"You really don't like hospitals, do you?" Christine asked gently.

Harold gazed at her steadily. She looked a world better than she had when the sun came up that morning. "I do not, no."

There was a rattle in the hallway, a cart passing, and he turned his whole body to look that way.

Christine slipped her hand into his. "You don't have to stay, Random. I'm okay."

Harold shook his head. His dislike of hospitals notwithstanding, it was better that he was here. To be with her, certainly, but also because being here kept him from doing other things, things he knew he should not do.

Like remotely monitor Grace Hendricks on her first real date since his 'death'.

"This could wait until I go home," she continued.

"I think I want you to stay here for a while." Harold reached into his bag and brought out the CDs he'd picked up from her apartment. They were all in thin clear cases, all labeled with indelible marker in Nathan's distinct, scrawling hand. "They're just copies of his music."

Christine opened one case and slipped the CD into her laptop. Of course she'd insisted that Harold bring her the laptop, ahead of clean clothes or a toothbrush or anything else. The disc menu came up on the screen. She let him study it for a moment. "You don't see it, do you?"

"Popular music was never my thing."

"These two songs," she said, pointing, "are out of order. From the way they are on the original CD."

"If he copied disc to disc … "

"Uh-huh." Christine nodded. "And this one's sound quality is compromised."

"Nathan hid something under it."

"Yes." She worked the keyboard swiftly, stripped out the encrypted file. "It's just text of some kind."

Harold studied it. It was definitely Nathan's own code. Complex enough, but it shouldn't have slowed Christine down for long. She was better than Nathan had ever been. "What is it?"

"I don't know."

"You haven't decrypted it?"

"I wasn't sure I should," she replied simply.

He looked up at her, startled. He was certain that she knew this was her idol's code, Nathan's hidden message. And he had given her carte blanche to look into anything she found. But Christine had not pursued this.

Just as she had not pursued any of her million questions about the Machine, even when she knew Harold had created it.

Her curiosity must be killing her.

But she had not looked at the files. Not even when he had arguably given his tacit permission. Not even to learn about her beloved idealized Nathan …

She had waited. And if he forbid her now, she would abide.

She had not, and would not, betray his trust.

"Oh, my sweet Deirdre," he said softly.

"You know what is it, don't you?"

"I don't have any idea." Harold sat back, gestured to the room. "You'll be here a few more days. Why don't you see if you can tease it out?"

Christine studied him for a long moment. The feeling that her bright blue eyes were looking right through him was familiar now. It still filled him with delight and anxiety in equal measure. She was damn hard to keep secrets from. And worse, he was increasingly willing to confide in her.

It was easier, suddenly, not to be watching Grace's date. Even if it went very well, which he devoutly hoped it would, even if she married Gregg Everett and moved far away from the city, he would not be left alone.

Even if he lost John …

"Are you sure?" she asked evenly.

"I'm sure. Although …it may prove to be more unsavory than you might be comfortable with."

"Notes on the Nathanettes?" she suggested with an impish smile.

Harold groaned. It was bad enough that his friend had been a serial philanderer. That he'd had so many young lovers that they'd gained a group designation in the uncivilized corners of the internet was mortifying. "Possibly," he allowed.

It was more mortifying – horrifying, actually – to contemplate how easily Christine might have become one of their number, if Nathan had survived. She fell solidly into his demographic of choice – pretty, smart, young – and her work as a systems security auditor would inevitably have brought her to his attention.

Nathan couldn't have resisted her hero-worshipping infatuation even if he'd tried. Which he almost certainly would not have. An affair would have been practically guaranteed.

And possibly a great deal more than an affair, he realized. Once Nathan got close enough to realize that she was not just smart, but brilliant – and once he realized that she was physically available but emotionally elusive – he would have pursued her to the ends of the earth.

There but for the grace of the gods sat the second Mrs. Ingram. Not Will's surrogate sister, but his widowed step-mother.

No, Harold amended. His ex-step-mother.

It could not have lasted. The age difference between them would have been the least of their problems. It wouldn't have taken Christine long to discover that 'full of confidence' translated to 'full of himself', for Nathan's swagger to take its toll.

It would have taken even less time for the child of an abusive alcoholic to drop the hammer on Nathan's habitual drinking.

The best that could have been said about that relationship was that it would have been intense.

I know he's what you wanted, Harold thought gently, but trust me, he wasn't what you needed.

