Author's note - WARNING!! There are some ugly, sexually violent scenes in here.
Chapter Four
Alicia McLean stood gazing at her reflection in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of her hospital room door. She had dressed in black jeans and a plain white tee-shirt. She was in her hospital room, alone for the first time since she had been brought there. She had been constantly surrounded by friends and family. Everyone had come to check on her - everyone but the one she needed to see - Michael. Until she could see him, talk to him, she knew she would never get the horrible images out of her head and start to heal. Her dark-brown hair, still damp from her recent shower was carefully brushed and pulled into a neat ponytail at the nape of her neck.
A small, white bandage covered the stitches on her right temple and scrapes and fading yellowish bruises covered her face. She looked awful, but she knew that her face and body would heal, leaving only the scars on the inside. Absently, she fingered the gold chain and medallion round her neck, placed there by a paramedic. She had been clutching it in her hand when she was found beside the burnt car.
Walking to the door of her room, she opened it and glanced down the hall. Standing by the nurses station, just ten feet away, was Patrick, her husband. Alicia took a moment to look at him. His tall, lean frame was strong, but she could see the signs of stress and weariness in his posture. He turned around and met her gaze, smiling brightly at her. She could see so much in his blue eyes - pain, fear, gratitude and loss. As hard as these last few days had been on him, she knew he realized that they had been far worse for her, and for Michael. That was why he had agreed to her request to leave the hospital.
"Are you ready?" he asked, his voice deep and comforting.
Alicia walked from her room to him and leaned against his chest, drawing strength from the safety and love she felt in his arms. "No. I don't think I'll ever be *ready*. But I have to do it. I owe it to Nikita. Thank you for going with me."
Even to her ears, her voice sounded weak and afraid. She felt Patrick's arms tighten about her before releasing her altogether. Taking a step back, she accepted the hand he extended to her and then followed him out of the hospital along a prearranged route to avoid the awaiting press.
He had seen the same spectrum of reds, pinks and oranges that set the evening sky ablaze countless times. Yet, for Michael, there was no past, no future beyond this moment, beyond now, beyond Nikita. He could hear her steady approach behind him, felt the warm touch of her hand as it came to rest against his lower back when she reached his side. He felt one of her hands wrap around his waist and her other rest against his chest. Without thought, Michael placed his arm around her and pulled her to him so that the front of her body was firmly against his side. He felt her chest expand with her deep intake of breath, heard her sigh contentedly as she snuggled closer to him, letting her head rest against his shoulder. The ocean breeze carried whispered words to him. Three words created a sense of peace, of certainty and belonging unlike any he had ever known.
"I love you."
The words were simply spoken, as if they were an undeniable truth, a universal constant in a deep, softly accented voice.
He looked down at her and found her looking up at him. Her eyes were deep-blue eyes full of emotion and glistening with unshed tears. Michael felt warmth wash through his body. Nikita's loose, blonde hair drifted about her in the breeze. He reached to brush a tendril of hair from her face. Nikita's hand rose up to capture his and Michael savored the feel of her fingers laced through his own for a moment before releasing her hand to wrap his arms about her and pull her against his chest. Gently, he stroked her back. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the scent of gardenias that seemed to cling about Nikita. He felt her arms wrapping about his neck and pressing her body closer to his. Applying gentle pressure to the back of his head, Nikita drew him forward until their lips met in a gentle, soulful kiss. Pulling back, Michael gazed into Nikita's eyes, wanting to surrender himself to the unfathomable depths of love he saw there.
Slowly, her hands moved to cup his face between them. She stared at him with shocking intensity, as if trying to imprint the moment forever in her memory. He felt her fingers lovingly threading thru his hair, brushing loose, unruly strands behind his ears. Gently, Nikita caressed strands of his hair before she stepped back, out of his embrace.
"I love you, Michael."
He could see her mouth move, yet the words seemed oddly detached from her, from them. Michael stood motionless on the shore as his Nikita faded back into the light, hearing her words echoed in each wave breaking against the shore.
