The moment she stepped into her apartment she knew Michael was there. She didn’t see him, but she could feel him. Besides, his overcoat was tossed over the back of a chair. She smiled faintly and hung it up properly in the closet, got herself a glass of water and went upstairs.

His clothes were folded in a black mass, his suit coat draped across the back of another chair, and Nikita wondered, not for the first time, if Michael purposely disdained closets. Perhaps he had a special affinity for laying his clothes on furniture? Something left over from schooldays when his mother admonished him to lay his clothes out for the following day?

He sprawled across her bed, a hump of feather bed covers and sheets. She bent down and brushed a kiss across his forehead and he jerked awake. “Hi,” he said sleepily, and Nikita pulled back.

“Hi, yourself,” she smiled gently.

“You came back.”

“Of course. Are you surprised?” she teased.

“Glad.” He reached out for her.

“Michael, don’t. I stink of sulfur,” she said, backing away.

“One more kiss,” he bargained with her sleepily, “Then you can go.”

She leaned down again and gave him a longer kiss, suffusing him in odorous sulfuric fumes, and finally she stepped away again. “I’ll come back. Promise.”

She took a quick shower, washing everything twice with glycerine soap, wondering if she’d ever get the rotten egg smell out of her hair, her skin. Ugh. The whole bathroom reeked of it. She finally hopped out of the shower and lit every candle in her bathroom, then opened the window a bit. She toweled off quickly and slipped on her nightgown that hung on the back of the door, and stepped out into the cool air of the bedroom.

“Easter eggs,” Michael mumbled when she slipped under the sheets with him.

“What?” She turned around, adjusting her nightclothes, fitting her tired body into the indentions Michael’s had made in the mattress.

“You smell of Easter eggs.” He pulled her closer and grumbled.

“I know, I smell awful,” she sighed. “You want me to sleep on the couch?”

“I want you to take this off,” he complained, plucking at her nightgown. “I can’t feel you.”

“You are the most --” Nikita sat up and ripped her nightclothes off, tossing the gown on the foot of the bed and flopping down beside him. “Better?”

“Much.” His arm curled around her, skin to skin, and sighed against her neck. “Take off your clothes and stay awhile, Nikita.”

Nikita giggled and curled down in his arms. “You’re such a nut.”

“Nut?”

“A fruitcake. A nut. Crazy in the head,” she clarified.

“Crazy in the heart,” Michael corrected, and though she was tired, she didn’t protest when he began kissing his way down her shoulder, then her back. But the time he reached her hips, she was a goner.

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

Drowsy and content, Michael lay in that half-limbo between asleep and awake. One of Nikita’s legs was slung across his hips and her hair tickled his face, but he was too relaxed to do anything about it. He felt her yawn and stretch slightly, tightening her leg around him and pulling him closer.

“Michael ...” she sounded as sleepy as he was, and instead of answering properly, he merely murmured. Making a huge effort, he lifted his heavy arm and brushed her hair away from his face, feathering a kiss across her temple.

“Sometimes I worry I don’t tell you I love you often enough,” she said softly, and Michael’s eyes popped open.

“What?”

“Sometimes I worry I don’t tell you I love you,” she repeated. She twisted around and propped her head on her elbow, studying him seriously. “It’s not because I don’t want to. It’s just that I can’t.”

Michael traced the line of her jaw with his index finger. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You don’t understand.” Nikita captured his hand in her own and kissed his knuckles briefly before releasing him. “I don’t -- I can’t --” she struggled. “I don’t know the right words,” she said finally. “I know I’m not the most demonstrative person around.” She smoothed a hand across his chest, coming to rest on his breastbone, right over his heart. “And I wish I had the right words to tell you how much I love you, but I don’t. They seem ... weak.” She flopped over onto her back and cross her arms over her chest. “Oh, never mind. It’s silly, I guess.”

Michael kissed her bare shoulder and this time, it was he who wormed a leg around her and pulled her close. She allowed him to wiggle an arm underneath both of hers, and he rested his head on the pillow close to her ear. “Do words mean so much to you, then?” he asked.

“You know they do. How else do I know what you’re thinking?”

“You know.” He breathed her name softly and kissed her again, working his way up her shoulder to her neck, where he gently stroked what would be a bruise tomorrow. “You want to know how much I love you ... look in the mirror tomorrow morning.”

“What do you mean?” Nikita twisted her head toward his.

“You’re going to have a mark on your neck tomorrow,” he said, smiling faintly. His eyes strayed downward, and his hand followed. “And another one there ... and there ...”

“You don’t sound like you’re very sorry.”

“I’m not. Not at all.” His thumb rubbed her belly button and her eyes slid closed.

“M-Michael ... I’m trying to have a serious discussion ...”

“So am I. Very serious.” He kissed her, gently stroking her face, her neck, tracing the line of her shoulder, her breast. “I love you. And I know you love me.”

“How?” Nikita choked out, and Michael rubbed his face against hers. “I never tell you.” Her hands tightened on his hips.

“Yes, you do. In a thousand different ways. Not always with words. But always in deed.”

“You mean ... like this?”

It was Michael’s turn to choke on his own breath. He rolled so he was over her, his weight on his elbows, and Nikita moved her hands up over his chest and to his neck. She brought his face down to hers and kissed him slowly. “Or like this?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” he managed to say.

