Stakeout (Vaas Montenegro and CavalierTunes)

Leonard Wainwright stared at the little bubbles in his pitch black coffee as they swirled around. He sighed, looking out of the tinted windows, at the house they were supposed to keep watch on, in the outskirts of the suburbs of Chicago. The same words from Mr. Chamberlain rolled over and over in his brain, "Just a simple checkup, you'll be fine..just a simple checkup, you'll be fine."

He took a sip of his coffee. He'd always liked it black, every since high school. But, it wasn't as good as the first cup of coffee he'd had that morning, not that 'damn good coffee' he'd heard so much about. Maybe Agent Cooper had been lying. He tried to put his mind off of it, and looked over to his partner. She seemed nice enough, if not stern and tough-as-nails. She looked nice too. Pretty attractive.

"What was her name?" The 20-something thought to himself. "Ah, shit, might as well ask her." Leonard turned to his partner, taking another pull from his scalding, now-bitter coffee.

"I'm sorry, but, uh, what was your name?"

Special Agent-in-Charge Windy Fielder turned sharply to the right and gave Agent Wainwright a momentary glare before relaxing her face. She tried to remember to be calm with the rookies. "S.A.C. Fielder," she reminded him. If he wanted to, he could look up her first name. Windy had a philosophy of not mixing the personal and the professional; and the two of them would be partners.

With her back perfectly arched, and the index finger on her left hand tapping on her arm rest, she did everything in her power to keep her anger in check. She ran her fingers through her short, black hair and sighed.

"How long have you been in the Bureau again, Agent Wainwright?" Windy knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it spoken aloud. As if, somehow, hearing it straight from the horse's mouth would dull her pain. Windy had been drafted into the Academy at Quantico after getting her PhD in Psychology from Columbia. She had dutifully served for over ten years, and, in that time, helped bring two serial killers to justice, and developed the profile that determined the identity of a child kidnapper in Missouri. She had received annual raises and the respect of many of her colleagues.

Last month Windy's mentor, Deputy Assistant Director Bill Chalmers, retired. She knew the structure: Section Chief Frank Stewart would be promoted to replace D.A.D. Chalmers, and she would be promoted to replace Section Chief Stewart. D.A.D. Chalmers had even recommended her for the position. Then, the unthinkable happened: an Assistant Special Agent in Charge, Geoffrey Michaels, was promoted from beneath her to Section Chief.

Now, her new boss had placed her on an assignment that could be completed by ordinary Field Agents – if not Police Detectives. She was partnered with a rookie straight out of the Academy who couldn't remember her name. And the organization that she had dedicated her life to for a decade had pushed her aside.

She still kept in touch with Bill Chalmers. He was the only member of the Bureau who ever called her by her first name. He kept on reminding her that her talents would not be wasted, and that, one day, the chance for promotion would come again. She wasn't sure if she believed him anymore.

She looked out the window and stared at the house. It was green with mismatched shutters. She was looking for something – anything – out of the ordinary. And nothing stood out.

Wainwright sighed, scratching the back of his neck. Exactly like he thought, he could feel the contempt radiating off of her. Being put on a rudimentary assignment with the new guy, that 'what fresh hell is this?' kind of feeling. He stuffed his bland tar into the compact cup holder, the Styrofoam cover giving off that horrible creaking noise. He shuddered slightly.

The young man finally turned back to Ms. Fielder, trying to not seem like another wet-behind-the-ears newbie on his first day. "About a week, Fielder." He remembered back to his training, the simulation involving the hostages and the Mexican drug cartel. He managed quite the high score, ranking up into the 91st percentile in negotiations, 89th in investigational skills, and 72nd in accuracy. Wainwright never did have the best eyesight. Once, while playing a game of spoons as a child, one of the spoons smashed directly into his right eye, inciting another trip to the emergency room.

But, once again, Wainwright's mind turned on him, and he thought to himself, "Am I really qualified for this? The burden of being responsible for the safety of thousands, possibly millions of people?" He had worked hard for law degree from Baylor, and hoped he could deliver.

"Hey, Fielder..does the pressure ever get to you?"

Windy felt her her lips and her throat arranging themselves to say "no," but she stopped herself. "Yes," she conceded, folding her hands, and bowing her head. "That's normal," she said, trying to remain calm and keep her anger at bay. "But it's important to remember that as much pressure as there is on us: there's ten times more on the criminals we're trying to catch. If we fail, we try again. If they fail, they're thrown in prison." Of course there was always death as an option: but she hoped Wainwright wouldn't consider that.

"Besides: the only person who can really put pressure on you is yourself," that was the same piece of advice that Bill Chalmers gave to Windy her first month on the job. She had been clocking a minimum of twelve hours a day behind a desk. D.A.D. Chalmers, as if it were second nature, could read her intentions: it wasn't about the work, it was about proving herself. Still, for years Chalmers had to remind her that hours working a case were not what earned respect; Windy would earn the respect of her colleagues by the way she handled herself in their presence.

"When I seven, I fought my way onto the school's soccer team." Windy rarely shared tidbits about her personal life, but felt it necessary to educate the rookie. "I practiced from the time I finished my homework until the streetlights came on every weeknight. I lived in an apartment in Queens, and had to walk to the park to practice. None of the girls in my grade liked soccer, so I practiced alone." She took a sip of her coffee. "In fact, the reason I had to fight my way onto the soccer team was because it was the boys' soccer team. There was no girls' team."

"In any case," she continued. "I made the team, and stuck with soccer until high school. I practiced like hell every day, and…" she trailed off. "The point is, I quit soccer come high school because I hated it. I legitimately hated the sport. But I had convinced myself that if I quit, it would be equivalent of saying 'girls aren't cut out for sports.'" Windy smiled a sincere and genuine smile. "My freshman year in high school, a boy – a sophomore, no less – asked me to practice with him, because he knew I was so good at soccer. I knew I was good at soccer…but when he recognized it, my entire perspective changed. I realized that I had earned the respect of my peers, and proved that a girl could play the game just as well as a boy. The next day I quit the team."

She turned to look Wainwright in the eye. She adjusted her blazer, and relaxed into her seat. "No one is pressuring you right now. Just do your best. That's all I can ask. You would never have been placed on this assignment if you weren't ready for it." She was tempted to add, "but don't get in my way," but bit her tongue.

She looked back at the house. "Hmmm…" She reached for her notepad. "Do you notice anything odd about the hose?" she pointed toward a garden hose on the side of the house. It had been unhooked from pipe sticking out of the foundation. The pipe was slowly dripping water onto the snowy ground. She clicked her pen and scribbled "garden hose" on the yellow paper. "Why is it unscrewed?"