Walter stood in the doorway that led to the master bedroom, gazing at a sight that was at once endearing and heartrending. Michael lay curled in the center of the large bed, clutching a pillow to his chest. Walter had stood in that doorway, watching uninhibited expressions drift across Michael's normally ruthlessly-controlled face. He had seen relaxed peace of dreamless oblivion, the open expression of love and happiness Walter had never thought to see, and then he saw them vanish as Michael's face contorted with pain and fear. At times, Walter's eyes filled with tears which kept company with those that slipped from beneath Michael's eyelids as he struggled within his dreams. At other times, Michael would toss violently as if trying to escape some terror experienced only by him.
Now Walter watched as Michael's open, peaceful expression, a small smile curving his face, started to change to confusion and despair. Quietly, unable to watch the cycle play out again, Walter walked to the side of the bed and crouched down at its side.
"Michael," Walter called, trying to instill in his voice a balance he did not feel. "Wake up."
Walter watched as years of training kicked in and Michael's eyes snapped open. He could see the mercurial changes in his eyes as he processed information, saw the bewilderment at waking to Walter's face, the realization of why Walter was there, the deep pain caused by that realization and finally the emptiness. Walter watched the life fade from Michael's eyes.
"Come on, get up. You need to eat, and we have some things to go over. You need to make some choices about the arrangements. Linda Marshall brought by some photos for you as well. I thought we could look through them together."
Walter continued his monologue as he walked to a chest of drawers and pulled out a pair of black shorts and an olive green tee-shirt. "There are fresh towels in the bathroom. Take a shower. I'll go make lunch." Walter walked from the room and closed the door behind him leaving Michael sitting quietly on the bed.
Michael rolled onto his back, staring vacantly at the ceiling, still holding the pillow he had cradled in his sleep. It smelled of Nikita, a combination of musk and gardenias. He could feel the tears building in his eyes and the tearing emptiness that enveloped his chest. Images of her staring up into his eyes flashed in his mind. Her voice and the words in the dream echoed in his ears. He could still feel her hands gently caressing his hair. Rolling to his side and curling into a fetal position, he clutched the pillow tightly in his arms. Tears streamed from his eyes and he heard his whispered groan, "'Kita."
Taking a deep breath, he forced the pain back behind the walls of his mind. He couldn't think of her now, knew that the pain would consume him. Focusing instead on the immediate present, he climbed from the bed and strode into the bathroom, starting the shower. All his motions were rote - he didn't think, he just did. In less than 15 minutes, Michael had stripped, showered, dressed and shaved - his efficiency faltering only when he opened the medicine cabinet to retrieve the hair brush he kept there and found it full of Nikita's personal items. Her hairbrush, a few trace blonde hairs still woven through the bristles; her perfumes and body lotions. Moments passed as Michael stood silently staring at the evidence that she had been there. Then as if the items were meaningless, he retrieved his brush and a pair of scissors and shut the cabinet.
For a moment, Michael faced himself in the mirror, expressionless, feeling the weight of the shears. He closed his eyes.
Michael felt Nikita press against his back, felt her hands snake around his waist and her lips press against his shoulder in a gentle kiss. "Good morning."
Michael gazed at her through the reflection in their mirror amazed at how cheerfully she seemed in the morning. Slowly, she moved to stand beside him at the bathroom sink. She turned leaning against the counter and reached a hand up to brush a renegade strand of his hair behind his ear, taking his brush from his hand with her free one.
Michael stared at her questioningly and wondered at the sudden shyness in her expression. It took a solid exertion of his will for Michael not to break into a wide smile when Nikita returned her hand to his head, taming the unruly curls with her fingers.
"Will you promise me something?"
"What?" he asked, his voice just barely above a whisper.
"Don't ever cut your hair. I love it this way. Please?" she said, her fingers lingering in their caress.
Michael snapped his eyes open, dissolving the memory. He could still feel the phantom fingers that lovingly ran through his hair. Raising the scissors to the side of his head, Michael began to sever the unruly chestnut strands from his head, unable to bear the thought of someone else touching his hair. Silent tears fell from empty green eyes.
He exited the bathroom, his hair shorn, the amputated locks in the trash. The brush and scissors Michael left sitting on the counter.