“I love you, Michael.”

He could feel the bottoms of her feet stroking up his calves, and he groaned again. “... Nikita ...”

“I love you.” She kissed him again. “Should I show you again how much?”

He couldn’t even answer. And afterward, as he lay slumped over her, her breath quiet and even, he slipped into sleep, lulled by the memory of her voice saying over and over, “Love you. I love you, Michael ... Love you ...”

Nikita moved under him, no doubt feeling stifled. Michael shifted in his sleep, keeping an arm and leg around her. Nikita twitched once, then, still asleep, she clumsily laced her hand through his.

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

Nikita strode into Walter’s station intent on one thing only: to retrieve her weapons and get on the van. They were already running late, and this was a small mission. Only she and Juan would be going in, so it was imperative she have the correct equipment.

“Did you get the list of what I need?” she asked, and Walter, preoccupied with filling her order, nodded shortly.

“It’s all in the bag. Except this ...” he handed her an extra clip, and Nikita peered at the bullets inside. Each was marked with a very faint seam, so faint that if you didn’t look for it you wouldn’t see it.

“Thanks.” She smiled at him and pocketed the extra clip in her right hand vest pocket. Then she picked up the other clip he handed her and put it in her left pocket. “One gun, right?”

“Just keep the clips separated and you’ll be fine, Sugar.”

“Thanks Walter. You’re a life saver.” Nikita gave him a quick kiss and grabbed her bag. She’d dress the rest of the way in the van.

“Yeah, that’s what they all say.”

“Mmm ... well, they’re all right. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“You betcha.”

She gave him another grin and loped off toward the exit. The last thing he saw her do was pat her vest pockets, reassuring herself she’d indeed placed each clip in the proper place. Then she was out the door.

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

Juan and Nikita hadn’t worked very often together. His native language was Spanish, so he mostly worked in Mexico and South America, whereas Nikita usually worked in Canada, the U.S. or parts of Europe.

Nikita went over the mission profile once again in the van. The mission had been splashed together hastily, which made her uncomfortable. And it didn’t make it any easier that they were dealing with a broken splinter of Glass Curtain.

“I thought he was dead,” Nikita had said, dismayed when Sparks’s picture flashed up on the hologram.

“He is,” Operations said dryly. “But he isn’t.” Another face flashed on the screen and Nikita blinked.

The man staring out at her was really no more than a boy. He had spiky blue hair and bruise-rimmed eyes. Acne dotted his thin face, and Nikita automatically placed him as a drug addict. Probably heroin. Maybe something else; who knew, these days?

Beside her, Walter sighed and confirmed in a low voice, “Great. Heroin. He’ll be unpredictable and unreasonable.”

“It’s an old photo,” Operations said. “He could look like this --” another picture flashed on the screen, obviously altered so the subject looked several years older -- “Or this --” another picture, this one with longish hair and a fatter face -- “Or this --”

“I get the idea,” Nikita said, not impolitely, but Operations glared. “Why didn’t he die in the first place?”

“He’d left Glass Curtain before your original infiltration,” said Operations. “As you know, our attack wasn’t completely successful. If it had been we wouldn’t have run into Sparks and his sidekick later on.” Operations let his glance linger over Walter, and Walter flushed but held his tongue.

After a brief, embarrassed silence, Operations continued. “Harvis splintered off Glass Curtain, taking with him two others that we know of. After our initial attack --” Walter shifted uncomfortably as Operations’s eyes focused on him for a moment, “-- he may have come back for survivors. Housekeeping reported a low mortality number. At the time, we thought we’d misjudged their numbers. Now, we think that perhaps we were mistaken.”

The screen flickered off, and Operations fixed Juan, Nikita and Walter with an icy stare. “Finish it off. This time, I want everyone exterminated and accounted for. No exceptions.”

Now, in the van sitting next to Juan, Nikita sighed. He’d been chosen because he knew Spanish. She’d been chosen because she knew Glass Curtain. Not that it would help much, but still ...

Nikita sighed again, her thoughts wondering to Michael. It still irritated her that she was unable to express her feelings for him. Well, maybe she expressed them, but she never could find the right words. Was she one of those unfortunate women who loved the most?

One of the few pieces of advice her mother had given her was to be sure that the man she loved, loved her more than she loved him. That way, she was assured of all the things her mother never had -- a home, a life, someone who would support her. Her mother told her thousands of times, Love comes and goes. But a man who will keep you fed and warm and in an apartment with central heating shouldn’t be cast aside.

At the time, she thought the idea of a man loving her was ridiculous and she hadn’t questioned what would happen if the man stopped loving her and left her high and dry. Now, she questioned it every day.

Maybe what they said was true: like mother, like daughter. Maybe she was doomed to be the one who loved the most.

Well, it doesn’t matter, Nikita thought, trying to shake off her depression. If I love him more than he loves me, it’s just too bad. I can’t stop loving him and I won’t try to, either. I’ll just enjoy what little we have together. “Be sensible,” she muttered, giving an energetic nod.

“Excuse me?” Juan looked up from his hand-held.

“Nothing. Talking to myself.”

The van slowed, then stopped. Juan rose and offered her a hand. “Ready?”

“Sure.”

