Nikita's eyes narrowed. "Was that a joke, St. John?"

"Me? Joke?" He laughed softly, then his face smoothed back into the implacable countenance that was so familiar to Nikita. "What do you think about moving her to statistics?"

"She'd still have too much access to data. What about training?"

"What about the farm?" St. John suggested.

Nikita thought. "Walter would hate it. But ... it might be best for now. Security is tight there for obvious reasons. And the only way she'd get into trouble is if she decided we were on to her and she had to escape."

St. John nodded. "We'll have to approach this very carefully."

"Yes. And I think you should be the one to do it."

"She's not terribly ... fond of you," St. John agreed.

Nikita smiled wryly. "She hates me, and you know it. I'd probably feel the same in her shoes."

"I'll take care of it. Am I authorized to give her a promotion?"

Nikita's eyebrows raised. "Give her whatever you think it'll take to get her out of here without raising her suspicions -- or the suspicions of Glass Curtain. And assign someone at the farm to keep a very close eye on her."

"Yes, ma'am." St. John rose and stalked out of her office.

Nikita sat looking at her computer screen for a few moments after he left. So, Miss Quinn was a spy, too. No wonder she didn't have surveillance in her apartment. She'd had to make sure she minded all of Section's rules so she didn't raise any red flags with Madeleine, who was one of the few people authorized to recommend surveillance.

Nikita wondered if Quinn had only worked with Glass Curtain, or if, like Nikita, she'd been working several fronts at once. Probably not, Nikita decided. After all, no one had come to rescue Quinn when Nikita had taken over her life for a few days.

Somehow, the whole thing made Nikita sad and a little sick to her stomach. She'd never liked Quinn much. But now, she was realizing they'd had a lot more in common than just body build.

Nikita sighed and reached for the intercom. "Rachel? Is Mr. Jones in?"

"Yes, he is."

"I'd like to schedule an appointment, please. We've got an issue that we need to discuss as soon as possible."

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

Michael was having problems with the sewage system for the Black Magic. The shower wasn't draining. Near Cape Canaveral, Michael decided he couldn't ignore it any longer so he put in for a few days. He was down to his last T-shirt anyway. He looked up one of the repairmen on Ted's list, called him, and after a brief inspection, the repairman called a plumber, who suggested a complete overhaul, which would take three days.

Michael did his laundry, ate plenty of red meat and bought more cat food while the plumber and the repairman worked together to fix the damage the leaky shower caused. Since they had to redo the shower, the repairman suggested they bring the rest of the sewage system up to code while they were at it, and Michael agreed. When it was all said and done, he was a few thousand dollars poorer, the cats were nervous wrecks because of all the activity, and he still wasn't sure the repair work would hold. Just in case, he bought a large galvanized tub. If worse came to worse, he could bathe on deck.

The repairmen left late in the afternoon. Michael cautiously turned on the shower. It drained properly. He shrugged, put on his shoes, walked a few blocks to a bar and grill, and ordered two take-out portions. When he got back to the boat, an inquisitive little face peered over the railing.

"No," Michael said, "I didn't forget about you."

He hopped on board and Sir Basil twisted around his ankles, smelling the food. "Where's your partner in crime?" Michael asked, opening the boxes. He divided one of the hamburgers into small pieces and put it on the deck; Sir Basil attacked it as if he were starved.

Michael frowned. Usually McCatty was right behind Sir Basil. "McCatty?"

He heard a distant thump, then, in a few seconds, McCatty's black little face poked up through the hatch. Dangling from his mouth was a fat mouse. He trotted over and put the mouse at Michael's feet.

"Well," Michael said, "Does this mean you don't want hamburger?"

McCatty looked at him, head cocked, and Michael realized what he was waiting for. "Thank you very much, McCatty," Michael said formally. "It's a fine specimen of rodent."

Apparently satisfied, McCatty butted his head against Michael's leg, and Michael reached down to scratch him under the chin. Then, McCatty's attention was caught by the hamburger, and he joined Sir Basil.

Michael finished his meal. When the cats were finished with theirs, Sir Basil hopped up on the railing. His hindquarters tensed and he sailed through the air, landing with a light thump on the dock. McCatty followed. "We leave in the morning," Michael reminded them.

They trotted off without a backward glance. When he was sure they were gone, Michael reached down, picked up the dead mouse and tossed it overboard.

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

"How are we doing, Sean?" Nikita spoke quietly, trying not to look over Sean's shoulder. He was new in Comm and this was his first mission without Quinn's supervision.

But because of Quinn's transfer to the farm, they were short people in Comm and Sean had been promoted without having the benefit of the training the position required. So, Nikita was helping him out. It was an awkward position: he needed her assistance, but she wanted him to feel as if he were in control.

"All right, I think." Sean looked nervous, but from what Nikita could see, he was adequately monitoring the situation.

"You think?" she raised an eyebrow.

"I'm sure. We've got everything under control."

Nikita paced the area slowly, watching the overhead monitors, gauging the success of the mission by what she was viewing on screen. "Give me a visual on four, Sean, will you please?"

One of the screens blinked and a different picture came up -- this one of the north side of the property Section was infiltrating. "Come in closer on segment A-14."

The image enlarged. "I want to check out this, right here ..." Nikita pointed to an area, and Sean tried to enhance the image.

"This is the best I can get it, ma'am."

"Let's look at it in infrared, then."

The image blinked again, then turned into a mottled orange and red blob. "See this? Right here?" Nikita pointed to an area on the screen. "Cut back just a little. Maybe 15 percent. There. Right there. Who do we have that's closest?"

"Finigin is 14 meters away."

"Send him over and ask him what the detonation time is on this bomb."

Sean jerked. "What bomb?"

"The one you just found," Nikita said, fitting her communicator back into her ear.

Sounding a little tinny, Finigin's voice came over the line. "The detonator says 45 minutes."

Sean looked at Nikita, and Nikita answered. "Hold a minute, Finigin." She turned to Sean. "Look and see --"

"I've already done it." Sean peered at his computer screen. "In 45 minutes there's a shift change. The night shift leaves and the day shift comes in. We'll have about 450 people, give or take a few, on the grounds."

Nikita bit her lip. "Finigin, continue with the search. We'll look for more anomalies here. If we have time, I want you to diffuse the bomb."

Sean turned toward her. "What do you mean, if we have time?"

Nikita frowned, her head beginning to ache again. "They'll have a higher body count if they wait for the day shift to come. The timer said 45 minutes. That's a long time. They didn't know we were coming or they would have set it earlier, hoping to clean out a few operatives as well as some of the night crew. It would be nice if we didn't alert them to our presence by diffusing the bomb."

"But if Finigin doesn't diffuse it, those people will die." Sean looked a little sick; Nikita felt a bit ill, herself. But she thought it was probably her headache, and not her conscience, that was making her feel so bad.

The minutes ticked by. "Who do we have inside the building?" Nikita asked.

"Johnson and Haldis."

"Show me."

Sean pulled up Johnson and Haldis's positions; they were at opposite ends of the building, each searching offices that were currently empty. Johnson was near an exit; Haldis was not.

