Napoleon searched his desk drawer in vain for a bottle of aspirin. His head felt like it was going to explode. He finished typing the last of his project into the computer and hit "send". Calmly he rose from his chair and walked through the corridor to the Executive conference room. Illya and Mr. Waverly were seated at the round table as he entered the room. Kuryakin looked up from the papers scattered on the table in front of him and smiled broadly.
"Napoleon." His voice was uncharacteristically warm, and friendly. Alexander Waverly looked up from the monitor built into the conference table.
"Mr. Solo, delighted to have you back with us, please have a seat."
"Thank you, sir. I'm delighted to be back."
Napoleon pulled the gun from his holster and shot Waverly through the heart.
He sat up in the bed uncertain of where he was. With the silvery moonlight pouring into the room he was able to determine he was in a hospital room. Yes, it was coming back now. He was in the hospital getting treatments for his brain tumor. He was trembling and covered in cold sweat. He'd had a dream—a horrible dream, though he was having trouble remembering what the dream was about. He pressed the button to summon a nurse.
A few minutes later a young woman was at his bedside. Her hand warm and gentle on his forehead. He remembered her from earlier—Janine.
"You're okay," she said softly. Her voice was calm and assuring. "How about we get you up into the chair and we'll get you some dry bedding and a new gown?"
"My head hurts—I was trying to find an aspirin."
I think maybe you just had a bad dream," she said looking through his chart. "It's listed here as a potential side effect of your treatment. Nothing to worry about. Let's get you cleaned up and I'll get you something to help you sleep."
Ceala drew two steaming cups of coffee from the silver coffee server. After adding a bit of cream to one, she carried the gold banded china cups into the small study off of the living room. Handing Michael Cooney one of the cups, she seated herself next to him on the overstuffed leather couch. This had always been Ceala's favorite room in Dennis' townhouse. The furniture was well made and comfortable, the appointments tastefully understated. The walls were adorned with a series of paintings she done at David's cottage at Martha's Vineyard two years ago. Collins joined them a moment later, pouring himself a large Baccarat tumbler of bourbon before slumping down in exhaustion on one of the leather love seats flanking the tiny fireplace.
"The caterer has almost finished up. I'm having them take the last of the food over to the shelter at St. Francis."
"That's good of you, Dennis." Michael responded. And the memorials are still coming in."
"The shelter was important to David, to both of us."
Michael nodded his acknowledgement. The law firm of Harnett and Collins was the major benefactor of the shelter at St. Francis as well as the soup kitchen and food pantry. I was not uncommon to find David Harnett waiting tables at the soup kitchen on a Sunday afternoon, or helping to set up cots in the school gym for the overflow of "patrons" as he like to call them. Dennis' request that in lieu of flowers donations to the shelter at St. Francis would be preferred, had brought a deluge of checks that had already exceeded one hundred thousand dollars.
"Have you heard anything more from the police?" Ceala asked.
Collins shook his head. "There really aren't any leads. David had no enemies. The police wanted to look through some of our casefiles. I guess they were looking for a disgruntled client. But all of our work is corporate, we don't handle criminal cases. The strange thing is they only took his briefcase."
"Just his briefcase?"
"Nothing else, not his wallet or his Rolex, nothing."
"Was there anything of value in the briefcase?" Michael asked.
"Just some case files for the client he was going to see."
"Casefiles? What kind of casefiles?" Ceala asked before taking a sip of her coffee.
"Just some title transfer paperwork. One of our clients just bought out a big Medical conglomerate. Pretty pedestrian stuff. They were original documents though. We're going to have to reconstruct them from the client's copies."
"So senseless," she said staring into the coffee cup.
"David's parents are coming back for dinner at six, would you like to join us."
"Thanks, but I need to get back to the shelter."
"Ceala?"
"I'm sorry, but I have some errands to run. Napoleon's coming home tomorrow, I wanted to do a bit of grocery shopping so there's something for him to eat."
"How is he doing?"
"Pretty well under the circumstances. They're letting him come home tomorrow. He really hates being in the hospital. Apparently, he's been driving all of the nurses crazy," she said forcing a laugh.
"How is Illya taking this?" Michael asked.
"I have absolutely no idea. When I called Napoleon this afternoon, he said Illya hadn't called or come by. I never know what's going on with him. The man's like a jigsaw puzzle. Just when you think you have all of the pieces put together-you discover there's another box of pieces you didn't know existed."
Napoleon Solo opened his eyes. The bright lights above made his eyes hurt, and his mouth felt terribly dry.
"Water." He struggled several minutes before finally being able to groan out the word.
Soft hands touched his arm and a sweet floral scent surrounded him. Then a kind voice, "I'm sorry." Gradually his brain began sorting the sensory fragments and assembling the pieces, which came together to form the lovely blond-haired woman standing over him.
"I'm sorry." she was telling him. You can't have any water for another half-hour."
"Where..."
"Where are you?" You're in the recovery room. In another half hour I'll be taking you back to your room."
"Home?"
"Yes," the nurse smiled and stroked his forehead. "You're going home later this afternoon. Your friend is waiting in your room for you now."