They hopped out of the van and walked about a mile in the dark. It was quiet; the summer night was uncomfortably warm for leather, and had they not been walking into a highly dangerous situation, Nikita would have removed her vest. As it was, she endured and sweated, the leather sticking to her and chafing her ribs and the tops of her legs.

The road began to rise gently, and Nikita and Juan slowed their steps, stopping to listen every few minutes, their night goggles lending the scene an eerie red tone. As they came to the top, they crept along slowly.

There was the barn, just as it should be. There were horses in a paddock, visible only as dark red lumps humped on the ground, sound asleep in the grass. Shadowey out buildings dotted the landscape, but according to intel, they were for storage only. Juan pulled out his Vision Finder and pointed it at the barn; on the screen, the walls dissolved and a grid showed where the humans were.

He quietly checked his gun again and Nikita did the same. Then they crept to the barn, silencing the opposition as they came against them. A broken neck here ... a silenced bullet there. Juan gave a sharp nod and Nikita, on the count of three, pushed in the ID card she’d stolen off one of the men who now lay dead at her feet. Then she slipped inside the building, Juan close behind her.

No one was awake. That was good. They found the sleeping compartments -- actually old horse stalls -- and efficiently shot each occupant in the temple.

“I count 12,” Nikita said in a low voice.

“Twelve inside. Four out,” Juan agreed, his voice barely a whisper.

They waited a heartbeat, listening to the silence of the barn, the faint creaking of the rafters, the shift when the wind sighed outside. From his pack, Juan took out small tins of Sterno and a propane tank; Nikita brought out matches and followed behind him, carefully setting the fire to look as if transients had camped there, then burned the place down.

Then, just as quietly as they’d come in, they left the barn. Flames licked the old wooden walls faintly at first, then when the rotten wood began to catch, the fire burned eagerly.

Juan moved to the paddock. The horses, sensing trouble and scared of the smoke, whinnied impatiently, pawing to be let out, and he unlatched the gate, standing well away so he wouldn’t be trampled. The horses plowed out the gate, then stood uncertainly, looking from Juan to Nikita.

“Go on,” Juan ordered, slapping one on the flank. “Get out of here. Vamoose. Go --” and as one body, the horses turned and obediently galloped off.

The fire was bright and hot. As she turned to follow Juan, Nikita saw a movement in one of the outbuildings, and she halted, then dove for cover as a bullet zinged past her and into Juan. He fell with a thud and a groan.

“Juan?” Nikita spoke as loud as she dared, but Juan didn’t answer. She debated for a moment: check Juan, or go after the shooter? But she knew Juan was wearing protection too, and unless the shooter got him in the head, Juan would be all right. Just bruised and sore.

Nikita pulled back the slide on her gun, scanning the area. She saw a slight movement, just big enough for a large dog ... or a small woman.

She hesitated, then she changed her cartridges, putting the one that was in her gun back in her left pocket. She hastily plugged the cartridge she’d been keeping in her right pocket into place, and stealthily crept toward the shooter, glad she was away from the glow of the fire and doubly glad she was in black from head to toe.

Her adversary hadn’t dressed as well and was between Nikita and the fire. Nikita could see the tail of a white shirt, the glimmer of firelight on a silver gun, and she took careful aim. She squeezed the trigger once, and was delighted to hear a moan and a crash as the shooter toppled over.

Nikita waited a minute, listening for anyone else, then, when she was sure she was alone, she crept closer and turned the shooter over.

Behind them, the barn gave a mighty whoosh as the roof crashed in. The entire area was lit with orange light, and in the flickering flames, Nikita saw that she’d just shot the one person she’d been unconsciously searching for all night long: Simone.

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

Nikita checked Simone’s breathing. Shallow, but steady. She bent over, feeling of the other woman’s chest, her legs, her arms. Finally, she found the dart imbedded in Simone’s thin shoulder. Nikita ripped away Simone’s shirt and dug it out, wondering how much of the drug had worked its way into Simone’s system. She was a small woman, smaller even than Nikita remembered, all skin and bones.

Nikita pocketed her weapons and picked Simone up in a fireman’s hold, carefully balancing her weight so they wouldn’t fall. She made her way slowly to Juan, who was finally coming around.

“You okay?” Nikita asked.

He cursed, first in Spanish, then in English. “Give us a hand, will you?” he finally asked.

“They’re all full,” Nikita said, and Juan finally looked up at her.

“What the hell is that?”

“I’m taking her back.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Nikita, you know what our orders were. If you can’t do it, I will.”

“You do, and I’ll kill you right here,” Nikita said stubbornly.

Juan’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. “I want to go on record right now as saying I completely disagree with you.”

“Okay. You can disagree. But we’re coming back with her.”

Juan struggled painfully to his feet. “All right.” He looked back at the burning barn; the fire raged against the sky, and from where they were standing they could feel the fierce heat. He picked up his gun, which had fallen when he had, and replaced it in its holder. They started walking to the road, and when they reached the dusty dirt track, he said, “But tell me one thing.”

“Sure.” Nikita shifted Simone on her back, getting a better grip.

“You didn’t blink an eye when we exterminated the rest of those weasels. What makes this one different?”

“She’s one of us.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This,” Nikita said, nodding her head toward Simone and sounding as if she were introducing people at a party, “Is Simone. We left her behind twice. I just think that this time, she ought to come back.”