Chapter Five
Alicia nervously fidgeted with the gold chain around her neck, waiting for the door to Nikita's home to open. She tried to take reassurance in the comforting contact of her husband's hand resting gently on her lower back. Turning her head to looked into his ice-blue eyes, she tried to give him a reassuring smile. Deep inside, she was terrified of what lay on the other side of the door. She didn't know how Michael would handle what she was going to tell him.
When the door opened, Alicia found herself face-to-face with an older gentleman with sad, weary blue-gray eyes. He had thinning, long, gray hair worn in a ponytail, a red bandana tied around his forehead. His tee-shirt and black jeans, both worn and faded, only added to his aged-rebel look. Stepping aside, the older man gestured for them to enter the home.
"Hello, you must be Walter. I'm Alicia.." She started to introduce herself, her voice shaking with nervousness she couldn't contain.
"I know. Please come in," Walter cut in, his voice weary. "Michael is taking a shower, but he should be out in a minute. I was about to make some lunch, nothing special, just sandwiches. You're welcome to join us."
"Thank you, Sir. It is kind of you to invite us," Patrick responded after glancing to Alicia for unspoken approval.
"No one calls me sir. It is just Walter. Why don't you take a seat," he said gesturing to the sofa while he headed for the kitchen.
Alicia tilted her head and gestured for Patrick to follow Walter. She needed some time alone to gather her thoughts and her resolve. Absently, she registered Patrick asking Walter if he could help with anything and heard Walter setting him to work cleaning lettuce and cutting tomatoes.
Walking into the living room, she moved toward the plush off-white sofa. Gingerly, her muscles still stiff and sore, she lowered herself into the down-like softness and scooted back till her back was flush with the supporting pillows. Pulling her legs into her chest, she leaned into the corner and sank into the sofa's comforting embrace. Facing the direction of the master bedroom, Alicia watched for Michael to exit. In her heart, she dreaded what she was about to do, tormented that she'd promised Nikita that she would tell Michael all of what they'd endured at the hands of their abductors. She didn't pretend to understand Nikita's reasoning, didn't understand how telling Michael of the pain, humiliation and torture Nikita had suffered would help him. But she trusted her friend's knowledge of the man Nikita loved more than her own life.
Searching for something to distract her from the troublesome thoughts that plagued her, Alicia's eyes scanned the room. Immediately she noticed the cylindrical, green, glass vase. Leaning forward, she traced her fingers along the rim. The vase had always been reserved for Nikita's irises and now it stood empty. Alicia's gaze swept the room, noticing for the first time how empty and lifeless the room felt. The blinds, usually fully open, where half drawn, shutting out the bright daylight. The air, itself, seemed empty. There was no 'life' in it; as if it had been sterilized and closed off from the outside world. Alicia remembered how the smell of the ocean often lingered in this room, mixing with the soft scent of the candles that Nikita loved to burn. The votive holders, when filled with lit candles, cast patterns of refracted light dancing around the room. They sat dark and empty now.
Shaking her head, she chided herself for being overly emotional and utterly melodramatic. Turning her attention again to the table, she found herself facing the image of a laughing, fully-alive Nikita, wrapped tightly in Michael's arms, head resting on his chest. Although Michael's lips were only barely curled upward, it would be impossible to mistake the light in his eyes for anything but peace and happiness. Reaching into the box of photos that sat on the coffee table, she withdrew the color 8x10 that had captured her attention. A small smile crept across her features as Alicia remembered the day it was taken, the Fourth of July. It was hard to believe that only been a month and a half since the picture was taken. Even harder to believe that she had only known Nikita and Michael for four short months. Smiling, Alicia let herself remember. Just before sunset, their 'gang' had gathered at Nikita's home for a cookout. She remembered Nikita fussing over food, making sure things were just how she wanted them, her constant nitpicking driving Michael up a wall in the process. Finally, Michael grabbed her and pulled her against his chest. Alicia could still visualize the parade of emotions that had crossed Nikita's face--suspicion, shock, embarrassment, and finally amusement-- ending when she had collapsed against Michael's chest, laughing hysterically. All because Michael had asked her if she needed his help to relax.