"Haldis?" Nikita spoke clearly into her comm unit.

"Yes ma'am?"

"Do we have enough information?"

"Yes, I think so. There's another office next door. Do you want me to search it as well?"

"Download the files."

Sean and Nikita waited while the files downloaded into Section's system. When the green light flashed, Nikita said, "Get out of the building. Sean will tell you where the exits are."

Sean talked Haldis to the nearest exit, and Nikita spoke to Johnson. "You're near the labs, correct, Johnson?"

"Yessum. I've just finished with the first one and am about to enter the second. No interference so far."

"Good. I need you to start a fire, please."

"I ... beg your pardon?" Johnson sounded clearly confused.

"A fire. Near the smoke detector. It would be best if it looked accidental."

"All right ..."

Nikita checked the time. "You've got 10 minutes."

"To build an accidental fire?"

"Be creative," Nikita suggested, rotating her shoulders tiredly. She turned to Sean and said quietly, "Get the rest of the teams in, please. And I need a better visual of Johnson's position."

Over the next few minutes Nikita studied the monitors, completely focused on the task at hand. Her head throbbed but she ignored it and, when Johnson had about a minute to spare, she asked, "How's it going?"

"Roasting right along --"

The sudden shriek of the fire alarm pierced Nikita's comm unit; she nearly fainted, the pain was so intense. "Get out," she managed to say, and, trying to look casual, she sat down before she fell down.

She and Sean watched as the building emptied of operatives and confused workers. Johnson immediately assumed the role of Concerned Maintenance Worker, herding the employees out and far away from the building and the bomb.

When the bomb exploded, the only person hurt was a woman who tried to go back for her purse. Johnson forcibly restrained her by tackling her, and in the process, she twisted an ankle.

Listening to the wails of sirens, the terrified chattering of the people and the woman, who was half-hysterical and extremely vexed about her injury and loss of property, Nikita pulled off her comm unit and ground her fingers into her throbbing temples. "Get some transport for Johnson. And please send St. John to my office. Ask him to bring the material on the Hatori mission, please."

"Yes ma'am."

Nikita walked slowly back to Michael's office. Between the Tylenol and aspirin and mild muscle relaxants she'd been taking for her headaches, added to the stress of the past few weeks, she wavered a bit. The walls didn't seem quite ... solid. She put out a hand, guiding herself along, then opened the door of Michael's office.

The office still retained a hint of Michael's scent. She breathed deeply, clearing her head, and made an effort to relax her skull and shoulders. She sat down at the desk, then, stretching her arms out in front of her, she rested her head on the cold, flat surface of the desk.

When St. John strode into the office a few minutes later, she was sound asleep.

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

The days drifted into each other, broken only by weather patterns. Michael stopped every few days to take money out of a cash machine -- or put it back in. Whenever he pushed in his card, he felt a momentary thrill -- perhaps Nikita would have changed the balance. But it was always the same as it had been the last time he made a transaction.

Somewhere along the Florida Keys, he began to doubt whether she would ever contact him.

Somewhere around the Bay Islands, he began to give up.

Michael drifted, figuratively and literally. It wasn't the smartest thing to do: hurricane season would be starting soon, and he really should be thinking about long-term plans. But something in him resisted making any plans if they didn't include Nikita.

Now, when he pulled into port, he made his perfunctory transaction. It was a habit now, and one he couldn't seem to break. Sometimes he tried to do laundry and eat a meal that didn't contain fish. But oftentimes, the port cities were rough and poor and depressing, and after waiting for two days, Michael would gather his cats up and cast off.

He drifted toward Panama. He'd intended to go up the western side of Mexico till he got to Acapulco, but now it seemed pointless. So instead of going through the canal, he loaded up on supplies, caught a good wind, and skirted Columbia.

He'd always rather liked Aruba. He and Nikita had been stuck there once when they failed to catch Section transport after a Columbian mission. They'd made their way to Aruba, blended in with the tourist crowd, and had taken a cruise ship to Nassau. It had been one of the more pleasant Section transports Michael had been on, but now he suspected it had been the company, not the mode of transportation, that made the experience enjoyable.

Michael squinted across the bright blue water. He'd been listening to the radio the night before and there was a tropical depression spinning lazily on the southern part of Cuba. Whether it would gather strength or not was anyone's guess, but if it did, chances were it would head east, which would put the storm too close to Michael for him to be comfortable.

Michael could see the northern shores of Columbia and Venezuela in the distance. He altered his course so he'd stay the legal distance away from both, and flinched when McCatty hopped onto his lap and began kneading his shirt. "Cut it out," Michael said, gently picking the cat up and putting it beside him in the chair.

McCatty gave him a dirty look. The cats were getting bigger and friskier. They were still kittens, but they were growing into their ears and paws. McCatty began bathing his face, then, in a diplomatic gesture, Michael's hand, which remained on McCatty's back.

From across the deck, Michael heard the familiar soft, "Yek, yek, yek," of Sir Basil, who liked to talk to the birds that flew about. Out of the corner of his eye, Michael saw Sir Basil hop onto a coil of rope and teeter for a moment, his attention on the gulls that circled over head.

"Sir Basil. Come here."

The cat looked over its shoulder and flicked his tail, but stayed put. After a few moments, McCatty stretched, hopped off the chair and strolled over to Sir Basil. Then he jumped on the rope and cuffed Sir Basil affectionately. Both cats fell backwards into the tangle of rope and had a cheerful tussle.

Michael looked out over the water again. He could barely make out the hump of land that he knew was Aruba. If the wind kept up, he'd be there before it got too dark. For the first time in a while, Michael felt the stirring of anticipation someplace deep inside him. At first, he wasn't too sure why: after all, it was doubtful that Nikita would be waiting on the shore for him.

Then he realized it wasn't Nikita he was anticipating.

And it wasn't a big, juicy hamburger, either, although after eating fish for a week, that's exactly what he planned to order when he docked.

He was anticipating what he'd have to drink with his hamburger. Something cold. Something with a high alcohol content. Maybe he'd even skip the burger. Michael seldom got drunk, and the last time he'd set out to get drunk had been in college, but now, he couldn't think of anything better to do than to drink himself into oblivion. He wanted to not hurt anymore. To not think anymore. To not ... be.

Sir Basil skidded across the deck toward Michael, and Michael bent down and picked up the cat, perching him on his shoulder. Sir Basil dug his sharp little claws into Michael's shirt, pricking the skin underneath, but Michael didn't even wince. The irritation was nothing compared to the raw wound he had inside of him.

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

The Antje was a small bar and grill, but even at the Antje they had standards. Maybe not very high, but certainly higher than this.

"Who's the drunk in the corner?" Marie nodded in the general direction of the stranger and her father, Raymond, shrugged.

"He paid in advance."

"That's never a good sign." Marie frowned at her father and reached for another glass, drying it quickly and efficiently and putting it with the rest of the clean ones. "Aren't you going to call Henri over?"

"Henri's busy." Raymond smiled vaguely, and Marie snorted.

Her father's vagueness was an act, as was Henri's intimidating attitude. But they needed all the bravado they could get.