He had much better plans for her.

If whatever Nathan had hidden in his music was going to reveal his feet of clay, the disappointment might actually do the young woman good. "It's fine. Go ahead. Unless you don't want to."

Christine smiled. "I'll let you know what I find. Can you have somebody bring me the rest of them?"

Harold shook his head. "No. If I do that, you won't sleep. Work on these, and then I'll bring you a few more."

Christine started to argue, then stopped. "As you wish."

"An excellent decision."

The bartender put a glass of beer in front of her, and another in front of Reese. In the time it had taken her to walk to the bar, Carter had talked herself out of hard liquor. She knew she could rely on John to get her home safely, but Taylor didn't need to deal with any more tonight. Memories of Joey Carmichael's mother, drunk on her front stoop, kept running through her head.

"What are you going to do?" John asked.

"I don't know," Carter admitted. "I wish I hadn't seen them at all." She shook her head. "I knew the kid was lying. I just didn't know what about."

"You've always had good instincts."

"Sometimes I wish I didn't."

"This whole internet thing," he mused. "She doesn't want the kid talking to his dad because she's afraid he'll spill the beans."

"That's how I figure it. I don't know what to do, John. I don't know how to help this kid."

Reese drank slowly, thoughtfully. Finally he said, "Do you know him? The father?"

"To wave to on the street," Carter shrugged. "I might have met him once or twice before he deployed."

"I think you should get on Skype with him."

"And tell him about his wife?" Carter asked, surprised.

John shook his head. "Chances are good he already knows. Or that he knows something's up, anyhow. Soldiers. You know how they are."

She did. Deployed soldiers had an instinct for this. It wasn't anything concrete, not a word or a phrase in a letter, not at first. But every grunt she'd ever spoken to who'd just gotten a Dear John letter said the same thing: I knew this was going to happen. I knew she was going to leave me.

"Whether he knows about the affair or not," Reese went on, "he knows something's bothering his son. He's half-way around the world and he can't do anything for him. About the only thing you can do is let the father get to know you better. Let him know that there's a safe reasonable adult available to help the boy. Give him a face and a name and a voice." He shrugged. "Take away a little of the helplessness."

Carter sipped her own beer. "That's not much."

"No."

"But it's something," she said.

"Yes."

"I hate this shit."

"I know." He studied her a moment. "What else is bothering you?"

She pressed her lips together. "Nothing."

"Joss."

Carter chuckled dryly. "I can't tell you. And it doesn't matter. The situation's … resolved."

"Taylor?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"He's the only one who makes you make that face."

She looked over at him. Even in the low light of the bar, his sea-blue eyes sparkled, warm and serious.

"Can I help?" he asked. "Maybe have a talk with him? Badass to boy?"

Carter chuckled. She could feel the tension in her chest unwinding under his gentle teasing. "More like man-to-man, I'm afraid. That's the problem. He's not a little boy any more. He's a grown-ass man. And he's making grown-ass choices."

"Not good choices, I take it?"

"His heart's in the right place," she allowed. "His head, not so much." She stopped. "I can't talk about it. It's Taylor's thing. His business."

John nodded his understanding.

"But he caught me off guard with this," Carter went on. "I always figured we'd talk about things, work them out together. And this was big. Really big. And he just went off and made his own decisions."

"Your son's an independent thinker?" John teased again, gently. "How could that have happened?"

"Thanks a lot." She shook her head. "The worst of it is, I can't decide whether to bust with pride or just choke the life out of him."

"Ahhh," Reese nodded. "Wrong choice, right reasons."

"Exactly."

"That's going to happen, you know."

"That's the scary part. This time it turned out okay. What he tried to do, nothing came of it. But next time …" She shook her head. "He might not be so lucky." She sipped her beer, gestured with her glass. "We could end up doing a lot of this before he gets through college."

Reese shrugged. "Okay by me."

She shifted around to look at him. "So how's your girl?"

"Christine?" He made a little face of his own and repeated her words. "This time it turned out okay. But next time she might not be so lucky."

"She's not going to stop, you know."

"I know."

They sat for a while in silence, comfortable.

"Finding that baby's body," Carter said. "Fifty years. That's something."

"That was a strange one," John agreed.

"You're still not going to tell me where you get your information, are you?"

"Sorry, Joss."

