Joss was flagging, but John had more stops on his itinerary so after fifteen minutes of rest in the racquetball court they continued the tour.

Apthorps was a wonderland of apparently limitless space, magically unfolding in a new direction at every turn they made. Weight rooms, massage tables, sound-proof practice chambers hugging glossy pianos. Just when Joss was sure they had rounded a familiar corner and must be approaching a room they had visited before, she was proven wrong again and again.

The rigor of the club's neutral color scheme, vanilla shifting to cream, then to palest peach or misty gray could have been monotonous. But the unexpected twists in the passages kept the tension and excitement alive for her.

John's relentless push implied a goal in mind, a target he planned to accost; since he had her by the hand, she was as committed to the mission as he was, curious as to its outcome.

So when they reached the library, Joss was both surprised and relieved.

John left her standing open-mouthed in the center of the lofty room; he flung himself into a wide chair clothed in butternut leather near an arched window. He stretched out his legs, letting his hands dangle from the arms of the chair as he slumped backwards and closed his eyes. An identical chair facing him invited her to rest too.

Joss, however, was not going to waste a moment in this cathedral.

She walked among the ranks of pale wooden shelves, trailing her hand over the glossy book bindings, fingering a title every so often.

There was no overhead lighting to disrupt the reverent atmosphere. Silver hooded lamps perched along each shelf; their mates squatted in perfect regiment on the long tables. Chrome floor lamps hovered over every armchair, dousing the place in pools of light.

The collection was rich. Novels were plentiful, contemporary, and mostly by male authors; the sections on medicine, social policy, and law were deep and dust-free, there was even a small but well-curated selection of poetry. She lingered over the rows of sociology and history, finally settling on a book that critiqued United States military intervention in Haiti in the early decades of the Twentieth Century.

When she brought her book back to the window alcove, she found that John was fast asleep.

So she settled in the chair opposite him, curled her feet under her hip, and turned to the monograph's argumentative introduction.

She could read here for the rest of the night, she decided: though the book was strafing her thoughts, her heart and body felt calm.

At the end of the first chapter, she laid the volume on her thigh and looked at John sleeping.

He was utterly oblivious, as if he were lying in bed next to her. His legs were splayed, his torso relaxed and open, his mouth fragile, soft. The cowlick above his brow was still slicked down with sweat.

His hipbones, jutting above the sagging waistband, looked almost delicate as did the trail of fine dark hair below his navel. She wanted to pull down his shirt, cover his vulnerability. But disturbing him wasn't worth it, she decided.

She was glad the huge window was sound-proof: the drone of the city below remained baffled and distant.

They were only three stories above the street, so the view was not panoramic. But the city twinkled in a confiding way and she felt connected to its soul even in this haughty palace.

Joss decided if she could capture a single moment from the precarious life she shared with John and hold it forever balanced in her heart, this would be the one she chose.

But when she picked up her book again, he stirred, as if the slight movement had unsettled him.

He clenched both hands, tight fists denting the chair arms. Grimacing, he turned his head from side to side and finally barked out a sharp "No!"

Hoping to quell the anguish before it erupted, Joss leaned forward between his legs and placed her hands on his bare knees, squeezing them gently.

He awoke to sudden alertness.

Pinning her eyes with his own, he was completely aware of his surroundings. But the look of regret she saw in his smoky gaze made her afraid she would burst into tears.

Then the melancholic storm passed as quickly as it had arrived and a smile fluttered across his features.

"I hope all that reading made you hungry, Joss. Let's go find something to eat."

Joss was expecting a banquet to be laid out for them; surely the club's hidden hands had prepared a sumptuous meal to impress them.

But when they reached the small paneled dining room overlooking the lap pool, all she could see was a simple insulated picnic cooler parked on a square table draped in dazzling white brocade.

Opening the cooler, John carefully pulled out the contents: plastic freezer bags filled with potato salad, devilled eggs, mixed green salad, and two bird's worth of fried chicken. Of the two thermoses filled with chilled lemonade, Joss was sure one had been doctored with a good dose of vodka.

She brought delicate porcelain plates from a neighboring table and John scouted up enough heavy silver to outfit a medieval court.

At first they picked over the salads with a studied politeness in keeping with the genteel surroundings. They sipped the spiked lemonade from mighty goblets. But then, Joss taking the lead, they just dived into the fried chicken with bare hands, the way nature intended.

The golden pile of chicken parts had seemed like a lot before they started, but they were able to devour it all without any problem.

Filled up and sassy, Joss had to ask, "You don't think that fried chicken was some kind of racial commentary, do you? I mean, I was so hungry, I don't give a damn about stereotypes.

"Because that chicken was definitely finger-lickin' country good! But it did cross my mind to wonder."

John grinned and reached into the cooler again.

"Well, I don't know about the fried chicken. You're the expert there. But something's got to be going on if this is the dessert!"

He held up a plastic bag with two gigantic slices of watermelon.

They laughed. And didn't mind at all if a few watermelon seeds escaped onto the floor before they were through.

Though she felt sated after their picnic dinner, restlessness pushed Joss out of the lounge. The alluring blue water beckoned.

They descended a narrow staircase to the lap pool, framed by milky tiles that bordered the deck.