Since Maria's sister Eva left a month ago, it was just the three of them managing the bar and grill. It wasn't a large establishment, but they were all overworked, and now that the tourist season was over, they were going to rest up starting tomorrow. Raymond was closing the bar for a few weeks and they were all taking a vacation from lugging around trays of glasses and, in Henri's case, drunken customers.

Henri passed directly in front of the bar, casually holding a swearing man upside down as he escorted him out the door. "Busy," Marie drawled, "Right."

"He's okay."

"Who, Henri?"

"No. The cat man."

"Cat man?"

Her father nodded to the passed-out stranger in the corner. The stranger's face was pointing away from Marie, so she didn't see what he looked like. He was stretched out on the table, a half-empty bottle of whisky in front of him. On the extra chair was something that looked like a woman's handbag, and underneath the chair was a bowl. Marie squinted in the dim light, and she saw what she'd thought was the straps of the handbag quirk up a bit.

"What's that?" she asked suspiciously, nodding toward the chair.

"Cats. He came in earlier, when you went home to tuck Jordan in bed. Said he was going to drink until he passed out and asked if I could spare a bowl of water for his cats. Very polite. And he paid up front."

"God. Why do we get all the crazy ones?"

"I don't think he's crazy," Raymond said thoughtfully. "He didn't even strike me as the type to do this on a regular basis."

Marie thought about saying something sassy to him, but she refrained. Over the years, her father had become very good at reading people; if she were lucky, one day she'd have half the talent he did for judging people.

It was nearly 4 a.m. The last of the customers were dawdling over their drinks, well aware that when the cuckoo clock struck four, they were out the door. Marie dried some more glasses while her father circulated among the customers, making sure no one was too far gone to remember where he or she lived, ensuring that everyone had someplace to go.

That was her dad. Making sure everyone was taken care of.

Marie sighed. Sometimes he irritated the hell out of her. Then he did something so sweet -- like taking her and Jordan in when they didn't have anyplace else to go, or donating all the profits from one evening to one of those charities. She tried to remember what the last one was. Kids' books? Animals?

As Raymond passed by the drunken man, she saw he checked on the cats, making sure they still had plenty of water. That meant he intended to let them stay for awhile.

The little door in the cuckoo clock opened and the bird shot out. "Cuckoo!Cuckoo!Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"

The two cats jerked their heads up, looking around wildly for a minute, then, deciding the world wasn't going to come to an end after all, they settled back down, watching with sleepy eyes as the rest of the customers left the bar.

Henri locked the doors, and her father made sure the bars on the windows were secure, though the windows stayed open.

"We missed one," Henri noted, nodding to the drunk in the corner.

"Nah, he's staying."

"You sure, Raymond?" Henri looked at Marie, and she shrugged.

"You know Pop, Henri," Marie said. "Any stray he thinks he can help ..."

"You're a fine one to talk," Raymond said crisply.

"I know. I'm sorry," Marie smiled at him. "You've got a soft heart, Pop. What can I say?"

"I don't want you to say anything. I want you to fetch that extra blanket in the storeroom."

"You got it." Marie said, heading toward the storeroom. When she returned with the dirty blanket over her arm, her father and Henri were in the process of laying the drunk man on the floor.

"Cover him up, will you, Daughter?"

Marie smiled at the endearment and, as if she were tucking in her son Jordan, she covered the stranger up, leaving his sandal-clad feet sticking out the end. The cats watched the process curiously, and when she was finished covering him up, they hopped down from their chair, circled their owner, and settled down. The black one curled tightly against the man's side and the spotted one arranged himself by the man's head, rather like a lopsided earmuff.

"Well," Marie said. "I guess that's that, huh?"

"Looks like everyone's tucked up," Raymond agreed. He yawned. "I'm going to bed. Henri, would you mind taking out the trash when you leave?"

"Sure thing, Ray."

"Marie, are you all packed for tomorrow?" Raymond asked her as they headed slowly for the back door.

"Pop, you know I am. Our plane leaves in the afternoon."

"Good. You need the vacation, honey."

"So do you. Why don't you come with us? San Felipe will be a nice change and I don't like to think of you here by yourself."

"Ha. You're just afraid I won't clean the house for two weeks."

"I know you won't," Marie grinned. "But we'd love it if you came along."

"No, Marie, you should take the time to spend with Jordan. He needs to be with you. I'll get along just fine without you."

"Especially since you've got someone else to fuss over?" Marie asked, nodding toward the man on the floor.

"Me? Fuss? I never fuss."

"Oh, Pop."

Raymond closed and locked the back door of the bar and he and Marie walked slowly toward their house, which was next door. In a few moments, Henri dumped the trash and hopped on his bicycle, which he kept at Raymond's house.

"You two have a good vacation," Henri said to Marie. "Be careful."

"You too," Marie smiled. "Come back rested."

The men shook hands, and Marie and Raymond watched Henri, his bulk balanced perfectly on his bicycle, sail off into the night. Raymond held the door open for Marie, and as she closed it behind her, she twisted the flimsy lock closed. She couldn't help cast one more look toward the bar and the stranger who slept in it.

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

Nikita woke up on a Monday feeling oddly refreshed. Something was missing, and it took her a moment to realize her head didn't hurt. For the first time in months, she was waking up without a headache. She stretched languidly, sleepily contemplating the stark white of the ceiling and the bare furnishings in the room.

Living in Section had its disadvantages, but the thing she missed most was waking up with the sunlight. Down here, unless she looked at a clock, she never knew what time it was.

Nikita yawned again and rubbed her eyes. Monday ... something was happening on Monday ...

She jerked awake. Monday was the end of her term as Operations!

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and rushed to the bathroom, eager to get washed, dressed and on with the day. The sooner it started, the sooner it would be over, and maybe she could finally concentrate on figuring out where the devil Michael was.

In between Sectional meetings, missions, personnel issues, orders from Mr. Jones and everything else that she'd been dealing with, she'd initiated several searches for him, all unsuccessful. She felt like just as she got close to him, something called her away -- a mission going awry, an operative that needed guidance, another one of Walter's requests ...

Nikita smiled as she got in the shower. Walter was proving to be just as adept as she had known he would be, but he wasn't afraid to spend money or to ask for favors. Mostly Nikita granted them. A few times she'd turned him down.

Well, not any more. Today was her last day in Section, and she couldn't wait to get it over with. As Nikita was dressing, her intercom buzzed. "Yes?" she called.

"Nikita, Mr. Jones needs to see you as soon as possible," Rachel said.

"Coming," Nikita almost sang out, shoving her feet into shoes and grabbing a jacket.

She nearly skipped down the halls as she went to the tower office. The black dog tag which she'd worn constantly for a month thumped against her chest. I won't be wearing you much longer, she thought cheerfully, as she put her hand on the access pad to the office.

The minute she stepped into Mr. Jones's office, Nikita knew something was wrong. The bubbly feeling she'd had all morning evaporated, and she felt a vague tightness in her skull. "Sir? Is something wrong?"

Mr. Jones looked ... old. Nikita blinked. She knew he'd had a difficult month, too, but he looked nearly ill. "Sir?"