"Not even for this one case? This fifty year-old case? C'mon. How in the world did you guys locate the body of a newborn infant that was buried in a burned-down house after all these years?"

Reese shook his head. "Can't tell you."

She smirked. "Well, you're gonna have to give me something to write up in my repot."

"Tell the truth," John suggested. "Daniel Geis came forward after all these years and confessed."

"Confessed. Someone beat that confession out of him, from the looks of it."

"No," John promised. "He confessed first. Then she beat him."

"And you couldn't stop her, huh?"

He shrugged. "I was busy."

Carter sipped her beer. "Well, you can't blame a girl for asking."

"Nope."

"And I'm going to go right on asking. You know that, right?"

"I wouldn't expect anything else, Joss."

They were quiet again. Finally, Carter said, "Thanks, John. For coming out tonight. I needed this."

He nodded and smiled. It was small and genuine. "I think I did, too."

Christine Fitzgerald rolled in her sleep, tried to pull her knees to her chest, and woke herself up. She stayed very still for a moment, sorting out where she was and why. Then she straightened and untangled her various monitor leads.

Her shoulder hurt when she moved. Her rib hurt. Her whole damn body hurt.

She finally got settled and then rested until the pain subsided. She closed her eyes, but sleep grew further away instead of closer.

Ice rain splattered against the windows.

It was three in the morning. She'd been out of surgery for nearly twenty-four hours. The civilized world was asleep. The hackers were just rising to feed.

She didn't bother with the lights. She raised the head of her bed, pulled the rolling table over to her, and fired up her laptop. There would be chats somewhere. Australia would be online; West Coast would be in full swing. She should look for pop-ups of Will and Julie. And ruin Maxine Angelis' credit rating, cancel her health insurance, and invalidate her driver's license.

Instead, Christine opened the menu of the music CD that still rested in the laptop.

Nathan Ingram's encryption was better than most, and not nearly as good as hers. Or Random's. It took her less than an hour, one-handed, to find the key. The text document opened for her. It was four pages long, just over a thousand words.

11/1/2000

Rolled out H's improvement on the anti-lock brakes today. He told me it was nothing. Minor improvement. Ha! Chrysler engineers went crazy over it. Practically kissed my ring. Would have kissed my ass if I told them to. H's minor improvement has fired another bidding war. We are going to be richer than ever. Also saving lives.

11/5/2000

Stopped by the office after last call to get my coat. H still here working. Hadn't eaten since yesterday. I swear I'll walk in here one day and find him dead of starvation at his keyboard. I can't get him to stop. Invited him to come out with me but he said he was too busy. Watching H work is like watching a fireworks show – one brilliant idea after another. He has a million ideas in his head. Sometimes he lets me help, but usually I'm too slow. Patience is not H's strong point. Told him again I feel like a fraud, taking all the credit. He gave me that look again. H never says I should just shut up and take the money and the praise in so many words, but I see it. It's worth half the money and all the fame to him just to be left alone.

11/15/2000

Last BoD meeting before the holidays. Usual bitching about not being kept up on new developments. If they only knew how often I'm not kept up on new developments. It was all I could do not to scream at them to cash their damn dividend checks and shut up. Of course it reminds me how H must feel about me. Just shut up and take the money.

I wonder if H foresaw days like this way back at MIT. If that's why he picked me in the first place. Nathan Ingram, tall, blond, and least likely to scream obscenities at the board of directors. That's me, shaking hands and smiling and not choking the shit out of anybody, while H gets to sit in his cubicle and spin his brilliant ideas. Sometimes I think he got the better half of this partnership. I still remember when we first met, when he was just an annoying little grad ass trying to get me through my intro class alive. I thought he was being friendly. Turns out he was trying to impress the little red-head in the row behind me ….

Christine stopped reading. She glanced swiftly over the rest of the document. All four pages contained short journal entries. She minimized the file. Then, very quickly, she disconnected the WiFi connection from the laptop.

Shit, she thought. And then, shit shit shit.

She knew this about Harold, first and last, above all else: He kept secrets. Many, many secrets. Some he kept to protect his life, or the lives of those around him. Some he kept for reasons she could not begin to guess. But he kept them, and he guarded them fiercely. The whole basis of their friendship seemed to be that she didn't pry, that she let him keep his precious secrets. Since the night he'd walked into Chaos, she had not asked questions if she could possibly avoid it. The biggest secret, that he was the father of the all-seeing Machine, she'd worked out on her own. She hadn't asked for details and he'd never volunteered them. The other things, the thousand things she knew he kept to himself in any given day – she didn't ask. And because she didn't ask and she didn't complain, sometimes, rarely, he volunteered to share one of them with her.

