"Is Sofia Vidal here?" Marcus Dixon asked the old woman at the desk of Santa Cruz's All-Saints Home for Needy Children. His Spanish was heavily accented, deliberately; and somewhat halted, as if he were translating in his head. When the woman eyed him with some consternation, he opened his coat, revealing the clerical collar gleaming white against the neck of his dusty garments. "I am here for evening Mass, but I'd like to see her if I can." He paused again. "Father Ignacio left word that I was substituting for him tonight, yes?"

"Ah, very…sorry, Father…" the woman's English was halting, but suspicion had left her expression, and she fluttered nervously about, standing up and knocking a dirty Styrafoam cup of plastic pens over in the process. "Will you sit, sir…take water?" She pulled a thick sweater she'd been wearing close around her frame. "I will have someone bring it to you while I look for Sofia."

"Yes, please." Dixon lowered himself into the only rickety wooden chair the small room held, except for the one the woman had been sitting on. Then he removed a rosary from his pocket, idly running his fingers over the beads. The room was close but cold, smelling of wood chips and dust; and as soon as the woman left, he visibly relaxed. The winds in Santa Cruz that evening were biting and unseasonably cool; the threadbare coat he had dragged on as part of his priest's getup was little protection. I'm getting too old for this, he thought with an internal sigh.

Seconds later, a child toddled in, bottled water held firmly between two plump hands. It's dark, wavy hair was cut short, and the sweater and trousers the child wore were the same nondescript shade of tan worn by all the children in the Home, so it was impossible to tell it's sex. The child regarded Dixon for a minute, looking intimidated; then, when he smiled, approached him shyly.

"Water, Father," the little tyke said, so softly that Dixon could barely make out the childish lisp. Kiddie talk was the same in every language, Dixon thought, lips quirking slightly. "Thank you," he answered, smiling again, trying to keep his voice low. "What is your name, child?"

"Elisa." So it was a girl. Seemed obvious now, the way her huge brown eyes were fixed on him. Thick, curly lashes for days, too. She reminded him of Robyn at that age.

"Nice to meet you, Elisa." He spoke in his usual low, quiet tones, barely changing his usual voice. He loathed baby talk; babies were just as intelligent as anyone else, he thought, just knew less. "I'm Father Martinez."

Elisa regarded him soberly for a minute; then her face broke out in a dimpled grin, and she held up all five fingers. "I'm three!" she crowed; then walked up to him, leaning on his knee.

Dixon laughed out loud and handed her the rosary to play with, then looked up when a young, dark-haired woman burst into the room. She was carrying a towel in one hand and a bottle of shampoo in the other. Her simple dark shift was stained with water, a blue cotton scarf around her neck appeared to be her only protection from the cold, and she looked more than a little harried.

"Elisa—" she began sharply; then froze when she saw Dixon.

His lips curved up slightly; then, he rose and met her dark, panicked eyes with his own calm brown ones. Maria scampered from the room, but neither of them attempted to follow her. Dixon tilted his head, pushed his hands into his pockets.

"Hello, Nadia," he said, simply. "Been a while, hasn't it?"

She went pale to the lips, and he stood up, face darkening. She backed up, dropping the shampoo—and he fought a sudden wave of sympathy for her. Christ, she looked small. Thinner than he remembered. And so scared….her voice was different, too. Lower, and raspier, as if the horrible injury she'd endured had destroyed her voice.

But he couldn't think of that, now. Not for what he was here to do.

Rising to his full height, face set, he crossed the space separating them in a couple of steps and reached out, unwinding her scarf in one quick motion. An angry scar stood out on her neck, deep and red—not any earthly shade of red, either. It was dark and angry, streaked with purple and white, ridged deep. He winced despite himself; then reached out and touched it, dark fingers gentle against the damaged flesh. When Nadia's composure finally broke and a tear slid down her cheek, he let out a sigh, his face returning to its old mild, sympathetic expression.

He couldn't help it; under it all, he was still Dixon.

"I think it's time we talked," he said simply, brushing his fingers across the curve of her cheek, flicking off a tear. She swallowed, choking back the tears, obviously embarrassed at her loss of composure. Her pulse was visible in her throat; very fast; the scar itself seemed to throb. "Please," he added.

After one long, endless moment, she nodded, pulling away from him and wiping her cheeks with her hands. He bent, picking up the towel and bottle—which mysteriously, hadn't broken. "They think I'm a priest," he added, pressing the items into her hands. "I'll see you….after Mass? Will you be there?"

Mutely, she nodded—then made her escape, scrambling mutely through the door without looking back.

Dixon shoved his hands in his pockets and exhaled slowly, taking a moment before extracting his cell. He dialed a number, waited a fraction of a second and then---

"Marshall?"

"Yes, Director?"

"I'll need transport in three hours."

"Consider it done, sir... Director Dixon…well, again, since you've been one before, right? And then you were back in the field, but now you're one again, and now---"

"Goodbye, Marshall."