"I want to swim, John. Let's do it." Her low voice echoed against the hard walls.

She began stripping off her t-shirt and shorts while he sputtered a mild protest beside her.

"Don't you want to wait thirty minutes after eating?"

"Old wives' tale, John. Not going to get cramps; never did. Come on."

She dropped her underwear in a pile next to the ladder at the shallow end and slipped into the water.

He watched her turn at the far end of the pool then removed his own clothes. She saw the planes and clean lines of his body in the split second before he plunged into the pool. The high contrast pattern of pale skin framed by dark hair repeating from head to groin stirred her as always.

They swam back and forth in close formation, their shoulders occasionally grazing as they neared the middle of each length. The water was pleasantly cool, sending soothing vibrations over and through their exhausted muscles.

When they had made fifteen turns, John paused, planting his feet on the bottom of the pool. He knew she couldn't, so he took her by the waist to hold her above the surface.

He kept her at arm's length that way, not in an embrace, but rather in a pose of deep regard and expectation. Her head and shoulders were level with his. Thumbs pressed into her stomach, his fingers clasped the small of her back, holding her steady.

She didn't wriggle her hands or tread with her feet; she simple rested upright in his sure grip, the water carrying most of her weight.

Holding her suspended that way, John started speaking, letting his flowing sentences vibrate through her ears and body.

"Joss, the work we do, the mission we're on. It supported by a system, a protocol, which feeds us enough highly reliable data to give us confidence in our direction and our choices. We trust it. I can't tell you what that system is; I can't describe it to you or even give it a name. But I want you to know that it's there, steadily supporting us. Just like I am supporting you right now. Do you understand?"

He paused to let the truth of his words wash over her.

She bobbed a bit in the wake caused by the gentle movements of his chest and he bent his elbows to bring her closer to his body.

"Yes, I understand, John. Mining metadata; NSA; the Prism project, all that. And I understand that you want to tell me more, but you can't. That something prevents you from telling."

He nodded but didn't say anything further for a long while.

Then: "Knowing the source of our information is dangerous, Joss. People have been killed because of it."

"Are you in danger? Is Harold?"

Two more nods sent ripples toward her.

"I understand that. I figured out a while ago that there's a big picture game out there and you guys are playing at the center of it."

He sighed but said nothing further. So she continued.

"But you have to know this too: I'm not afraid, John. I am not afraid."

"I do know. That's what scares me."

She studied the redness rimming his eyes, wondering how much was chlorine, how much raw emotions. Whatever the cause, the contrast made his pupils a translucent blue to rival the water.

"John, I trust you. I don't need to push it now. I'm not saying I'm laying off forever. But this, this is enough."

He pulled her into his arms then, holding her hard against his chest. With both hands he pressed the back of her head so that her face molded against his shoulder.

He turned his head toward her, kissing her ear, her cheek and finally her lips. She felt his cock swell against her thigh as his tongue pulsed in her mouth.

He whispered urgently.

"Let's go home. I want you. God, I want you, Joss. But not here, not in this place. I want you. So much."

She gasped with equal urgency.

"Yes, let's go home."

Clothed again, they tip-toed hand in hand through the lobby.

Hadley was asleep at his post, head cradled on folded arms, deep snores rumbling through his carcass.

Joss dropped the name badge on his desk with only the faintest twinge of regret at leaving Apthorps behind forever.

Then she let John pull her down the flight of stairs and through the doorway, out into the vibrant night air of their city.

Postscript: Later

In the stark daylight, Reese rapidly surveyed Ernest Thornhill's bleak apartment. White leather furniture, white walls, white curtains. White skies and a gray Hudson River snaking below. A ghost's haunt for sure.

Dents his shoes made in the white carpet erased the ridges left by a vacuum cleaner.

He made a second round through the apartment, slowly sifting for clues to the identity of the man who didn't exist. No magazines or books, a closet of gray suits.

Stepping quickly through the kitchen, an igloo of white granite blocks, he noted a red rubber glove discarded in the sink. The cleaning service was paid so much it could afford to be sloppy with an absentee owner.

When the call buzzed in his ear, panic sent chilly adrenaline coursing through his body: Joss was in trouble, too far away, no time to save her.

To damp down paralyzing visions of disaster, he used her last name.

"What can I do for you, Carter?"

He relaxed when he could hear the rumble of official male voices behind her and knew she was safe in the station house.

She told him about her dead-end inquiry into Ernest Thornhill. As she talked, other images slid through his mind: her brown body, sleek and efficient, churning around the track beside him, slicing through the water, writhing under him in ecstasy.

She allowed him, accepted him, wanted him, trusted him.

Her next words voiced this out loud, making his gut clench with wonder and gratitude.

"John, if you just trust me a bit more, maybe I could help."

She tugged then on that resilient red wire that threaded through their nights and days together: she trusted him.

Softly, "I know you could, Joss."

Saying her name soothed his mind. Joss. Consoled him. Joss. Salved his nerves. Joss.

But he had to protect her from the dangerous pursuit of the non-existent Thornhill. So he sent her off to chase another ghost.

"Right now, maybe Beecher needs your help more than we do."

He couldn't promise he would see her that evening. Or ever. So he signed off with only a falsely cheery "Good luck."

He would always try his best to be there.