Suzanne, I thank you so much for your lovely beta work. You made my story smoother so everyone will understand me. You found the gaps and holes and made so many wonderful suggestions to make Major Case Caching perfect.
Title: Major Case Caching
Flavour: Criminal Intent
Characters: Alexandra Eames/Robert Goren
Rating: T to M
Word Count: around 10300
Synopsis: Bobby and Alex are on a geocaching hunt in Harriman State Park as Alex had a little accident. The both have to spend the night together in a little fishing hut on a calm lake. – Post season four story with a lot of references of single episodes.
This is finally my Geocaching project. I love that hobby. I had that idea – Bobby and Alex on a treasure hunt in my head for over one year. Now I finally finished the story, the story I fought the most. I don't know why it last forever to write these lines? I hope you'll like it.
I switched from Alex POV to Bobby POV and back.
If you like to read and watch the more interactive version switch to my LJ for links to the mentioned real geocaches, a title cover and the floor plan of Bobby's hut.
Disclaimer: I earn no money from this thing, nor do I profit in any other way from it. Involved persons are only borrowed and always go back to their owner.
Major Case Caching
Chapter 1: Mud Pack
Word Count: 929
When was the last time you went on a treasure hunt? I remembered Bobby's words, and smiled while bushwhacking. How 'bout never? I had asked again in early April and now just eight weeks later we were on our first big nature caching tour.
After we had arrested Pike and Lang, Bobby used a whole weekend to read up about geocaching, Kelly West's unusual hobby.
Before Bobby and I had worked this explosive case around Frank Adair, we'd started our first own little hunting in New York City. We'd been hooked before we'd realized.
Today was Saturday May 28th. Bobby and I had arrested Lloyd Wilkes and his 'son' Clay Turner last Monday. Soon the New York summer…summer in the city would begin. The weather had became nicer and the temperatures higher. It was the time of the year when my partner and I had less to do.
We were both taking off the second half of June but today on our walking tour we started by going easy in the lighter months.
Not one mile away, at the Surebridge Mine Cache, Bobby had typed N 41° 15.895 W 074° 06.792 in our newly acquired Garmin GPS. We had satonto the bare fallen tree over the hidden box and geared up for the next cache at the Greenwood Mine. Now we arrived at our destination.
"Just one hundred feet," he shouted as I scrambled over more roots and rocks.
"The container should be near an iron door in the ground." I again checked the notebook and was distracted for one second. I slipped on the slick mossy crag, lost my footing and toppled over directly into the quagmire.
My left shoulder and arm hit the ground hard. Mud dropped from my hair and oozed into my hiking boots. Great, just great.
"Got the box," Bobby triumphed, and looked for me. His eyes snapped open.
I never saw my bulky partner running faster. He dropped the Tupperware box. The little treasures flew in all directions. Bobby needed just a few jumps with his long legs to be by my side. He reached for my hands to help me get up, slipped my backpack from my shoulders and checked my body for cuts.
My fingers ran through my wet, devastated hair. Phew, no blood, but my shoulder hurt.
"Are you okay?" Bobby asked startled.
"I think so," I answered. My heart beat returned to normal. I pulled off my sweatshirt. "Shit, I'm soaked from head to toe."
"Let's sit down there," Bobby pointed on a big stump at the small rill.
"Good idea." I shuffled the few steps. My legs and feet were okay and also the rotating of my shoulders was painless.
I washed my face and arms, but still felt uncomfortable. My whole body was mud-soaked.
"What should we do now?" I asked Bobby, a bit distressed, and searched his eyes. "I think we overestimated the distance." I checked my watch. "Now we are more or less ten miles away from the car and the sun will set in one hour."
Bobby nodded and rubbed his neck.
"I know we planned to hike to Arden and take the bus back to the crossroad 7 Lake Drive – Toll Road. But I don't know if I can manage the two miles completely soaked." I lowered my gaze.
Bobby sighed. "That's no problem, Alex. Did I tell you about my fishing cabin?"
"No, I don't remember."
"The hut is just a half mile north of here."
I blinked surprise.
"Lewis, Max and I found the ruin on a walking tour maybe ten years ago. We asked the Park Rangers if we could rebuild it. They said yes and so the cabin became a perfect place for quiet fishing trips and a great starting point for hiking."
"Oh, now I understand why you know the surrounding area so well."
"More the north and east of the park, but yes, I know the slippery spots.
"Haha, very funny, Goren," I slapped playfully at Bobby's chest and smudged his dark olive short-sleeved shirt.
"Hey," he shouted but added with blushing nose. "Sorry, Alex."
"Let's sign the logbook and collect those scattered treasures, then take off to your cabin." I rose and walked away, my arms still shaking off the mud.
"Tell me about the cabin," I requested as I pulled together the pencil, knick-knack and the logbook.
"I haven't been there in months. Maybe last October?" Bobby passed me an old shareware computer game and one Canadian Dollar coin, he cleaned from soil. "The hut is really small, but inside is an even smaller kitchen with a propane stove, a table with chairs and one bed."
"One bed for three tall guys?" I raised my eye brows.
"In the most cases we didn't use the cabin together." Bobby laughed. "And those times we all went together we brought a tent and drew straws for the bed."
This time I was the one who laughed.
"But there is no power and no running water. Don't expect too much," Bobby looked up from the yellow cache logbook he'd signed with our stamp – Major Case Caching.
"I'll be totally satisfied by getting out of my wet clothes and drying myself."
"That will be no problem. We stored a few towels."
"Great," I replied, and felt for a pair of mini plastic handcuffs in my backpack. I had seen them on my last toy store visit with my nephew. The cuffs were our token. They were perfect: finger-fitting small, light and a perfect symbol for Bobby and me.