"Sit down, Nikita," he said quietly, not meeting her eyes.

The vice around Nikita's head tightened and she slowly sat down.

"I'm going to have to take a little personal time off," he said, his voice still quiet and strained.

"All right," Nikita said cautiously.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I know you were planning on relinquishing your command of Section, Nikita, but I'm going to have to ask you to stay around for a little while longer."

Nikita swallowed. "May I ask why?"

Jones was quiet for so long, Nikita thought he might not answer at all. Finally, he said, "My sister died. I have to go see to her."

"I -- I'm so sorry, sir. I didn't know you had a sister." Nikita could have kicked herself as soon as the words were out of her mouth, but Jones smiled faintly.

"Yeah. I did. She is -- was -- quite a gal. You would have liked her, actually."

"When --?"

"Last night. She's been sick for awhile. Cancer. I visited her a few weeks ago and we thought she was doing better. But she took a turn for the worse."

"Where --?"

"Southern France. Near Nice. So," he said briskly, "I'll be gone for a few days. There's a few things I have to see to, then I'll be back. I need you to stay in charge though, because Operations isn't quite the thing yet. Besides, we still have a few loose ends to tie up before you ... retire. Once we get things settled, I'll bring Operations back into Section and we'll get you out of the picture for good. I'm anticipating I'll need you to stay here for another two weeks at the most."

Nikita licked her lips, then made what was possibly the most difficult offer she'd ever made. "Are you sure you don't want me to stay longer?"

Mr. Jones cocked his head and frowned. "We had a deal, Nikita. I intend to honor it."

"I wasn't suggesting you'd go back on your word. I just wondered if you wanted a little ... help."

He gave her an odd smile. "I appreciate the offer. And maybe I'll take you up on it later. But right now, I can only think about getting through one day at a time."

"Of course." Nikita nodded and rose. "I am very sorry about your sister."

Mr. Jones contemplated his desktop. "So'm I," he said, his voice muffled. "She was a game old girl."

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

When Michael woke up, he didn't have the faintest idea where he was.

For one thing, it was still and quiet. No movement. No sound of water or wind. And the bed he was on was hard, not his mattress or even his hammock.

The only thing familiar were the lumps of warm fur pressed against him.

Without opening his eyes, he put a hand out and stroked McCatty. "Mmruph?"

"Good morning," Michael replied, and felt a little sandpapery tongue scrape across his thumb.

The lump of fur near his head woke, and Sir Basil stretched. Michael felt a foot drape across his mouth. He moved it away and Sir Basil gave him a half-hearted swipe before standing up and hopping on Michael's chest. "Yik, yik, yik," Sir Basil scolded, and Michael winced.

"I know. Don't nag." With a little difficulty, Michael sat up and groaned, tumbling the cat to his lap. Sir Basil lay tummy up, waving his legs cheerfully at Michael.

Michael's head felt like it was swollen and his mouth felt like someone had stored lint in it. He rolled his shoulders; every muscle ached, apparently because he'd slept on the floor last night.

He looked around the darkened bar. Blocks of murky sunlight from the windows warmed the dusty floor, and he guessed it was probably mid-morning because it was still slightly cool. Michael staggered up, searched for the bathroom, and threw up.

This was why he didn't get drunk, he thought, sweating and feeling ill as he stared at himself in the cracked mirror. He splashed water on his face, rinsed his mouth, and considered throwing up again.

Instead, he propped himself up on the door frame and considered his reflection in the mirror. He'd cut his hair on one of his stops, so it was short and cool. His beard covered the lower portion of his face, which was now a swarthy tan color. He was brown all over. Even his feet were tan because on the boat, he didn't wear many clothes. His eyes looked pale in his brown face, and all in all, he looked very different from the Level Five operative he used to be.

He felt different, and it wasn't just the hangover. He was missing something important, and it didn't take a genius to realize what he was missing was Nikita.

Sir Basil poked a curious face in the bathroom. "Mrroww?"

"I'm fine. Thank you," Michael added, and the cat butted his head against Michael's bare leg.

Sir Basil suddenly tensed, looking behind him, and Michael heard the back door open and close. Then he heard McCatty talking to someone. Michael slowly walked out of the bathroom, one hand on the wall, with Sir Basil trailing him.

"Mmmurph? Meou? Rrrow mngow ..." McCatty trotted along beside the man, who was heading for what Michael supposed was the kitchen.

"Good morning to you, too," the man replied. "Would you like some breakfast?"

"Mmmrow," McCatty agreed enthusiastically.

"Well, all right, then. We'll get started." He was tall, skinny and weathered looking. He looked like he'd just woken up. He wore a T-shirt that said "Elvis Lives" and purple shorts. His flip-flops had seen better days and his gray hair stuck up everywhere.

Michael cleared his throat. "That's McCatty," he said.

"Ah! You're up. That's good. How's your head?" the man asked.

"It's been better," Michael admitted.

"Hungry?"

"No. Thank you. I should go ..."

"Name's Raymond. This is my bar." The rangy man stuck out a hand, and Michael shook it.

"Michael. That's McCatty and this one is Sir Basil."

Raymond raised his eyebrows. "Pretty fancy names for cats."

"They came named. I didn't have anything to do with it."

"Well, I'm hungry," Raymond announced. "Stick around for breakfast and keep me company."

Michael followed him into the kitchen, which was dominated by a huge grill. Raymond measured coffee into the industrial-size machine and handed a loaf of bread to Michael. "There's toasting forks over there," he nodded towards the opposite wall, where the forks hung.

While Raymond scrambled eggs in a frying pan and made sure the bacon didn't burn, Michael threaded bread onto the forks and held the bread over the open grill flame. In a few minutes, they sat across the kitchen work table, each with a big plate of eggs, toast and bacon. Michael took his coffee saucer and put a portion of egg on it, then placed it on the floor. The cats attacked the food and looked hopefully upward when they were done. Michael gave them each a half strip of bacon, and they made little rrrow-rrrow noises as they devoured that, too.

"So, are you planning on sitting out the hurricane here?" Raymond asked.

"What hurricane?"

"The one that's scheduled for tomorrow." Michael realized that as they'd sat there talking, he'd heard the steady clap-clap of a loose shutter banging in the wind, and when he looked out the window, he could see the tree branches waving. Raymond said, "I was able to persuade my daughter and grandson to leave a little early for their vacation -- I was worried the airports might shut down. They're going to San Felipe for a couple of weeks. Looks like she got off just in time. She wanted me to go with them."

"Might have been safer for you."

"I like to ride out a hurricane," Raymond said. "Besides, I think the worst we'll get is a lot of rain and high tides. The electricity'll probably go out. Of course, I could be wrong. It's been known to happen."

"Losing the electricity or you being wrong?"

"Both." Raymond laughed and looked at the cats, who were busy washing themselves. "Well, they feel better. What about you?"

"I could use some aspirin," Michael said. He drained his coffee cup. "Want some more?" he asked, and when Raymond nodded, Michael brought the carafe of coffee over and filled both their cups. "You make good coffee."