The gentle touch of Patrick's hand on her shoulder drew her back to the present. Looking up to him, she smiled and saw his shocked, stricken expression. Slowly, she turned to face in the direction he was staring. Michael stood not five feet from her, and she hardly recognized him. His beautiful green eyes, that once had sparkled, seemed as utterly blank and empty as his expression. The only evidence of the pain Alicia knew he felt was reflected in his uneven, brutally-chopped hair. She couldn't recall how often she had seen Nikita unconsciously touch or caress Michael's hair or gently brush it from his face.
Rising from the sofa, she carefully approached him, as if any quick movements would scare him away. With her left hand she still clutched the picture of Nikita. With her right, she tentatively reached up to touch an uneven patch of hair on the side of his head. With a swift violent jerk, and a quick step back, he moved out of range of her hand as if her very touch would burn him. Startled, Alicia dropped the picture and it floated soundlessly to the floor. Covering her face with her hands, Alicia cried, sinking against her husband when he pulled her into his embrace.
Standing in the kitchen doorway, Walter watched the scene play out, his own shock at Michael's appearance preventing him from saying the words that would have warned Alicia. He saw the look of shock and alarm cross Patrick's refined features, mirroring the fear and shocked dismay of Alicia's at Michael's violent rejection of her touch. For a split second, Michael's features took on a pained look before returning to the familiar cold mask.
Studying Michael closer, Walter noticed the small differences in Michael's demeanor from what he had witnessed in the past. When Simone had died the first time, Michael had shut himself down emotionally. When he had first arrived at the beach house to find Michael sitting on the deck with Linda, he had thought Michael had fallen into the same old pattern. Now Walter knew he was wrong. Walter's gaze followed Michael's line of vision and spotted the picture of Michael and Nikita. Examining Michael's eyes, Walter could see the truth buried beneath the shields he had erected, he could see the violent depth of Michael's grief.
Walking over to where the picture lay, Walter stooped to retrieved it. Standing, he faced Michael.
"Come on. Michael. Why don't you sit down?" Walter kept his voice even and waited for some response from the silent, devastated man standing in front of him.
"Michael." Walter repeated, his arm gesturing toward the loveseat.
Finally, in an evenly-controlled stride, Michael calmly walked toward the sofa and sat just off center, his body language demanding that everyone keep their distance. Relief flooded through Walter and he turned his attention toward Alicia and Patrick. He was expecting to apologize, but when he saw the looks of understanding and grief on both their faces, Walter knew it was unnecessary.
Alicia stood, her back leaning against her husband's chest, clutching the gold chain and medallion around her neck, watching the by-play between Walter and Michael. She could see how much Walter cared about Michael despite his stern tone.
When Walter gestured toward the sofa, Alicia assented gratefully, holding onto her husband's hand as she walked and settled herself, her body shifting so that she faced Michael. For a few minutes, Alicia watched him, noticing his struggle for control. Absently, her hand continued playing with the gold chain. Closing her eyes, she drew the image of her last moments with Nikita.
Alicia sat in a state of shock at the foot of a large tree in the middle of a forest clearing, clothes torn and body tattered. Nikita, her body broken from the repeated rapes and beatings she had suffered, lay cradled in her arms. Alicia could vaguely hear Nikita talking to her, trying to tell her something. She could make out the urgency in her tone and felt Nikita pressing something, the necklace, into her hand. Alicia strained to focus on what Nikita was saying and managed to make out the last part of her desperate plea. "Tell him . . . please. He'll. . . need to . . . need to know." Nikita's voice had been soft and weak. The words broken with her efforts to control her breathing.Alicia remember the feel of Nikita's warm blood as it flowing over her hands as she held the remnants of Nikita's shirt to the wound in a vain effort to stop the bleeding. "No, please, Nikita. It's going to be fine." She had cried the words desperately through a stream of tears, half hysterical with fear. The last thing she remembered was being grabbed away from Nikita and shoved against another tree, her head slamming into the trunk. Nikita's bloody and crumpled body was the last thing she saw as she lost consciousness.
Opening her eyes, Alicia removed the necklace. Holding it in one hand, she drew it to her lips. Reached behind herself, she clasp her husband's hand and said a silent prayer for guidance and strength.