Dixon found the services that evening strangely calming. Although he was an Episcopalian himself, the Catholic prayers were familiar enough—and the scrubbed, chubby little faces in his audience attached to little bodies that squirmed on the wooden benches made him stifle a smile more than once. Nadia was there, of course. He hadn't expected her to try to flee, but still was relieved. Aside from an initial glance, he didn't look at her again until services were over, and the children were filing out.

Nadia didn't move; instead, she sat small and hunched on the far end of the very last bench in the chapel, head bowed as if in prayer. Dixon, who had been killing time by collecting prayer books and rearranging them on the simple podium, waited until the room was clear before approaching her.

"Miss Vidal," he said softly. She didn't move.

"Miss….Vidal?" he approached her now, placed one broad hand on her shoulder. She jerked away from him, then raised her chin, meeting his gaze squarely. Two patches of velvet-red burned in her cheeks.

"Nadia," she corrected him sharply; then bit her lip, swallowing hard and tugging the shawl she'd worn to Mass close around her skinny shoulders. "We might as well speak freely…there's no one here."

"I'm glad to clear that up," was all Dixon said. "May I…." he gestured to the seat.

Nadia looked over as if surprised that the bench was there; then she shrugged. Taking that as permission, Dixon eased onto the seat, extending his legs. "Lovely countryside, here," he remarked in his usual quiet baritone. "It's rather peaceful. Something Sydney might have picked, don't you think?"

She inhaled sharply, the sound audible to both of them, echoing in the room. "Agent Dixon," she replied; and her voice was suddenly sharp. "I was ready to kill you when I saw you in that room. I---" a pause, and she looked away.

"Why didn't you?" Dixon asked after a moment.

"Why are you here?" she countered. "I'm dead, Dixon."

"Yes." Dixon didn't argue, didn't even look surprised. His fingers went to the rosary at his belt, worrying the beads again, running his fingertips over them one by one. "And so is Jack."

Nadia didn't flinch, but her eyes darted up. "How…."

"We don't exactly know." Dixon inhaled, reaching up, rubbing his temples. "He hasn't been seen since Mongolia…that is, we know he's dead, but there's no way to retrieve him…" he looked up quickly enough to catch the look of confusion flitting across Nadia's face, then smiled wanly. "Then again, he'd deposited you here long before then. It's a long story, and I'm telling it badly." He paused, then tilted his head. "How did…I mean, you obviously were at the funeral, but how did Jack…"

She sighed, some of the tension going out of her body--- not because she was relaxed. "I was going to kill you," she mumbled, mirroring Dixon's motions of just a second before, rubbing her temples.

His lips tilted slightly. "Why didn't you?"

"Jack once told me you were the only genuinely good person he ever knew." She paused. "Besides Sydney, of course. And I trust his judgment."

"He helped you disappear," Dixon said. It wasn't a question, but Nadia nodded anyway.

"As you see," she said simply, gesturing to herself. "I was close to death when he found me abandoned in my father's study, but apparently the glass left in my neck was what kept me from bleeding to death." Her voice was cool and matter-of- fact. "The funeral, my burial—all faked, much the same way Vaughn's was. Sydney wasn't told, though. I didn't know that anyone was. Jack arranged for me to come here, told me that I could stay until it was safe…and then he left. I haven't heard from him since then, and he never told me what happened to my father. Then…I wasn't really interested."

Dixon nodded in assertion. "I didn't know about you myself until after Jack…passed. He'd given me some information shortly before his last mission that was to be kept only for me—and only if something ever happened to him. I asked him why it was me…and not his daughter, but he said that if I ever uncovered the information, I'd understand."

Nadia bit her lip. "He must have known he was going to die," she said softly; then turned her head. "Poor Jack."

Dixon laughed quietly—the sound was shocking at first, but he couldn't help it. "I don't know, Nadia. Even in death, it's impossible to pity him," he replied; and his voice was heavy with mingled grief and respect, despite the tone. "It's been…hard."

She looked at his face carefully for the first time since his initial appearance; he looked tired, she thought. Weary, as if his job was wearing him down. "You're here…to check on me, then?" she asked, somewhat hopefully. Maybe that was all….

Then Dixon smiled, wryly, and she knew that wasn't it. Not by a long shot. "No, Nadia. I admit that I would have watched you from afar, to ensure your safety…but this is about your father."

Nadia's heart sank. "He's looking for me."

Dixon eyed her. "He is?"

"No---" she frowned, confused. "Is he?"

"No." Dixon paused. "That is to say, we don't think he is. Although he could be. Unless Jack actually succeeded in eliminating him---"

"What?" Nadia sat up straight. "My father is…dead?"