"When you've been a bartender for as long as I have, you learn to make good coffee," Raymond said.

"Thanks for letting me sleep on your floor."

"No problem. I figured any man who traveled with kittens couldn't be too bad."

Michael didn't answer, but he frowned. "One of these days, you'll let the wrong man sleep on your floor."

"That's what my daughter says. But I'm a pretty good judge of character."

"So ... your daughter and grandson are on vacation. What will you do?" Michael asked idly. He watched his cats finish bathing one another, then they curled up in a tight little ball and closed their eyes.

"Well, the Antje needs repainting. Of course, depending on how bad the storm is, I may be called into service. I'm part of the volunteer emergency brigade."

"It's supposed to hit tomorrow?"

"Yes, but it's not wise to go out on the water now. When did you get here?"

"Yesterday."

"Must have noticed the wind was pretty strong out on the water."

Michael thought of how quickly he'd gotten to Aruba, and nodded. "I didn't realize it was because of the storm."

"Must be new to sailing, then."

"I've owned the boat for about a month. A little longer."

"Well." Raymond got up. "If you're up to it, I'd suggest we get the dishes done and then see what we can do about your boat. It'd be best if we could store her somewhere before the storm hits."

"You don't have to --"

"Hogwash." Raymond waved his hand and got up from the table. "Let's see where the storm is first." He reached up and flipped on the radio, tuning it to the weather station.

"....coming off the western part of Jamaica. Flood waters have already caused major problems in Spanish Town, and Kingston is preparing for emergency situations. Waters are scheduled to crest sometime this morning ..." the radio droned on, and Michael and Raymond did the dishes in silence.

"It won't come this far," Raymond said certainly. "But we'll get high waters and high winds. I'd say to be safe, you'll need to stay here at least a week."

Michael considered. His head was still pounding, but his stomach was full and though the sky outside was murky and he could feel the barometric pressure rising, it wasn't as if he had anyplace to go.

"Are you ... en route to somewhere?" Raymond asked, drying the last dish. "Is there a reason why you can't stay?"

"I don't have a schedule," Michael said finally. "But I do need to find a cash machine."

"Sure," Raymond shrugged. "We'll stop by before we go to the marina to see if they've got a place where you can leave the boat. It's safer to leave it there than in the harbor."

"All right."

Raymond headed for the door. "Don't worry about the cats. They'll be fine."

Michael followed him, giving his cats one last look. McCatty opened one sleepy eye, acknowledging Michael, then yawned and went back to sleep.

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

It was hot.

Mr. Jones had already removed his suit coat and was considering removing his tie. But one look at the women at the crypt, and he put the thought out of his head.

There were a lot of people at Jessamyn's funeral. He wasn't surprised. She had been a sweet, kind, funny woman, one who made friends easily, and she was a solid part of the community. Odd, really, when he thought about it. As a child, she'd always been a little delicate, a little shy, someone who had several close friends but not someone who had been overly popular. Somewhere along the line that must have changed though, because there had been probably 300 people packed into the tiny church in the middle of Nice's Old City, and there were at least a hundred here at the cemetery.

The cemetery overlooked the Cote d'Azur, just on the outskirts of Nice. Jessamyn had loved it here, and it comforted Jones to think that now she could enjoy the view for the rest of eternity. If, indeed, the dead enjoyed anything.

The minister spoke some final words. As the last surviving family member, Jones came forward and dropped the rose he held on top of Jessamyn's casket.

That casket. Jones shook his head slightly and couldn't help smiling a bit. Jessamyn read somewhere that a popular writer had gotten buried in cardboard. A sort of dust-to-dust kind of thing, and it appealed to Jessamyn. Without her brother's knowledge, she'd gotten one of her friends in Nice to make her something similar, then she'd decorated it herself.

Macabre, Jones thought. But so completely Jessamyn.

Some of the women in her cancer support group came forward, dropping roses on top of the cardboard box. Some were crying. Some were clearly very ill themselves and Jones wondered if they had any business being outside on such a warm day.

The funeral broke up. One of Jessamyn's friends who owned a restaurant had invited the funeral party over for drinks and snacks. Jones stood near the crypt, studying the marble facade, the yawning hole where his sister would soon be placed. In a few months or a year, the crypt would be opened for the next person, and Jessamyn's remains would be swept to the back to make room for the next body.

Dust to dust.

Jones traced the names on the plaques, which told who was buried in this particular crypt. Despite her shyness Jessamyn hated being alone, and somehow the fact that she was sharing her final resting place with a dozen others was comforting. Jessamyn's plaque wasn't ready yet, but in a few weeks her name would be chiseled here, too.

Jones turned around. People drifted toward their cars, some embracing, some still wiping tears away. Would anyone come to his funeral?

Jones turned back to the sea. He'd never much thought about mortality, other than to avoid it at all costs. He'd actually treated his life rather lightly, to be honest. Now, he found himself wondering what his own funeral would be like.

Would he die in an accident? Or end up incinerated and placed in an urn somewhere? And who would care about his remains, anyway? He couldn't quite see Rachel allowing such a thing in her pristine little apartment.

"Sir?"

Jones turned around. The preacher and his sister's lawyer, whom he'd met briefly before the service, looked at him sympathetically. "If you're ready, we can go on to the restaurant."

Jones took another last look at the shining sea stretched out before him, and the white crypt beside him. "I'm ready."

They walked slowly back to the black Mercedes-Benz. "I suppose we ought to make an appointment," Jones said to the lawyer.

"I have tomorrow free, if that's convenient."

"Yes, that'd be fine," Jones said absently.

As the car pulled away, he glanced back once. Cemetery workers were loading his sister into the crypt. Jones turned back around, unwilling to watch them attach the door.

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

Nikita spent her final two weeks at Section with a constant, unremitting headache. She had given up on aspirin and was now taking extra-strength Tylenol during the day. At night, she resorted to half a Darvocet. She knew it wasn't smart, but she just couldn't help it. She hurt too badly and at least the Darvocet helped her sleep. She needed her sleep.

Nikita gave more and more responsibility to St. John. People liked him. He was a good leader, and she hoped Operations kept him on when he came back. When operatives had problems, they came to St. John. If they needed or wanted something, they asked him to ask Nikita for it. When there was a difficult mission, they looked to him for reassurance.

Nikita herself found St. John reassuring. Perhaps it was his size, or perhaps it was his quiet attitude. Or it could have been his deep compassion.

He was also organized, something that Nikita was truly grateful for. On her last night in Section, she was in her quarters packing up her clothes, when there was a knock on her door. She went to the viewer panel and saw the front of a man's shirt and the top of what looked like a box.

St. John. He was so tall, the camera didn't catch his face, just his chest. Nikita smiled and opened the door. "Hullo, St. John."

"Hello, ma'am."

"Come on in." Nikita stood aside and St. John stepped into the room, immediately making the space seem smaller than it was. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"No, thank you. I just came by to drop this off." He handed her a large box, and Nikita set it down to open it.

"What's this?" she asked.

"It's from your apartment. Your mail. We've been collecting it, but things have been so busy, it fell through the cracks. I've had the junk separated out, but wondered if you wanted me to go ahead and pay the bills. I can come by tomorrow before you leave for your signature."