Juan’s eyes narrowed. “Simone.”

“That’s right.”

They started walking slowly down the dirt road, Nikita because Simone, though small, weighed at least 80 pounds, and Juan because his ribs still hurt.

“The same Simone that was married to Michael?”

“That’s right,” Nikita said again, stopping briefly to pull the lax body into a more comfortable position.

Juan shook his head. “You are crazy, girl. Loco. That’s what they all say about you, but to tell the truth, till now, I never believed them. What’s Michael gonna say, you come waltzing in Section with Wife Numero Uno strapped round your neck like a goddamned millstone? You should have shot her when you had the chance.” He looked around quickly. “It’s not too late. Put her down, Nikita -- You can close your eyes, I’ll do it with a silencer -- you won’t even hear it.”

“Don’t be repulsive.”

“Hey, it’s your life,” Juan shrugged.

“That’s right,” Nikita said stiffly, “It is.”

They walked the rest of the way back in silence.

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

If Juan hadn’t been with her and if the driver had been more amiable, Nikita would have tried to figure out a way to hide Simone. Walter’s house would have been perfect. But the driver was a stickler for details and Juan was muttering in Spanish about crazy women and his bad luck, so Nikita took Simone to Section instead.

If Madeleine was surprised to see Simone, she didn’t let on. She merely nodded, said, “Medlab,” and Nikita, grateful to postpone the scolding she knew she deserved, trudged down the hall.

She passed several operatives; all of them looked at her curiously, then quickly looked away.

How would Section seem to Simone? Was anyone here, besides Walter and Michael and Madeleine and Operations, who remembered her? And what would it feel like to be back after so long?

The distinct smell of Medlab reached out to greet Nikita and she wrinkled her nose. No matter how long she kept away from Medlab, that smell ... ugh. A mixture of medicine, alcohol, urine and the unmistakable scent of fear laced the air. No matter that she, Nikita, was perfectly fine and uninjured; the odor of the hospital ward turned her stomach. It wasn’t so much the smell as it was the association of death, pain and suffering.

Nikita deposited Simone on one of the hospital beds and looked at her. She was so tiny. So much smaller than Nikita was. Little hands, little feet, little arms. Of course, some of her fingers were missing tips; Nikita supposed some of her toes suffered the same fate. Her legs were scratched and scarred under the shorts she wore; her T-shirt was too big and stained with dirt and the yellow sweat of a man’s armpits. Her hair was longer than when Nikita had seen her last; Nikita reached out and gently brushed it away from Simone’s face, and Simone flinched away from her, moaning.

Good, Nikita thought. She’s coming round. I’ll just stay with her till one of the doctors comes in.

Waking in Medlab was disturbing any time, but Nikita supposed it would be doubly awful for Simone, and as the other woman’s eyes fluttered open, Nikita braced herself.

“Where am I?” Simone licked her dry lips, and her eyes slid closed briefly. Then they opened, and she tried again, this time in French. Nikita just stared at her, and Simone patiently went through four other languages before Nikita broke in.

“Simone? Do you ... do you remember me?”

“Remember?” Simone gave a sharp, dry laugh and rubbed her eyes.

“Yes ... you’re in Section One.” Nikita spoke firmly and softly. “My name’s Nikita. We met once, a long time ago.”

Simone looked at Nikita, her eyes taking in Nikita’s clothes, her hair -- which, now that she didn’t wear her ski mask, was a tangle of dirty blonde -- and her eyes. “I don’t know you.”

Nikita nodded. “That’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

One of the doctors bustled in, a woman who had looked after Nikita occasionally. She gave Nikita a brief, tight smile, which Nikita returned, and said, “So, who do we have here? Are you responsible for this one?”

Not sure exactly how to answer, Nikita said, “I ... retrieved her. She’s one of us. She’s Section.”

“Been out a while, I guess,” the doctor said, reaching out and helping Simone sit up.

Simone looked from Nikita to the doctor. “What’s ... Section?” she asked, and Nikita and the doctor exchanged a concerned look.

“What’s your name, honey?”

“It’s Simone,” Nikita answered, her eyes never leaving Simone’s face. “And she’s been out several years.”

“Out?” Simone asked, confused. She rubbed her head again, her eyes fluttering closed, and the doctor stepped back, watching her.

“Headache?”

“ .... yes ...” Simone moaned, and the doctor gave her a gentle shove.

“You rest for a minute. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll get you some aspirin and be right back. Nikita ...”

“I’m going,” Nikita said hastily, and backed out of the room.

She intended to wait for Michael in his office, but then she remembered he was in Hong Kong for the rest of the week. So instead, she debriefed and was told in no uncertain terms to go home and stay there.

Nikita nodded and turned obediently. But before she left, she managed to get to Walter’s office and duck into the back.

“What’s up?” he asked, immediately suspicious.

“Two things. First of all, thanks for the tranqs.”

“You had to use them on guard dogs?”

“No. On Simone.”

“Who?”

“Keep it down, Walter, jeez ...” Nikita bit her lip and looked at her shoes. “She was going to the privy when we entered the barn. I think she probably sensed something was wrong, though, because she was waiting for us when we left. And she had a gun. Who takes a gun to the bathroom?”