Now, suddenly, all those secrets were there at her fingertips.

She reached out and closed the lid of the computer.

So what the hell is the game, Random? Do you know what it is, or do you truly not know? Is it some kind of trap? A test of loyalty? And how do I win? Do I read it and keep the secrets I find there? Do I throw the discs in the street and run over them with a car? Burn them with thermite? Do I tell you what I found, or just keep my mouth shut? Tell you the truth, or lie about it?

What do you want me to do, Random?

She did not harbor any illusions about Harold. She knew he could be kind, generous and loving, the most giving man in the world. She also knew he could be as hard and cold and ruthless as anyone she'd ever met. She did not, could not, forget the man he'd been that night in the pizza shop, when the wordless fury came off him in waves, engulfing the screaming green-haired junkie who'd managed to crack Harold's almost-perfect security. Until that night she'd only know anger that was shouting and hitting. She'd never met anyone who was silent in rage. She'd been terrified.

Then Nathan had arrived, tall and blond and calm, her gallant White Knight. And oh, God, she remembered the shame. And she remembered that Harold had kept her secret. He hadn't told Nathan that the little junkie who'd hacked them was the same little genius he'd been so kind to years before.

That was probably in there, too, somewhere. There were hundreds of discs in the boxes. Possibly hundreds and hundreds of pages hidden on them. The rise and fall of IFT as seen through the eyes of its founder. The junior internship program probably in there somewhere, even if she wasn't named individually. The night at the pizza shop? That had certainly been journal-worthy. She could find out what exactly what Nathan Ingram had thought about her, what Harold had said about her afterward …

Tears filled her eyes. She didn't want to know. But it was there, somewhere. How could she not look? How could she not read every word Nathan had written about her?

And Harold. It was Nathan's story, but Harold had been a huge part of it. She knew he would be in almost every entry. All their history together. In bits and drops, in casual easy phrases, was probably everything Ingram knew about his partner. Everything Nathan knew. If she had all the discs, she could put together the whole story.

All the secrets the men had shared.

It was a wildly exciting idea. And it was terrifying.

He said I could read it.

But I don't know if he knew what it was.

I don't know what you want me to do, Random.

And what happens if I get it wrong?

The monitor beside her bed began to beep softly. Startled, she looked up at it. Her heart rate had turned a portion of the screen red. She made herself take a deep breath. Which was a mistake, of course; her rib hurt like hell. But the pain was grounding. Calm the hell down or they're going to sedate you. Breathe light. Even.

She focused on the monitor, on her breathing, until the monitor turned blue again.

A nurse came in. She seemed surprised to find Christine awake and sitting up in the dark. "Everything alright?" she asked. She turned on a small light near the door. "Your vitals are a little erratic." She moved to the bedside, checked on the IV, read the print-outs. "How's your pain?"

"It's okay." Christine shifted again. "I had a bad dream."

The nurse nodded. Her presence was calming, distracting. "I'm not surprised. Do you want something to help you sleep?"

"No, thanks. I've been sleeping all day."

"Maybe a snack? Some juice?"

"No, I'm fine."

The nurse looked at the monitor again and nodded to herself. She moved the multi-function controller very close to Christine's hand. "If you change your mind, just ring."

"I will. Thanks."

The nurse went out, turning the light out as she left. Christine shifted again. She couldn't find a comfortable position. But it was better now. She could move her finger and summon help, or at least company. Hell, she could shout and they'd come running.

She looked at the laptop again. The interruption had cleared her head enough to let her think about why she was afraid. Because she'd find out what Nathan had thought about her? She'd disappointed a lot of people. And he wasn't nearly the White Knight she'd wanted him to be, anyhow. Afraid that Harold would be angry at her? Yes, definitely. But he'd never be as angry as he'd been that first night. He would not tear her away from her home – such as it was – and force her into a kind, soft-spoken prison. He would not have her locked up, restrained, sedated until she could not wake herself from her own nightmares …

Harold would not do that to her. He wouldn't have to. He could hurt her that badly now just by turning his back.

It was that simple, really.