Dixon heaved a great sigh. "We're not quite sure, Nadia," he said; and he rubbed the top of his head. "It's kind of a strange story….and I have something I need you to listen to…it's Jack, right before he died. Conversing with your father…his coms were on, so it's all recorded…and it's strange. Very strange. And if it means what we think it is…." He paused again. "I need you to tell me, Nadia…were you ever, in any of your experiences, privy to Rambaldi's endgame?"

At that, it was as if something snapped in Nadia—and she leaped up from the bench, hurling herself at Dixon in a fit of rage that took him completely aback. He could do little but protect his head before the smaller woman began beating at him with her fists. "Nadia!" he began, but was cut off completely when she slammed one tightly fisted hand squarely into his mouth.

"Will you people never stop just trying to useme for your own wickedness?" Dixon had recovered by now, and grabbed her wrists, trying to keep her from beating him. In one quick motion he was straddling her on the bench, pinning her to the seat with his legs and arms--- Jesus, she fought like a wildcat--- "Nadia!" he said, shaking her, trying to bring her back---

She was sobbing, now. Scratching and spitting, too, much like a schoolgirl in a recess fight, something that heartened Dixon, despite the situation. If she really wanted to, he knew she had the training to kill him in about three moves. "Get off me, you sick bastard—"

"You don't know the whole story yet, Nadia---!" Dixon was trying desperately not to hurt her. Hell, God knew she'd been hurt enough in the little time he'd known her. "Please just listen---"

"I don't want to know the story!" She was twisting more violently now, and Dixon thought in a moment of panic that she might even try to bite him. "I don't want to know…if people weren't so damned curious, this whole thing never would have happened, and…I…."

At that, all the fight seemed to go out of her; she went limp, sagging beneath him. He was quick to move off her, actually supporting her now, helping her back to a sitting position. "Nadia," he said quietly, touching her face in a way he was wont to do to his children when they were upset. "I'm so sorry. Please…"

"I want no part of this." Her voice was trembling, and the look in her eyes—she looked haunted, as if she'd seen this coming, and it was scaring her to death. "You don't know anything, Dixon, and I envy you that…if you really want answers, then find my mother. I'm dead, Dixon…"

"So is she." Dixon shifted, looking away as Nadia faced him in shock—then pulled a large linen square out of his pocket, handing it to her. "Clean your face," he added with his usual simplicity, as if her outburst had never happened. Nadia's expression didn't change.

"How?" she asked after a long moment, dragging air into her lungs.

"Fighting with Syd. She died in an attempt to retrieve the Horizon."

Nadia closed her eyes and a wave of pain washed over her face; Dixon watched her for a moment, then began speaking again. "Sydney…came out fine, though. She and the baby are both fine. She and Vaughn will be married the thirtieth of the month." Her face was a myriad of emotions now—struggling to regain some normalcy. He kept talking, not knowing what else to do, hoping to calm her. "Small wedding, of course…and she's retiring. Doesn't want this life anymore. It's taken all her family from her, everyone. And---"

"Stop."

Dixon obeyed, looking at her; in a few moments, she seemed to have aged ten years. She raked her fingers through her dark hair, wiped her cheeks with his handkerchief; and when she spoke, she was a shadow of her former self, as if bits and pieces of her had been eroded slowly, leaving little for him to see.

"I'll listen to whatever you want me to," she said dully; then she folded thin arms over her chest. "I owe it to Jack, at least; he saved my life." Dixon lowered his head, tried to look her in the eye. "Nadia---"

"He trusted you, Dixon." She looked up, met his eyes—and the fear in them gave him a sense of foreboding so powerful that his stomach actually turned, violently. "I'll do whatever you ask," she added.

Dixon bit his lip and nodded, uncertainty sweeping over him for the first time since he'd landed in Argentina that morning. A sudden chill penetrated his bones; and he shivered, involuntarily. When he looked at Nadia again, her eye were fixed on him with an expression that made him wish he'd never come.

"You feel it too, don't you?" she said so softly that he really couldn't hear her; it was more reading her lips than anything else. They were pale, bloodless, like that of a dead woman. He focused on them for a moment before he spoke; and when he did, his mouth was dry.

"I'll make sure you're safe, Nadia…you'll be right back here, or anywhere you want. I'm not taking you back home…." But Nadia was shaking her head, a small smile flickering across her face.

"You'll be taking me back with you," she said, sounding exhausted, resigned. "And I won't be coming back here. You know that, Dixon. Even though you don't believe it yet."

Dixon opened his mouth, taking a breath to speak, to argue, to reassure, his lungs expanding with air….and he found he couldn't. "Nadia…" was all he managed; then, he trailed off.

Nadia met his eyes. The fear in her own was gone; instead, there was a dead, unemotional flatness in them that made her seem less human, somehow--- even less than when she'd been a mindless killing machine. He was taken aback, shocked into silence. He couldn't look away, even if he wanted to.

"I'm going to die, Dixon," she said quietly. She reached up, tucked her hair behind her left ear, and stood.

Then, she fainted.