Disclaimer: Okay, you know the routine . . . up against the wall and spread 'em! Whoops, no, that's my fantasy of being handcuffed by John as GNOTW (guest Nut of the Week). What I mean to say is, the characters and situations of Profiler are the property of the good folks at Sander/Moss and NBC, and I promise not to use them for the illegal getting of gain.

Author's note: I've heard several people mention that it would be fun to see all the gang together again at a company picnic. Well, here it is, my version of the first annual VCTF barbecue.

Rating: PG (Pretty Goofy)

* * *

"Quit twitching, Bailey. You're starting to make me nervous." Bailey Malone spared a scowl for John as he continued to scan the park.

"I still think we should have cancelled the picnic."

"For what? We could all use a break."

"I don't like knowing that she's out there. You know she vowed in court to get even. And now she's escaped."

John couldn't hold back his laughter, even though Bailey scowled more ferociously than ever. "Ronnie McDern was like her brain or something. Helen Oaks couldn't tie her own shoes without directions. She's probably trying to liberate the tigers in the San Diego Zoo or something."

"I think you're underestimating her. At the least, I should have warned everyone else. And besides, it's my job to worry."

"No, it's your job to finish recuperating so the rest of us don't have to keep picking up the slack for you. Geez, Bailey, just relax. You can share the bad news on Monday. What the hell's gonna happen at a picnic? I'm here to keep an eye on things."

"And this is supposed to make me feel better?" muttered Bailey. John was already out of earshot, headed for the softball field and the game he'd organized between the VCTF jocks and a bunch of Coop's buddies from the ATF.

* * *

Denzel the dog was snoozing peacefully under a picnic table. The awning kept his hiding place well-shaded, and a breeze blew in off the ocean to cool the air. Denzel whimpered slightly, dreaming of steak tartare and the long-legged German shepherd that lived down the block from the firehouse. Just as the dream started to get interesting (all four legs twitching), someone sat down at the picnic table and kicked him in the ribs.

"Whoops, sorry, Denzel!" Grace moved her feet to the side, but Denzel uncurled himself with an expression very like a grumpy glare. A whiff of the air restored his good humor; lots of scents familiar and exotic to sample. He trotted off in the direction of the grills, tail flapping like a banner.

"Now you've done it," teased Morgan.

"He'll just end up under another table. My feet hurt too much for me to worry about the dog."

"Are you okay? If you don't want to stay . . . "

"I wouldn't miss this for the world. Just rub my back a little? Yeah, right there . . . " She leaned into her husband's expert touch with a sigh, only to be interrupted by Rich.

"Hey, Grace. Morgan. No baby yet?"Grace snarled, and Morgan mimed ducking for cover.

"What? What?"

"Don't ask her that question. She's threatening to start breaking people's arms."

"Sorry."

"No, it's okay." Grace rolled her eyes. "It's just that I've heard that question about four million times in the last few weeks. Everyone asks it. I mean, do I *look* like I had the baby? Am I *holding* a baby?"

"Well, I thought it would be rude to say you look big."

"You wouldn't have had to worry about it," observed Morgan. "You would have been dead long before you finished the sentence."

"I just can't get used to it. Look at me! I look like a tugboat. I have no balance. I don't even know if I have *feet* any more."

Morgan slid his arms around her. "I think you look beautiful."

"What more could you ask for?" said Rich. "Has the game started?"

"I think so. George is supposed to be at short stop."

"Good thing I brought some cold packs." He drifted off in the direction of the diamond.

* * *

Chloe had been drawing a picture at one of the tables, but the sound of cheers and the crack of the bat lured her attention away from the artwork. When she recognized her mother as the next person in the batter's box, she set down her crayon and half-eaten hamburger and ran toward the bleachers.

"Go, Mom!" she shouted.Moments later, a hairy muzzle rose over the edge of the table. The owner of the muzzle snuffled at the burger with great interest, then carefully snagged the plate and dragged it onto the ground.

* * *

Jack was in a bad mood. Maybe it was because his scalp itched under the curly blonde wig he was wearing. Maybe it was because his plans for this party hadn't worked out. Or maybe it was because, as usual, everything just looked blue to him. It depressed him. He hoped the spirit gum would hold up under high temperatures. He could feel the sweat trickling down his face, and it wouldn't do to have pieces of his disguise peeling away. Annoyed and overheated, he stabbed a hot dog repeatedly, watching the juices ooze out through the skin.

"Don't they know what's in these things?" he muttered.

* * *

An hour and a half later, a dejected John and Nathan sat slumped at the table Chloe had abandoned, shoveling in spoonfuls of potato salad.

"I told you not to bet so much on the game," said Nathan.