"Oh." Nikita quickly sorted through the mail. "No, that's okay. I'm nearly done packing anyway; I can get through these in no time. Would you like to stay for a few minutes while I do them now, or would you rather I leave them for you and you can post them tomorrow?"

"I can come by tomorrow."

"Okay." Nikita smiled and held out her hand. "It's really been a pleasure working with you, St. John. I appreciate your assistance more than I can say."

"Thank you, ma'am," St. John said, his huge hand enveloping hers. "It's been an interesting six weeks, hasn't it?"

"And I'm afraid for you, it'll just get more interesting once Operations comes back," Nikita said ruefully. "St. John ... if things don't work out with him ... you can always get in contact with Center. We could transfer you if we needed to."

"I appreciate that."

"Well ... just keep it in mind."

"I will. Thank you, ma'am. Will you be going directly to Center tomorrow?"

"I'm going to the farm first. To see Walter."

"And Quinn?"

Nikita shrugged, pretending to be casual. "Probably."

"You think she'll stay there permanently?"

"I don't know what Mr. Jones has decided to do with her," Nikita lied.

"Well. Good luck, ma'am."

"You too, St. John."

The door closed, and Nikita shook her head, a little bemused. Trust St. John to remember something as unimportant as her mail. She stretched and took her box to the desk, pulling out her checkbook and a pen. Let's see. Car insurance. Health insurance. That's a laugh, Nikita thought, a smile playing around her mouth. A bill from a boutique she frequented. Another from a department store. A fairly high bill from the florist's, where she used to stop by daily for fresh flowers. Her tab from a local restaurant, and another tab from the grocer who delivered. A bank statement.

Nikita sighed, slitting the bank statement open and absently rubbing her pounding temple. She blinked.

Well, this couldn't be right, she thought. She scanned down the list of withdrawals, then her eyes flew to the top of the page, where the account information was.

Her heart stopped and she actually felt the blood drain from her face. The paper in her hand started to shake wildly, and she couldn't see the numbers right because her eyes were suddenly filled with tears.

She had completely forgotten about their joint account. They'd never even used it. She remembered the day they'd gone into the bank to establish the account three years ago, but that was the last she'd thought about it. No wonder Michael hadn't tried to get into contact with her via e-mail or any of the other ways she'd been researching. He'd supposed she was still at the apartment, still opening her mail.

She wiped her face, took a deep breath and looked down the list. Montreal. Cornwall. Buffalo. Elmira. Jamestown ... she scanned down the list ... Newport, New Haven, Atlantic City, Cape Charles, Norfolk ... Cape Lookout, Charleston, Savannah ... he'd taken out $20 from each transaction, or, toward the end, he'd put back $20. No more, no less.

Good God. Some of these were a month old. She looked at the last entry. Aruba. And it had been made only last week.

Nikita stacked her paid bills in a neat pile for St. John, then tucked the bank card statement in her handbag. As soon as she was outside, she'd make a withdrawal. She couldn't do anything from Section because she didn't want any record of the account to come up on any Section machines.

Tomorrow. She'd do it tomorrow, before she went to the farm.

She sat very still, going over her itinerary in her head, and was interrupted by the intercom.

"Nikita?"

"Yes?" Nikita turned toward the voice.

"Mr. Jones has returned and he'd like to see you."

"I'll be there in a moment." Nikita got up and made her way to the tower office. It was likely the last time she'd have a meeting with Jones; part of her would miss him. On the other hand, she was happy to dispense of any relationships that had to do with either Section or Center ... well, except for one relationship, she thought. I don't ever want to give up Michael.

She put her hand on the entry plate and was granted access. "Sir? How was your trip?"

"Hello, Nikita. The trip was fine, thanks for asking."

"How was the funeral?"

"It was ... all right." Mr. Jones sat in one of the easy chairs, a pot of tea in front of him. "Care to join me?"

"Sure, as long as it doesn't have caffeine." Nikita took a seat.

"Not sleeping well?" he asked, pouring her a cup and dropping in a lump of sugar.

"Thanks," she smiled, taking a sip. "I still have those headaches."

"Stress, no doubt."

"No doubt."

"Well, as of tomorrow, I won't be able to take any credit for your stress headaches. Or, perhaps, I will. But it'll be a different kind of stress."

Nikita looked at him suspiciously. "What's that mean?"

"Before we talk about that, let's go over the itinerary for tomorrow."

"All right."

"Now, Operations is scheduled to arrive here at 9 o'clock. You're to meet with us here. We'll discuss some of the changes that we've made in Section, and I'd like your evaluation of Paul's ... attitude."

"If it's all right, I'd like to invite St. John, too."

"Of course. I'll ask Rachel to set it up." Jones made a notation. "Now. We should be done with that by noon. You'll go to the farm as planned. How is the Quinn situation working out?"

"I got a communique from Walter this morning. She's ... cooperative."

"She could hardly be anything else."

"Let's just say that the prospect of a slow death doesn't appeal to Quinn." Nikita sat her teacup down and said in a low voice, "And to tell the truth, it doesn't appeal to me, either."

"Nikita, we've been over this ..."

"I know. There's no other way."

"On the contrary, there are several other ways, but this one is the best."

"All right. Quinn and I will switch places. She'll go on to Center ..."

"Where we'll take her out in transit. I've gotten a chap from White Star to do the job."

"They're usually ... reliable," Nikita said weakly.

"Yes, I thought so. You, as Quinn, will spend another few days at the farm. Then I'll call you into Center."

"At which point, I'll disappear."

"There will be questions," Jones said thoughtfully. "But all in all, there will be fewer questions about Quinn's death than there will be about yours."

"Walter's been growing samples of my DNA for Quinn's autopsy report," Nikita said. "He's planning on switching her remains with my DNA. How are you going to explain Quinn's death to Operations?"

"I'll simply say that we discovered she was working for Glass Curtain and we put an end to it. The less said, the better."

Nikita was silent for a few minutes, staring sightlessly at her hands. Jones refilled her teacup and handed it to her, and she took a sip automatically. "I can be out in a week."

"Or less. Actually, the quicker we can get this done, the better. Our window of opportunity is fairly small, and there will be a lot of other changes going on at Section, so hopefully this will fall through the cracks," said Jones.

"Hopefully."

Quiet again. Jones shifted and pulled out an envelope from his coat pocket. "Nikita, do you by any chance have any money on you?"

Confused, Nikita dug in her pants pocket. She hadn't been out of Section for ages, but while she'd been packing up her things she'd run across a few bills and had absently tucked them in her pocket. She dug out a five franc note and a ten, and handed them both to Jones. He took the five and handed her the envelope. "Remember how I said I might be responsible for a you having a different kind of stress? Congratulations. You're the proud owner of a museum."

"Excuse me?" Nikita asked.

"Open the envelope."

Nikita slowly obeyed. Thick legal-looking vellum pages covered with tiny type confronted her. "What's this?"

"My sister had a small museum in Nice. I don't have any use for it, but I thought you might like it. You can sell it if you want; I've included the names of several dealers who are interested in parts of the collection."