“You do,” Walter pointed out, “I bet. And if I had to go to a privy in the middle of Mexico in the summer, I would too. You never know. Snakes like to sleep in inconvenient places, if you know what I mean.”

“Whatever,” Nikita waved her hand. “The point is, I’m afraid they’re going to kill her anyway. She’s been out a long time ... you know the way they are.”

“So why didn’t you put the poor thing out of her misery and kill her in peace?”

“Because ... I couldn’t.”

“Come on, Nikita. It would have been the kind thing to do.”

“You sound like Juan.” Nikita frowned.

“And what’s Michael going to say?”

“I don’t know,” Nikita said, her anger mounting, “But if Madeleine has her way and cancels Simone anyway, we’ll never know, will we?”

Walter looked thoughtfully at the oiled gun in his hand -- he’d been cleaning weapons when Nikita ambushed him. “She won’t cancel her right away,” he mused. “Madeleine’ll want information out of Simone. She’ll want to know if we’ve got all of the remnants of Glass Curtain. She’ll want to know what this particular faction was after and how much information they’d gotten and from who. And she won’t get any of that till Simone is well enough to talk. How lucid was she?”

“I don’t know.” Nikita’s brows knit and she said slowly, “She acted strange. Not like that,” she said hastily, “She said she didn’t remember Section. And she didn’t know where she was. She kept asking what hospital she was in.”

“Hospital?” Walter frowned again.

“I know. Who could mistake Med Lab for a hospital ...? I ... uh ... that is ...” Nikita flushed a bit, and Walter’s eyes narrowed.

“Tell me what you did.”

“Well ... when we were coming back ... and Juan was asleep ... I sort of stole something.”

“Really.”

Nikita dug in her pocket and took out a small vial filled with burgundy liquid. “Run it against her old records?” she asked, handing it to Walter.

He shook his head. “You always think it’s gotta be drugs, don’t you?”

“Well, a lot of the time, it is.”

“Sugar, with this psycho that was in charge, it could have been anything from heroin to good, old-fashioned brainwashing.”

“I know that,” Nikita said, annoyed. “But I think it would be nice to at least try, don’t you?”

Walter grumbled, but slipped the tube of blood in his jacket pocket.

“And another thing, Walter,” Nikita said.

“What is it?”

“I’m not supposed to be here for a week. Can you ... check on her? Maybe she’ll get better. Maybe this whole amnesia thing is just an after-effect of the tranq dart. It was awfully strong ...”

“Well, it was made for dogs, not people.”

“I know that, Walter, and I’m grateful to you, really I am. But if you could just check up on her ...”

“Ah, go on. Get out of here,” Walter said affectionately. “Go home and wait for your boyfriend. Start thinking up things to tell him, ’cause Sugar, you’re going to have a time explaining yourself out of this fix.”

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

When Michael arrived in Section, he immediately sensed something was wrong.

It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. Wherever he went, conversation stopped dead and people dropped their eyes. All except Walter. Walter met his gaze head on, with narrow eyes, and Michael felt a trickle of fear wrap around his heart.

Michael began unloading his pockets, laying his weapons with a quiet snap on the workbench, and finally, unable to stand it, he asked, “Is it Nikita?”

Walter blinked. “No. Not Nikita.”

“Then ... what is it?”

Instead of answering, Walter took the guns, the ammunition clips, the knives, the untidy tangle of piano wire, a safety lighter and an unexplained throat lozenge. “You’d better go see Madeleine. She’s been expecting you.”

“Walter?”

But this time, even Walter was unable to meet his eyes, and, more afraid than ever, Michael strode quickly to Madeleine’s office.

She was misting her plants. She’d apparently tired of orchids; now she was growing odd smelling bushy herbs. Lemon verbena, rosemary, mint and other things that Michael couldn’t identify. He and Nikita had laughed about it late at night ... “She’s turning into a real witch, Michael,” Nikita had said, and Michael, still not completely sure about the surveillance issue, had hushed her with a kiss.

“You wanted to see me?” he asked, trying to remain calm.

“Sit down,” Madeleine said politely, putting her mister away and taking a seat behind her desk.

Michael sat and waited, hands quietly on his lap.

“It was quite a surprise to find Mr. Sparks alive and relatively well a few months ago,” Madeleine said in a tea-party voice.

“It was a year ago,” Michael corrected. “And I don’t know that I’d call him ‘well.’”

“Perhaps not,” Madeleine smiled. “You know there was a splinter group that had separated from Glass Curtain.”

“Yes,” Michael said. “The leader’s name was Harvis.”

“We exterminated him a week ago,” Madeleine said. “We traced him to Mexico, where he’d been living with some of his followers. And a few ... others.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed. “Others?”

Then, suddenly, he knew. It was Simone. Relief washed over him. Not Nikita. Simone. And in the same instant, he felt horrible shame suffuse him. It was Simone. His wife, the one he’d promised to always love and never leave, yet he’d left her -- twice -- and didn’t love her anymore.

“Nikita brought her back,” Madeleine said, swiveling her computer screen around so Michael was treated to the view of a very small woman in a seemingly large bed, surrounded with wires and tubes and blinking machines. “She’s not in very good shape,” Madeleine noted. “We’ve questioned her at length, but unfortunately, she’s not been able to give us much information.”