"Illya?"
"Is that her name? She seemed very concerned about you."
"She?"
"Why don't you try to go back to sleep?" she whispered. "You need to get your strength back."
He closed his eyes.
Where was Illya?
Something cool and wet was pressed against his lips. He moved his leathery tongue to meet it. A trickle of cool liquid flowed through his mouth and to his dry throat. He swallowed gratefully.
"More...please?" he groaned.
"You have to sit up first." He recognized Ceala's voice and gradually opened his eyes.
"That's a good start." she laughed. He heard the melodic clink as she dropped the chunk of ice she'd been holding back into the glass.
"The nurse said I could give you a drink as soon as you sit up." Gently she eased him up into a sitting position, then brought the glass to his lips.
"Slowly now," she cautioned him as he began frantically gulping the water. There was a flash of disappointment in his eyes as he furtively scanned the small room.
"I'm sorry." She brushed her fingers through his rumpled hair. "Illya was tied up at work, so it's just you and me."
"Home?" His strained inflexion transformed the single word into an impassioned plea
"As soon as we get you dressed, we're out of here."
Two hours later they arrived at Napoleon's apartment. Though he still looked pale, and seemed quite tired, his mood brightened appreciably the moment he unlocked the door. The past few days had taken an enormous toll on the man. It was hard to believe only a few days ago he'd been so strong and healthy. She wondered if his sudden decline was the effect of the tumor or the side effects of the treatment.
"Would you like some lunch?" she asked after getting him settled on the couch.
"I can't vouch for any of the food in the kitchen." He laughed; it was a sweet genuine laugh.
"I came by last night and restocked your fridge," she said heading for the kitchen. "I took the liberty of pitching anything that looked like an alien life form, which was pretty much everything in there. Were you thinking of starting your own penicillin factory?"
"Sorry," he grinned sheepishly. "I'm not exactly known for my domesticity. Why don't you come over here and let me show you of bit of what I am known for?" He flashed the sweet boyish grin she found so dear, and for a moment the events of the past few days dropped away as she basked in the warm glow of that marvelous smile.
"Well, I'm glad to see your libido and your sense of humor are still functioning. How about some nice chicken soup?"
"Did you make it yourself?" he asked warily.
"No, it's canned. Why do you ask?"
"You're not exactly known for your cooking, my dear." A Cheshire cat grin spread across his handsome face, and the color returned.
"If that information comes from Illya Kuryakin let me just say a man who eats Pop Tarts is hardly in a position to critique my cooking."
"Will Illya be joining us for lunch?"
"I don't know, he didn't...I didn't actually speak with him. It was Lisa who called to see if I could pick you up from the hospital."
"He must be awfully busy with me gone. I'm sure he'll call or come by when he has a chance. With any luck he'll get all of my paperwork caught up before I come back." The broad grin returned to his lips, but Ceala sensed this smile was forced.
"Why don't you just relax and I'll make us some lunch."
"Don't be angry with him, Ceala."
Ceala looked up from her soup. "Excuse me?"
"This is how he deals with things. It's just who he is. I know he'd be here if he could."
"Yes, he's very busy with work," she answered angrily.
"We both know it's not work," he continued soberly. "He's wondering if I'm going to die. Frankly, I'm wondering the same thing."
"Oh Napoleon." She reached across the table and took his hand.
"The treatment at the clinic is experimental, there are no guarantees."
"But you can't give up."
"I'm not giving up-but I'm a realist. I want to be prepared for all of the possibilities. It's not as though I haven't faced the prospect of dying before. I can't even begin count the times I thought it was over for me. I just never thought it would be something like this. I don't like being dependent on people, I never have. The idea of being sick, of becoming debilitated, a burden, it frightens me. Chalk one up for male ego." He grinned apologetically.
"If I'm meant to beat this, Ceala, then I will. And if not, I've had a good life. I've had dear friends, and women I've loved. Perhaps a few too many women." He laughed softly and she was almost certain she saw him blush. "And my work has meant a lot to me. It's been more than just a job, it's an extension of who I am, what I think and feel. It's what I believe in.
"I know by your standards, maybe some of the things I've done in the course of my work were wrong. But even now, with the possibility of death facing me, I know I did what had to be done. I have no regrets there."
"I've never judged you, Napoleon. No person is truly worthy to judge another. My own hands are stained with blood."
"I have only one regret." He smiled then pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it sweetly.
"What's that?"
"I let my partner steal you away from me. How did that happen?"
"I've been trying to figure that one out myself."
The smile on his face disappeared and a more serious expression replaced it. "I would appreciate it if this conversation could stay just between us."
She looked puzzled by his request.
"I've spent thirteen years trying to convince the little Bolshevik I'm Superman. I don't want to disillusion him. He hasn't been the same since you told him there was no Santa Claus- I'm not sure he can handle another big disappointment."
"Oh, he already knew there was no Santa Claus. I think it was finding out there was no Grinch is what ruined his holidays. He should be here, Napoleon."
"A very wise woman recently told me no person is truly worthy to judge another." She opened her mouth to speak but he touched his fingers gently to her lips silencing her. "He'll come when he can."