"A ... museum?"

"Don't get the wrong idea. It's not the Louvre. It's small. Very small. In fact, the building it's in used to be a perfumery. I think it's something like 3,000 square feet. What's that in meters?"

"Not very big for a museum," Nikita said absently, staring at the papers.

"There's an apartment upstairs. It's in a small town between Nice and Antibes. She got a lot of traffic because she's next door to one of those restaurants that everyone raves about. You know, they have six tables and food to die for. Oh, sorry. I know you hate that phrase."

"Don't worry about it." Nikita frowned. "But, sir, are you sure ...?"

"All perfectly legal." He waved her five franc note in the air. "You bought it fair and square."

"You tricked me," Nikita protested.

"Think of it as a going-away gift."

"You've already paid me. A lot, as a matter of fact. I'm going to have to start giving away money; I'll never be able to spend what you gave me in one lifetime."

"I paid you to do a job, yes. But consider this a gift for services that went above and beyond, as it were. As for your paycheck ... it's a lot. But you did a lot for Center. Money is a way to show how much Center appreciated it."

"And the museum?"

"The museum is a way to show you how much I appreciated you." Jones finished his tea and set the cup down with a snap. "Well. Like I said. Sell it or keep it, whichever appeals to you."

Nikita licked her dry lips. "Thanks, Mr. Jones. Mick. This ... I really appreciate this." "My sister loved the museum," Jones said softly, not looking at Nikita. "She made it successful. No one thought of starting something like this on the Cote d'Azur before she came along. Now, it seems, they can't imagine the coast without it."

Nikita folded up the ownership papers and put her hand on Jones's sleeve. "Thank you."

His hand came down on hers. "Thank you, Nikita. And good luck tomorrow."

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

Raymond's weather prediction turned out to be partially correct: Aruba got very high tides and lots of rain. But it also got the back side of the wind, and between the wind and the fluctuating barometer, the cats went crazy.

Michael felt edgy, too.

The damp weather meant Raymond couldn't paint the Antje. Instead, somehow Michael found himself being an honorary member of the emergency volunteer group. There weren't a lot of emergencies they had to tend to, but after the first day of wind all the power lines and phone lines went down, tourists were stranded, transportation was nonexistent and the streets began to flood. The volunteers spent most their time checking on the elderly, making sure people had food, water and their medications. It was basic Red Cross work, and Michael, who had spent a lot of time doing rescue work in the guise of the Red Cross or UNICEF, found the work if not easy, at least time consuming.

The water went down after a week. Then the emergency group disbanded to take care of their own businesses. Because of the storm, everyone had lost money, except perhaps Raymond, who meant to be closed anyway.

They washed the mud off the floor of the Antje -- four inches of water had come in -- and Michael helped Raymond go through the pantry to see whether anything had spoiled. McCatty and Sir Basil amused themselves by catching mice and, in McCatty's case at least, a baby rat. Michael praised them both, then threw away the rodents when the cats weren't looking.

"You don't seem the type to spoil pets," Raymond grinned at Michael, as they threw away the food that had spoiled in the refrigerator.

"I haven't had a pet in several years," Michael said, hefting a large carton of spoiled milk and pouring it down the sink. "And these are the first cats I've ever had."

"A dog person, huh?"

"Used to be." Michael tossed the carton in the garbage.

"So, when do you think you'll be heading out?" Raymond asked.

"As soon as the sea calms down a bit."

"I heard on the wireless conditions are right for another hurricane in the Gulf."

"I was thinking about heading to the Lesser Antilles."

"Nice this time of year. You should have pleasant sailing, unless another storm kicks up."

"Yes."

Raymond pulled the trash can closer to the refrigerator and methodically tossed in eggs, yogurt and salad dressing. "You think the cheese is all right?"

"It should be," Michael answered.

"Soon as the phone lines are back up, I need to call Marie, let her know we're okay."

"I have a cell phone on the boat. You can use that, if you like."

"Thanks. Been meaning to get one, but who would I call? Everyone I want to talk to is usually right here. Did you call your family?"

Michael hesitated, then said slowly, "I'm waiting for my ... for someone to contact me."

Raymond looked at him shrewdly. "Won't she worry if you don't call in?"

"She's not ... it's up to her to make the contact."

"Huh. So that's the way it is." Raymond straightened up and shook his finger at Michael. "You oughta know better."

"Excuse me?"

"You. A bright guy like you. What'd she do? Make you mad?"

Michael thought of Nikita telling him she didn't love him, then of the way he'd stomped off. Granted, he'd been drugged to his eyeballs, but ... "Something like that," Michael said.

"Apologize. Even if you didn't do anything wrong. Even if it's all her fault."

"No offense, Raymond, but you don't know me very well and you don't know her at all."

"Maybe not. I just know what worked for me." Raymond tossed a bunch of wilted carrots in the trash. "About 15 years ago, my wife, whom I loved very much, got it into her head that I needed to start up a restaurant. We were living in Amsterdam then, pretty happy, or so I thought. She was always talking about this restaurant, how it'd be a great investment, we'd make a lot of money on it. I figured an easy way to get it out of her head was to take her on vacation, which I did, to Caracas."

"She didn't forget about the restaurant?" Michael guessed.

"Forget? Hell, she took one look at the sea, the beaches, everything, and suddenly, we weren't just having a little restaurant in Amsterdam, we were going to open a grill, and it was going to be in Venezuela. I couldn't believe it. I told her she was a crazy fool, and she said maybe, but she was tired of the damp cold and she was moving. So I told her fine, she could stay."

"You went back home?"

"What else could I do?" Raymond shrugged. "I went back to Amsterdam and stayed there for four months. By that time I missed her and the kids so badly, I would have gladly shined shoes if she thought it was a great idea. I sold everything and came to Caracas. Turned out she had misjudged Caracas, so we decided on Aruba. I let her name the bar, decide the decor, figure out how to school the children. I've been here ever since. And you know something? I've been happy."

"I didn't know you'd been married."

"She died a few years ago."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, so am I. But we had some good years together. Had some great kids. Haven't always made the best decisions, but I love them and I loved my wife. Now, was she right or wrong to decide to move down here? That, I don't know. All I know is, I was miserable without her and the best thing I did was apologize to her ... though, even now, I don't know whether I was in the wrong. The point is, I learned something important: never let something stupid get in the way if you love someone."

Michael looked away from Raymond. Across the kitchen floor, McCatty leapt in the air and came down right on top of a cockroach, which had no doubt been misplaced by the flood. In a few seconds, McCatty was cheerfully crunching up the bug.

"On the other hand, if you decide to stick it out without your woman, you and your cats are always welcome here. They're better than the pest control," Raymond grinned.

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

A week later, Nikita sat quietly in her seat, waiting for the plane to take off. She couldn't remember the last time she'd flown commercial, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd flown business class. In just a few hours, she'd be in Miami. She had a layover of a few hours, then she got on another plane to Nassau. From then on, she island hopped until she got to Aruba.

Not the fastest way to travel. But at least she'd have lots of stops so she could take out money from her joint bank account with Michael.