Michael stared at Simone, then, finally, he said, “Is that all?”

Madeleine’s brows raised, and Michael clarified by saying, “May I go?”

“Of course.”

He stalked out of the room, and if operatives avoided him before, this time they fairly scattered before him. He slammed into his office and immediately patched his system into Medlab’s monitors, finding Simone and focusing on her.

He dropped into a chair, rubbing his eyes, then he took a closer look at the woman who, so long ago, had been his wife.

She was so little. Bony. And against the white sheets, her skin looked ashen. There was blood on her pillow, and as he watched, her nose began to bleed again. One of the monitors began to go crazy, and there was a flurry of activity as a nurse rushed up, called for help, and obscured Michael’s vision.

He turned off the monitor with an angry snap and got up. His fury was intense and unfocused -- he was angry at Walter for withholding information; at Madeleine for keeping Simone alive when she so clearly ought to have been dead days ago; at Simone for not having the sense to kill herself or die in the first explosion; and most of all, he was angry at Nikita.

What right did she have to do this? Did she think so little of herself that she thought he would be with anyone, as long as they were warm and female? When had she developed this unnatural mean streak? To purposely bring Simone back into Section, when Nikita knew what Section was like ... it was cruel.

Michael ought to have gone to the gym to work out his anger. He ought to have screamed to himself in the white room or maybe even have taken a Valium, but feeling stifled by Section, he instead went to the garage, unlocked his motorcycle, and roared away from Section, from Madeleine, from the curious stares of everyone else, and especially, from Simone.

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

Michael drove recklessly. By the time he reached Nikita’s apartment, he’d nearly run over two pedestrians and he’d sailed through three red lights. One man had flipped him off and two others had yelled obscenities at him -- one in English, the other in an odd dialect of Greek.

But it didn’t matter how fast he drove, the wind didn’t blow away his anger. He parked in front of Nikita’s building, still just as angry as he had been at Section. Maybe even more so.

He got off the motorcycle and began walking, trying to get rid of his anger. But with each step, his fury increased, and finally, he turned back toward Nikita’s.

He knocked a quick, furious tattoo on her door and then unlocked it without waiting for permission. It was just as well -- she wasn’t in her living room and with one glance he could tell she wasn’t upstairs, either. “Nikita?”

He caught a glimpse of movement outside, and he went to the tall patio doors.

She’d been gardening. Not just today, but for several days. The potted plants, which had been overflowing with weeds, now held neat, small flowers: marigolds, Gerber daisies, other bright, cheerful plants. She evidently left the largest pot for last, because she was kneeling in front of it, pouring potting soil around a tipsy-looking scraggly rosebush. Michael went outside.

“Nikita.”

She jerked around, spilling dirt on the patio and the bush lurched to one side. Her face was a dirty smudge, and as he frowned at her, he realized she was crying and probably had been for a long time. Her face was streaky with dirt and tears and her breathing was uneven. “Have you ... have you been to Section yet?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She scrubbed a hand across her face, smearing tears and more dirt across her cheeks, and Michael’s anger evaporated, leaving him exhausted. He leaned against the door, and Nikita, unable to help herself, began to cry all over again, but this time, she got up and wrapped her dirty self around Michael’s impeccable form, burying her head in his neck. He rubbed his face against her sweaty hair and relaxed.

“Did you ... did you see her?” Nikita finally asked, lifting up her face. Her eyes were red and swollen, and Michael extracted a handkerchief, dipped it in a glass of ice water Nikita had been drinking, and swabbed her face until it was clean -- or at least, less dirty.

“I saw her through the monitor.”

“But not in person?”

“Not yet.”

“Did they tell you ... what happened?”

“Just that you brought her back.”

Another tear trickled down Nikita’s face, and Michael doggedly wiped it off. “They did something to her. Glass Curtain did. I don’t know how she got away from Sparks’s compound and into Harvis’s group, but when she did, he started some kind of therapy. Or maybe it was Sparks all along. They can’t tell.”

“What kind of therapy?” Michael asked gently.

“She’s unable to be questioned.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I ... when she went to Med Lab, they started asking her questions. Just the normal ones, like what her name was, what day it was. Nothing complicated. But she couldn’t remember Section. And when they started asking her about it -- really asking her -- she got a headache. But it wasn’t a headache. It was an aneurism.”

“What?”

“She ... she fainted. And a few hours later, she seized. And when they stabilized her,” Nikita went on, “and she was fit for questioning, something happened. She started shutting down.”

“Shutting down,” Michael repeated.

“The only way I can explain it is, her body started ... betraying her. First it was the aneurism. Then she ... she had a couple of minor strokes. Some more seizures. Her body keeps on shutting different parts off. This morning she lost her kidney function.”

“Have you seen her?” Michael asked.

“I’m getting all this from Walter. They won’t let me in. He says ... he says no one’s seen anything like this before. It’s some kind of severe conditioning, something that literally won’t allow her to betray Glass Curtain. He says Madeleine is trying to figure out what they did to her.”

“Madeleine wants to use the information for herself,” Michael murmured. “It’s a perfect way to ensure anonymity.”

“Walter says he can’t imagine that it will be much longer. Her internal organs are turning themselves off. She’s already on a heart machine; she’s on dialysis ...”