Chapter Six
Patrick McLean felt the tightening of his wife's tiny hand around his, and squeezed hers in return, turning his hand so he could grasp it gently. The previous night, he had sat by her bedside, holding her hand, stroking her hair and murmuring soft words to her in an attempt to ease her through the troubling dreams that plagued her even in a drugged sleep. He had watched as she had tossed in her sleep, struggling physically to evade invisible hands that tormented her. So many times in those dark hours when Alicia had cried out for him or Nikita, Patrick had wanted to reach out, wake her and take her in his arms to soothe her, comfort her and himself. But each time, her words, sometimes mumbled unintelligibly, and others crystal clear and terrifying, had stopped him. At the doctor's urging, he listened as Alicia's subconscious worked through the terror as he sat by her side whispering reassurances. That night he learned just how much he had to thank Nikita for and prayed she knew just how much her sacrifices meant to him.
Now, Patrick sat watching Michael and his wife alternately. He couldn't help but wonder if Alicia was prepared to handle not only her own pain, but Michael's as well. He knew his wife was a caring, empathic person who seemed to absorb the pain of others. Looking at Michael, he couldn't help but feel his pain.
Two nights ago, when the police had informed them that Alicia had been found and Nikita was, most likely dead, Patrick had been too relieved to take much notice of Michael. He had learned from Anne and Rob how frighteningly Michael's reaction had been. Anne had said he had been calm and unemotional. His only reaction was to pull out his cellular phone and make a call. His only personal recollection of Michael from that night was the feeling that something about the situation was wrong. Patrick knew from the few occasions spent in Nikita's company and from from his wife's nightmarish recollections of the kidnapping, that Nikita was better prepared to deal with the dangerous and terrifying situation. She should have been the one to survive, not Alicia. He realized that Michael believed that as well. Patrick couldn't shake the feeling that he should be the grieving widower, trying to make sense of chaos.
When he heard the sound of his wife's slightly trembling voice, Patrick slid himself closer to her on the sofa, pulling one of his hands from her clasped hand and gently rubbing the small of her back.
"Michael, I made Nikita a promise before she died. I don't understand why," Alicia's voice faltered when Michael looked up at her and their eyes locked.
Even Patrick could see that Michael's green eyes were shining with restrained tears, and he recognized the pain and confusion Michael refused to allow to show on his face. Turning his attention back to his wife he could see the tension in her grip as she struggled for her composure.
In an amazingly calm and even tone, Alicia continued, "I don't understand why she wanted you to know all of it, but I trust her reasoning." She paused momentarily, taking a deep breath. "After we were taken, those *men* drove for a few hours, mostly on back roads."
Patrick could hear the anger and disdain that oozed from Alicia pronunciation of 'men'.
"They seemed to know exactly where they were going. I am not sure how long it was, but when they stopped, they pulled us from the car, keeping a gun on each of us, and started to shove us toward another car. I panicked. I started crying and I couldn't move. I watched as one of them aimed his gun at my head, and I *still* couldn't move. I just . . . stood there." As she spoke, Patrick could hear the mix of pain, anger, frustration and sorrow in her voice and the accentuation of her words.
"Then Nikita was there standing in front of me. She kept whispering to me and held out her hand to me. I don't remember what she said. I just remember taking her hand."
Patrick heard the small bit of wonder and relief that echoed in Alicia's words, her hand reaching out to a phantom only she could see. She shuddered a bit then, as if drawn back to the present.
"I don't remember much after we reached their camp, only Nikita's voice talking to me and her arms around me."
Alicia paused, taking a deep breath to fortify herself for the words that would follow.
"At the camp, there were two more men. They shoved Nikita and I toward some trees and ordered us to sit there. One of them, I don't remember which, took the car we came in and left. The other three," she paused again, focusing on keeping her breathing deep and even. "The other three decided to have some . . . fun. The two newcomers encouraging the original . . . captor. He walked over to me, started to feel up my legs, under my skirt, until Nikita stopped him." Even now Alicia could feel the callused hand linger long her inner thigh. Looking down at the medallion and chain resting in her hand, the memories swept into her consciousness.