Nikita pushed her hair -- dark red, this time -- out of her face. She still had a few butterfly bandages decorating her forehead. Her cheek was bruised, too, where the prosthetic had pulled wrong. But all in all, she felt pretty good. Just a slight headache, but then, that was nothing new. She'd made the transition from Quinn to Nikita in Center during a time when there were few people on deck. Jones had helped her remove the prosthetics and provided her with the hair dye and clothes. During the painful removal process, he'd amused her with his descriptions of the way Operations had reacted to her -- or rather, Quinn's -- demise.

Nikita left Center before a lot of people came in, and the ones that did see her had no idea who she was. Her red hair had been hidden under a scarf, her eyes were covered with dark glasses, and she deliberately altered her posture and stride so she could have been anyone.

Different. Everything about her was different. Different clothes, different hair, different life.

Nikita tightened her seat belt as the plane door closed. The plane moved down the runway, faster, faster, faster, till it was airborne.

Nikita sat back in her seat and tried to relax.

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

Michael lay in his bunk and tried to relax.

Curled up next to him were his cats, McCatty on his side, stretching out and taking up as much space as possible, and Sir Basil wrapped around his head like a furry halo. The weather was calm, the water was smooth, and he planned to start for the Lesser Antilles in a couple of days.

But he was still tense, and he wasn't sure why.

Michael rolled over, displacing Sir Basil, who curled up tighter and then relaxed against his shoulder. Maybe it was that conversation he and Raymond had the other day about Raymond's wife. Or maybe it was the fact that though they finally had electricity again, none of the cash machines on the island worked. They were all out of money, so he couldn't check his balance. And even though he was sure Nikita hadn't made a transaction, he would have liked to check, just the same.

Michael sighed and stretched, moving Sir Basil out of the way. Sir Basil glared at him and settled back down, muttering to himself.

As Michael drifted off to sleep finally, his last thoughts were of how very far from Section he was. It seemed like another world, another life. One that he didn't ever want to go back to. He wanted Nikita, but that was the only part of his old life in which he had any interest. And she, apparently, had no interest in him. Michael sighed, turned over again, and slept.

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

By the time Nikita reached Miami, her throat hurt. She bought some bottled water and cold medication, took another Darvocet to keep her head from exploding, and slept on the flight to San Juan.

By the time she got to San Juan, she started coughing.

By the time she got to Curacao, she was running a fever.

By the time she got to Aruba, a full 48 hours after leaving Center, she was weaving from medication, sleep deprivation and concern. Michael hadn't made a transaction in 10 days. He might not even be here, and she was nearly out of her mind with wondering where he was.

Or maybe she was just out of her mind, period.

When she got to Aruba it was early morning. Her hotel room wasn't ready. Thinking that it would be good to clear her head with a walk, Nikita staggered out of the hotel and walked a few blocks until she could see the water.

It was pretty here. She and Michael had taken Section transport from here once, one of the more pleasant times they'd had in transport because for one leg of their journey, they'd been on a cruise ship. Nikita had felt like she was in a TV show -- everyone was very wealthy, with masses of jewels and she and Michael had been one of the youngest couples on board. They'd also been one of the few couples that weren't interested in the food.

Nikita grinned faintly and walked along the seaside. The fresh air was helping; she felt a little steadier now. She wandered up one of the side streets and window shopped with the vague notion of finding a local doctor who could check her out and make sure the only thing she was suffering from was a cold.

Instead of a doctor, she found a beauty parlor. Pushing her red hair away from her face, Nikita went in and one of the beauty operators looked up and pursed her lips.

"Honey, who did that to your hair?"

Nikita sheepishly said, "I did. Can you fix it?"

"Can I? Of course, I can, sweetie. You okay?" The beautician patted Nikita's face. "You look a little pale or something."

"I've got a cold."

"Mmm-hmmm. Well, we'll get that hair of yours a more natural color and you'll feel a hundred percent better, I guarantee it."

"I've never had a hairdresser who guaranteed anything before," Nikita said.

"Well, you've never been to La Belle, either. I'm Hildie and you need to get a shampoo. Go on back and I'll see what color we need to get you to."

"I used to be blonde," Nikita said sadly.

"Well, we'll see what we can do." She ran a hand through Nikita's hair. "Gracious, child, what have you been doing to your hair? It feels like straw."

"I know," Nikita sighed.

"Too many dye jobs, that's what it is. You just relax. Hildie will repair the damage, don't worry."

A few hours later, Nikita emerged from the salon with normal hair and a bottle of Hildie's special brand of ultra-conditioner. "Don't wash your hair but every three days, and put this on it," Hildie instructed her. "And for goodness sake, don't dye it again. It'll all fall out and I don't think you'd look too good bald."

It was nearly lunch time. Hildie had given her a Coke and Nikita's cold medication was finally starting to kick in, so she felt a little better. She felt kind of floaty. She strolled down the block back toward the water and wandered along the shore for awhile. Hildie said they'd had a recent storm, and Nikita could still see signs of it -- piles of seaweed and driftwood littered the beach. She passed the small harbor, then the smell of something grilling caught her attention.

She walked up the beach. It was a bar and grill and though there were no customers, a sign on the front door said "YES WE'RE OPEN" so she went in.

"Hello?" Nikita called -- or rather, croaked. Her voice was starting to go, and she wondered if maybe she'd be better off going back to the hotel and seeing if her room was ready.

A wiry little man poked his head out of the kitchen door. "Sorry, I didn't know anyone was out here. What can I get for you?"

It seemed like a big decision. "What do you suggest?"

"You want some lunch?"

"Yes."

"How about a grilled fish sandwich? Maybe some fries, something to drink?"

"Yes," Nikita said, relieved it was that simple.

"Okay, it'll be out in a minute."

Nikita ate her sandwich and had another Coke. Customers began filtering in, but Nikita stayed put. A woman brought her some ice cream for dessert, and, sitting in a half-asleep, cold medicated, jet lagged stupor, Nikita watched the hypnotic swell of the ocean outside.

The room shimmered and swayed. Nikita shivered a little with fever, but the food in her stomach stayed down and she sleepily leaned her head on her hand. If it weren't so much trouble, she'd go back to the hotel. Slowly, her eyes started to close.

Someone laughed, and there was something about it that sounded familiar. Nikita forced her eyes open and, making a huge effort, she scanned the crowd of people. There were a couple of people at a table, a family sitting nearby, and at the bar there were several men, all speaking with a woman who brought her ice cream and the man who had served her food.

One of the men looked slightly familiar. He was standing at the bar, partially facing Nikita. There was something about him that almost reminded her of Michael. He was about as tall as Michael, but his skin was darker and his hair was lighter. Plus, he had a beard. He wore orange shorts and sandals. One foot was propped up against the brass railing that circled the foot of the bar. He was wearing a fur stole.

Nikita blinked, and knew she must be hallucinating. Then the fur stole twitched, and turned into a cat.

Nikita smiled sleepily, thinking that of all the strange dreams she'd had, this was the strangest. Then she rested her head on her folded arms and promptly went to sleep.