If she opened the Pandora's box that Nathan had left behind, Random might leave her. Change the locks on the library, change his phone number – simply leave. She'd still be able to find him, of course. They had too many contacts in common for him to drop out of sight completely. But he could withdraw his friendship. Turn away from her. Cut her out of his life.

Well, so what? I've been left by better men than him.

That wasn't true. She'd never known a better man than him.

I've been alone my whole life. This wouldn't be any different.

But it would be.

It was startling to realize how long it had been since she'd felt really alone. Not since the night he'd walked into Chaos, distraught and distracted, absolutely focused on saving someone else's life …

She'd always liked being alone before. She'd gone to great lengths to be sure she could be alone. But at this moment she couldn't stand it.

She'd gotten used to having Harold in her life. The thought of losing him now …

What am I supposed to do, Random? Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them back. Just tell me what I'm supposed to do.

She brought her hand up and rubbed the joints in her jaw. They hurt. She was grinding her teeth, she realized. The old signal that the heroin addict she had been needed to fix.

Christine picked up her cell phone. She hated herself, hated the weakness it represented. But she was scared and cold and so so alone …

She dropped her hand to the call button that would bring the nurse back.

… and it would be so fucking easy to get narcotics right now …

Her finger glided over the button. Then she lifted her hand off and dialed the phone instead.

He answered before the first ring ended. "What's wrong, Christine?"

She took a deep breath. It was three in the damn morning, and John's voice was deeper than usual, heavy with sleep, but he was all comfort, no annoyance. The minute she heard his voice, the fear began to fade.

"Nothing," she managed to say. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"I don't mind. At all." His voice shifted; he'd probably sat up in bed. "I'm right here. Tell me what you need."

I need for you to come and get this laptop and these discs and smash them all, she thought wildly. I need you to take this decision away from me so I don't have to make it …

And he would. She knew he would. All she had to do was ask. Just say …

And then it hit her. They were the same words she'd said to Marisa Finley. This is not your choice. You are not responsible for the outcome. I am taking this decision away from you.

But she wasn't ten years old. And she was frightened, but she wasn't helpless.

She could breathe now, with his voice in her ear. "I think I just scared myself a little."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"No," she said quickly. "No, John, really, I'm okay."

He sighed patiently. "A man tried to kill you. He nearly succeeded. You're allowed to be frightened. Or angry. Or whatever else you want to be. And you're allowed to ask for help. I'm on my way."

"I am asking for help, John. But I don't need you to haul your ass down here in the middle of the night in the rain. I just … I need to … not be alone in the dark for a while."

His breath hitched. She wasn't sure why.

"Can you just … can you talk to me for a few minutes?" she continued.

She heard him exhale, probably settle back onto his bed. "You sure?"

"I'm sure. It's bad enough I woke you up at this hour."

"You can always wake me, kitten. I'll always be here."

"Thank you." She laid still for a moment, breathing his presence, his silence. Not alone. "Tell a story."

He chuckled in surprise. "What kind of story?"

"Tell me about when John met Harold."

"Oh, that story."

"Or any story, it doesn't matter."

"It doesn't start pretty, the John and Harold story," he said willingly. "I was drunk, and I had long hair and a nasty beard and lice and fleas, and I probably had scurvy … "

"You did not have scurvy."

"I might have. Hard to tell. Anyhow, I got in a fight with this group of punks on the subway. It wasn't my fault, the other guy started it …"

Christine put the phone on speaker and set it on the table next to the computer. She opened the laptop. While John talked – telling her a very different version of a story she'd already heard from Harold – she partitioned a space on her hard drive and constructed a big strong firewall around it. Then she dropped the fragment of Nathan's journal into the secured space.

He said I could read it, she told herself. She recognized the petulant defiance in her thoughts, but went on anyhow. I gave him a chance to tell me no and he didn't. Better me than Will, he said. So fine. I'll keep his secrets. But I get to know what they are.

And what did he say? They might be unsavory. Maybe he knew.

He had to know. How could he not know?

And if he wants to be pissed off about it …

…well, fuck it. I'll beg for forgiveness later.

He won't leave me.

Even if I know all his secrets.

He won't leave me.

John Reese's voice in her ear kept the worst monsters in her imagination at a safe distance.

I believe, I trust, that he won't leave me.

She loaded a second music disc and teased out the next part of the story.

The End