Michael nodded thoughtfully, then he took her dirty hand in his. “Then we should go.”

“We?”

“I’m not going by myself. I want you to be with me.”

“I can’t ... that’s a little strange, Michael. She’s your wife.”

“But I want you to come.”

Nikita looked at him carefully. His eyes were unguarded and troubled, and she slowly nodded. “Okay. Let me wash my hands and we’ll go.”

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

Simone looked awful. Instead of being a healthy cafe au lait color, her skin was the color of cold ashes. She was breathing on her own, but an oxygen mask cupped her nose and mouth, and beside her a wall of machines measured each beat of her heart, each breath she drew. Bags filled with oozy pink or pale yellow fluid hung from the sides of the bed; above her, an IV bag with clear fluid leached its way into her veins.

“Her lungs are filling up with fluid,” Walter said quietly, and unable to answer, Nikita merely nodded. “I’ve been sitting with her when I could.”

“Does she ... remember you?” Michael asked.

“Not from before. She knows me now, but she doesn’t know who I am.” Walter sighed and rubbed a hand across his face. “She just thinks I’m an old nice guy. Asked me if I were the chaplain.”

Nikita smiled faintly. “What did you say?”

“Told her I was just a friend.” Walter sighed again and said, “She asked about you, Nikita. Wanted to know where the woman was that brought her in. I told her you were detained but would be by later.”

“How --?”

“Sugar, I knew you’d get back here sooner or later.” Walter bent down and brushed a kiss across Simone’s forehead and shrugged. “Let me know when you leave, and I’ll come back.”

“Thank you, Walter,” Michael said quietly.

“No problem. She was a good friend to me. It’s the least I can do.”

“Or the most,” Nikita said, her hand on his arm. “Thanks, Walter.”

He nodded again and left quietly, and Nikita and Michael stood beside Simone. Nikita reached out and caressed one thin arm, and Simone’s eyes slitted open. She mumbled something, and Nikita shook her head. “Don’t talk,” Nikita said. “It’ll tire you.”

Simone clumsily reached up and pushed the mask off her face. “You came back.”

“Of course,” Nikita said, forcing herself to sound normal. “I brought someone. You used to know him.” She pulled Michael closer, forcing Simone to look up at him, but instead of recognition, Simone just nodded politely.

“I’m sorry. I don’t remember you. I don’t remember a lot of things. That woman ... Madeleine? ... She keeps asking ...” Simone’s voice trailed off, and Nikita frowned slightly.

“Don’t worry about it, Simone. She always asks questions.”

“She’s angry at me. But I can’t help her ...”

“It’s okay,” Nikita said firmly. “Would it be all right if we stayed awhile with you?”

“ ... not very ... good company ...” Simone wheezed, and Nikita smiled.

“That’s okay.” She gave Michael a look and he reached over and put Simone’s oxygen mask back into place. She let it stay for a few minutes, then she knocked it off again.

“ ... dries me out ...” she explained breathily. “And I want to know ... where I am ...”

“Remember, I told you before: this is Section.”

“Section of what? A medical facility?”

“Sort of,” Nikita said, sitting down in Walter’s chair. Michael perched on the end of Simone’s bed, not saying anything, just watching the two women.

“Tell me ... what I don’t ... remember.” Simone’s fingernails -- the ones she had left -- were tinted a faint blue and they began to darken slowly. Nikita frowned.

“All right,” Nikita agreed. “But you have to wear the oxygen mask. Deal?”

Simone nodded, and Michael once again replaced the mask.

What to tell her? Nikita made a quick assessment of Simone’s condition. She was sitting up so she’d breathe better, but it wasn’t helping much. A tube snaked out from under her hospital gown and the liquid draining from her lungs was pink and frothy. She was hemorrhaging, and there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it. How long did she have?

Not long, Nikita realized. Despite the oxygen mask, Simone’s skin around her mouth was periwinkle blue, the color of her nails. It was as if she was turning to ice before their eyes, and each breath she took was labored. So Nikita did exactly what she’d want someone to do for her if it were she in the bed rather than Michael’s wife: she took one of Simone’s cold, bluish hands and gave her the highlights.

“Section is a place where people live and work. Like a business community, sort of, but one that does ... police work. You used to be part of it. Then, you were captured in a raid and held for many years against your will. We tried to bring you back, Simone, but we couldn’t. There was a fire. A big explosion. Do you remember?”

Simone shook her head weakly, and Nikita continued. “Then another man came and took you. His name was Harvis.”

A spasm of pain flashed across Simone’s face and Nikita stopped, but finally Simone nodded for her to go on.

“I never knew you well, Simone,” Nikita said, studying the blue hand that rested in her pink healthy one. Two of the fingers ended at the last joint before the fingernail, the ends snipped off in a fit of Sparks’s anger. The ends were scarred and puckered, and Nikita gently stroked them. “But I know a lot of people who did. I wish I had known you better.”

“Why?” Simone didn’t have enough air to ask the question, but her lips formed the words, and Nikita shrugged.

“You are a good person. I’ve seen it in the way you’ve touched others. Walter, the guy who was in here before? He thinks so much of you. And there are others who do, too.”

With her free hand, Simone lazily knocked her mask off again, not all the way, but enough so she could speak. “Who?”

“Birkhoff ... he’s a computer geek, and he really liked you. And of course, your husband loved you very much.”