"I told you not to tell me I told you so," mimicked John. "Geez, that's a hundred and twenty bucks. I was going get my TV fixed."

"You're better off without it. Think of all the time you'll spend reading. Or better yet, perfecting all your Samantha fantasies."

"Shut up." But John's gaze drifted, as if of its own accord, to where Sam, Angel and Nathan's wife Michelle stood talking. He looked away when Coop joined the trio of women. "What are they up to, anyway?"

"Plotting. I think there's a baby shower for Grace in the works."

"Good, then. It doesn't concern us."

"Slow down, buddy. The new trend in gender equality is to make guys do stuff like that, too."

"They can try." John laughed evilly and took another big bite of salad.

"Hey," he said around a mouthful.

"This is pretty good. Who brought it?"

"I did." Jerzy smiled nervously as he tapped John on the shoulder.

"You like it?"

"It's great!"

"What a relief! I was afraid it might taste a little like formaldehyde."

"Huhn?"

"I'm afraid my kitchen isn't very well stocked, so I had to borrow one of the big bowls from the lab to mix it in."

Nathan's dark face took on a grayish cast as he set down his plate.

"That's . . . very practical of you."

"Don't worry, I washed it out really carefully first." He nodded to them. "Well, I'm off to the horseshoe game."

"You play?" asked John, though he was staring intently at the salad in his spoon.

"Not really. But I got a very complete first aid kit through the mail last week, and I've been waiting to use it. Horseshoes seems a likely place to find an accident."

After he'd disappeared, Nathan said, "Well, now we know what happened to Uncle Fester. John, how can you eat that?"

John chewed carefully and swallowed before answering. "You heard the man. He washed the bowl really carefully."

"Man, you never cease to disgust me," said Coop over his shoulder.

"What are you, too chicken to try it?"

"Naw, I'm not chicken. I've got a brain, unlike some of the chickens here."

"Can't you two give it a rest?" Sam had her arm around Coop's waist, but she reached out and touched John on the shoulder. "We're supposed to all be family today."

"Oh, right, and you like everybody in your family?"

"It's sour grapes," said Coop.

"I think you bribed Sam to throw the game," said John. "*Nobody* could strike out *that* many times by accident."

"I told you when you asked that I don't play very well. Stop whining and take it like a man, big guy."

"He'd like to," murmured Nathan, quietly enough so only John could hear, and was rewarded with a sharp kick to his ankle. John sighed with relief when Sam and Coop strolled hand in hand toward the tables weighted down with foods of all kinds.

* * *

"What's with the big tank and the forklift?" asked Coop.

"Lobsters." Sam peeked into the huge steel container, watching the crustaceans milling around with elastic-wrapped claws. "Bailey thought it would be cool to have a big lobster feast before we all head home."

"Works for me. Did he have them shipped direct from Maine or something?"

"Straight from Brunswick Naval Air Station."

"Whoa. What I wouldn't give for that kind of pull."

"What?"

Coop glanced and Sam and saw that her eyes had a distant quality. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing. You see that guy over there in the coveralls?"

"The fat one?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"There's something familiar about him."

"What? You think that's Jack?" In an instant, Coop had his fists clenched, ready for a fight.

"No. No, it's not that. Just something I ought to be able to put my finger on and can't." She shrugged and laughed. "I swear, my instincts are on overtime. Bailey's right; we could all use this break."

"Yep. And if you tell him I agreed with him, I'll deny it to the death." Coop took one last look in the lobster tank.

"See ya later, guys."

* * *

Chloe wandered all around the table where John and Nathan were sitting, her face becoming more and more dejected as she went.

"What's the matter?" asked John.

"My burger is missing."

"Missing? At an FBI picnic? That's a pretty serious allegation. I think you'd better investigate."

"What?" Chloe and Nathan both looked at John like he'd lost his mind.He jumped up and tore one side off a cardboard box. Folding the cardboard over so that it was about the size of his ID wallet, he took out one of Chloe's crayons and drew a rough representation of a badge. Then he opened it and wrote "Special Agent Chloe Waters" and drew a stick figure girl with long hair and a big smile.

"That doesn't look like me," complained Chloe.

"Might as well get used to it now," advised John. He handed her the badge. "Now you're all set. You and Assistant Director Denzel can go question some suspects."

"Cool!" Chloe ran off, with Denzel trotting at her heels.

"If I were training a new agent at this picnic," observed Nathan, "I would have suggested that she smell the breath of Assistant Director Denzel. He *definitely* had ketchup on his nose."

"Aw, but this way's a lot more fun." John grinned as he watched her speaking to the cook at the grill.

* * *

Ordinarily Jack would have been thrilled to talk to sweet little Chloe.

