming on. Porch lights have turned on up and down the street, lights inside the houses casting silhouettes on the blinds. In front of him, Ryan's house lies dark and empty, mute testimony to a life ended. And though it must have been lying there somewhere in his mind the entire time he was inside, for the first time he allows the thought to surface, allows himself to think back three years. If something had happened to him after he'd come back to CTU but before he'd had the chance to make things up with Kim, would someone have been doing the same things for his condo? Making sure it was safe, secure, tying up loose ends? Taking out his garbage, catching glimpses of his photos, of himself and Teri and Kim, smiling, a happy family; before things became strained, before Teri was murdered?
Jack shakes the thought away and turns his key in the ignition, the engine springing to life. Backing out of Ryan's driveway, he heads away from Ryan's home and back to his own, the ghosts of unanswered questions his companions for the drive.