“What?”

“Your husband,” Nikita said patiently, refusing to look at Michael. She could feel his eyes boring into her but she kept her gaze steady on Simone, who didn’t say anything for a very long time. The silence was punctured by her labored breathing.

Finally, Simone said, “This husband ... I don’t ... remember him.”

“It’s okay,” Nikita said easily. The hand resting in hers was turning a deep purple blue, and Simone’s complexion was a dark periwinkle. Her gasps for air filled the room, and Nikita realized she was tensing with each breath, hoping it wouldn’t be the last one.

“ ... was ... he ... g-good? ... A good .... man?”

“Very,” Nikita said. “A good man. I think you made him better. You made such a difference in his life, Simone. He loved you very much.”

Simone nodded, and her eyelids slid closed, her breathing loud in the quiet room, and Nikita said thoughtfully, “And so do I.”

“ ... don’t ... even ... know ... me ...”

“I don’t have to,” Nikita said softly, comfortably, Simone’s hand growing colder in Nikita’s clasp. “I see the result of your life in people that I love ... and that’s enough.” She reached over and brushed Simone’s hair back. “Maybe some other time, we’ll meet again.”

Nikita only caught one word after that, a very faint, slightly sarcastic, “ ... Zen ...” then, the room grew quiet.

Nikita held her breath, willing Simone’s chest to rise again, willing to hear another gasp from her, but there was nothing except the faint slowing beep as her heart stilled and the annoying whine of a flatline.

Michael rose, reached out, and shut off the machines. He bent down and kissed Simone’s face, then closed her eyes the rest of the way and crossed her hands neatly over her chest. Then he stood, took Nikita’s hand, and helped her up. He wrapped his arms around her.

“Thank you.”

Nikita held on tightly and didn’t say anything.

“How ... how did you know what to say?”

She bit her lip and pulled back slightly, looking into his blood-shot eyes. “I just told her what I’d want to hear, if I were she. That she was loved. That she was a good person. That she ... made a difference.”

“Was it the truth?”

“Michael,” Nikita admonished gently, her hand on his cheek. “Never lie to a dying person. If you do, they’ll come back and haunt you. Didn’t you know that?”

Their eyes drifted to Simone. She lay still and lifeless on the bed, just another body, rather than a person. Nikita shivered slightly and let Michael lead her from the room.

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

Nikita went home alone, leaving Michael to tell Walter and Birkhoff about Simone’s demise. She made herself a cup of green tea and ate some cold fried noodles left over from the night before, then took a hot bath and folded herself in clean sheets.

It was late when she heard Michael come in. She yawned and rolled over, squinting up at him.

“Hi.”

“Hi, yourself,” Michael said quietly, and he sat down at the edge of the bed, not looking at her. Nikita sat up sleepily and moved over, wrapping her arms around him from behind. One of his hands caressed her arm absently, and she rested her cheek on his shoulder and yawned again.

“I’m glad you came back,” she said softly.

“Are you surprised?”

“Glad,” Nikita corrected. “I’m glad.”

They sat there silently for a few minutes, then Nikita said haltingly, “Do you ... do you want to talk about it?”

Michael took one of her hands in hers, playing with her fingers. She had a hangnail on one finger; two more nails were dotted with white bruise marks and there was a scabby place on a knuckle. “I think I should,” he said thoughtfully, “but I can’t think of the right words.”

“Mmmm ... are you mad at me? For bringing Simone back?”

“No. Though I probably should be. You ought to have killed her in the field.”

“I suppose. I couldn’t, though.”

“I know. Nikita ... you didn’t know about her conditioning before you brought her into Section, did you?”

“No,” Nikita said, curious. “Why?”

“What would you have done if she’d remembered everything? If she’d been ... normal?”

“I don’t know,” Nikita said thoughtfully. “I guess I didn’t think about it. I thought we might find her at the compound and when I saw her ... it just seemed the right thing to do.” She was quiet for a moment, then she said, “Should I have said something different in Medlab to her?”

“No ... you said the right thing.”

Nikita’s insides tensed up, and finally she asked the question she’d wanted the answer to all along. “Do ... do you still love me, Michael?”

“Yes.”

No flowery declarations, no theatrical displays of emotion, no abundance of words. Her arms tightened around him. Softly, Michael said, “It was the nicest thing anyone’s done for me. Ever.”

Nikita rubbed her cheek across his shoulder and remained silent.

“The other day ...” Michael said slowly. “What you said about not knowing the right words ... I think I understand what you meant now.”

He turned around and looked into Nikita’s eyes, and her arms dropped to his waist. “You do?”

He nodded, his eyes filled with pain and sorrow and something else, something that was just for her. She leaned forward and kissed him softly on the mouth. He hesitated, then responded, at first tentatively, then with more confidence.

“I love you, Michael.”

He murmured, and she caught his face in her hands, staring at him seriously until he answered. “I love you, too.”

She smiled, gave him a decisive nod, and said, “Then take off your clothes and stay awhile.”

He crawled into bed with her, curving around her warm body, and kissed her forehead, her temple, her eye socket. “You’re a nut,” he whispered against her lips. “Crazy.”

“Not crazy in the head, though,” Nikita assured him. “Just crazy in the heart.”

-- end --