How much like his own Samantha she was! Sometimes he liked to pretend that she was his daughter, his and Sam's, but of course he would never have a child with Sam. It would complicate their special relationship.

"No, I haven't seen your hamburger," he said, forcing a smile. He watched Sam and that annoying Nick Cooper. They were holding hands. It was enough to make him sick.Sick. He chuckled to himself as Chloe and the dog wandered away. Too bad that CDC ID badge was taking so long to duplicate. Otherwise, he would have been able to make up that batch of Ebola burgers like he'd planned. "Next year," he promised himself.

* * *

"No, I don't think it's broken," said George to Rich, who was hovering. George had a cold pack pressed against his elbow, and a bruise purpled his right cheek near his chin.

"Got all my teeth, too."

"It's a miracle," said Rich wryly.

"One of these days you're going to admit that you're Sports Impaired."

"Like before next year's picnic, I hope," said John.

"Look, I'm really sorry about getting hit in the face with that pop fly. But you *did* say that you had it."

"I always say that," groused John. "No one ever listens."

"I'll make a mental note to ignore you in the future."

"Look, why don't we just let it go," suggested Nathan. "John's pissed because Coop gets bragging rights, but he'll forget about it soon enough."

"When hell freezes over," said Coop as he and Sam joined them. Grace and Morgan arrived a moment later.

"We're headed home," said Grace. "I'm bushed."

"Well, you are partying for two." Sam smiled.

"Wow, Grace! You sure are getting--Hey!" Coop jumped back as Grace's hands closed around his neck.

"You think she needs any help there?" John asked Nathan.

"Looks to me like she's doing just fine," Nathan countered.

"Damn." John grinned.

"Hey, Grace, it's not your turn."Grace was making a half-hearted apology when a shout arose from the direction of the lobster tank.

"What the hell--" John stood up to see what was happening, and realized that the mini forklift that had delivered the lobster tank to the middle of the field had picked it up again, and, water sloshing everywhere, was speeding in the direction of the parking lot.

"They won't sacrifice their lives to your greed!" screamed the person driving the truck. Bailey, unable to run after her, pulled out his gun.

"Go ahead," she screamed. "Tonight I'll be with my Ronnie!"

"It's Helen Oaks," Sam and John said simultaneously, shared a brief, amused glance, and then took off running. Sam met Bailey, who was cursing and clutching his side. John chased the forklift, but he was unable to keep up with it, and the guards at the park entrance dove out of the way when they saw Helen and her contraband barreling toward them.

A few minutes later the team gathered under the awning.

"Man, I wanted a lobster," complained Coop.

"Is Bailey okay?" John asked Sam.

"Mad as hell, and frustrated that he can't do what he wants to, but otherwise fine."

"We'll catch her," said John. "There's a limited number of places a person can go in Atlanta with a gigantic tank full of lobster--"Another chorus of shouts arose, this time from the grill area."Now what?"

Nathan sniffed the air. "What is that? Burning hair?"At the grill, they found a blond wig smoldering in the coals and creating clouds of noxious smoke.

"What's this doing here?" John was trying to fish it out with a spatula when Bailey grabbed his arm.

"Hold it. Look at the hot dogs.""What about them?"

"They're arranged in a pattern." Bailey walked around to the other side of grill.

"Oh my god."John joined him, and read the message: 'Did you get seconds, Sam?' spelled out with hot dogs.

"Jack? Jack was here?" shouted John.

"Alert everyone," said Bailey. "You know the drill."

* * *

Despite the soon to be legendary Message in the Weiners, Jack was nowhere to be found. Bailey's interrogation of the guards did turn up one witness.

"What did you see, Agent Hansen?"

"Well, just the cook. The lady with the hair net? She kind of had a stubble, I guess, but that was the only weird thing. I was busy chasing the one with the lobsters."

"And you ignored the cafeteria lady with the goatee, Agent Hansen?"

"How many pushups am I going to have to do, sir?"

"Don't make any plans for the near future."

* * *

Epilogue

On Monday morning at the regular briefing, Bailey announced, "I have some news on Helen Oaks."

"Do we get our lobsters back?" asked George.

"If you really want them. Though under the circumstances . . . "

"What circumstances?" asked Sam as she spread cream cheese on a bagel.

"She was storing the lobsters in the bathtub of her hotel room. Apparently she took off the rubber bands on their claws, so they grabbed her and . . . ate her."

"Ate her?" George gaped.

"Well, more like lots of little nibbles. It wasn't pretty," said Bailey.

Sam set down her bagel.

"Are you going to eat that?" asked John.

"Didn't you already have breakfast?" she hissed.

"Just a little potato salad."

THE END

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