The rough hand stopped just short of its target. It wasn't until she heard Nikita's voice that she realized that Nikita had moved to crouch by her side, her hand grasping their captor's, preventing his further advancement."Don't," Nikita's voice was low and feral. .
"What . . .you offering yourself in her place?" he asked. His snide remark was met by the cheers and course laughter of his comrades.
"Don't touch her!" Nikita replied in sharply clipped syllables.
In one quick motion, much to Alicia's relief, Nikita removed the offending appendage from her body by twisting his arm, causing the captor to howl in pain. Her relief was short lived. Almost immediately, she registered the sound of safeties being removed from guns. Glancing up at the remaining two captors, she saw one gun aimed at her, and one at Nikita.
Alicia turned her head toward Nikita and concentrated on keeping her breathing even, trying to quell the rising panic. She heard one of the men tell Nikita to let the captor go, saw Nikita's slow and careful movement as she did as she was told.
"Well now . . . which's it to be? You or her, Blondie?" The captor angry voice slurred the words together as his eyes roamed freely over Nikita.
Fear shot through Alicia as the loathsome hand resumed its journey up her leg.
"Don't! Do what ever you want to me, just don't hurt her." Nikita pleaded.
Tears streamed down Alicia's face as the captor slithered across her body, reaching for Nikita. She wasn't sure if they were tears of gratefulness at being spared the degradation that man had wanted to impose on her, or tears of shame that she had not been able to make the same sacrifice for Nikita.
Alicia watched as he grabbed Nikita, sliding one had between her legs, the other reaching for a knife in his back pocket. Unable to turn away, she watched as he shoved Nikita's skirt up and then cut her underwear away from her body before shoving her from her crouched position onto her back. Forcing her legs open, he positioned himself between them and unzipped his jeans. With one brutal lunge, he slammed into Nikita. Terrified, Alicia backed herself up against the tree, drawing her legs up to her chest, and gently rocked back and forth.
Dazed, Alicia watched as first the captor and then his comrades took their turns beating and raping Nikita. Through it all, Nikita never uttered a sound, and Alicia watched, horrified as the three men continually escalated their attacks on her, trying to force a reaction. Finally, one turned toward Alicia, and she watched as Nikita lunged for him. In one terrifying moment, she saw one man take aim at Nikita and saw her body jerk in midair as the bullet tore through her shoulder, bright red blood spraying over her.
Rushing to her side, Alicia gathered Nikita in her arms and pulled her toward the tree. From behind, one of the men grabbed her, tearing open her blouse, and trying to fondle her. Desperately, she struggled to free herself from his grasp, trying to reach to Nikita. Reaching back toward her assailant's face, she jammed her thumbnails toward his eyes. He shoved her to the ground violently before he kicking her in the stomach. "Stupid bitch!" he spat at her and stormed off to join his comrades.
Slowly, Alicia crawled toward Nikita, once again pulling her toward the tree. Leaning her back against the trunk, she pulled Nikita into her arms, and held the now dirty and bloody shirt over the bullet wound. Time ceased to have meaning for her as she gently rocked Nikita in her arms, all the while murmuring the words to "On Eagle's Wings", the only hymn she could remember. Sometime in the following hours, dusk turned to night and Alicia became vaguely aware of Nikita's voice. Forcing herself to concentrate, she was able to hear part of Nikita's plea for her to tell Michael what had happened to them. In a moment of sickening clarity, Alicia realized that Nikita didn't expect to survive. She felt Nikita gently tugging at one of her arms, struggling to place something in her hand.
"No, please, Nikita. It's going to be fine." Alicia cried softly, desperate and terrified.
Alicia once again felt herself being grabbed from behind just before she was thrown against another tree. The sudden impact sent her head snapping back and impacting forcefully with the trunk. As she slipped into unconsciousness, she could vaguely make out the movement of Nikita's lips, "Tell him about St. Michael."
The first thing Alicia was aware of as she returned to the present was the dampness of her shoulder. Little by little the memory receded, replaced by awareness of the present. She could feel Patrick's hand clasping hers, the slight pressure of his head resting against her shoulder, and his silent tears soaking into her shirt. Glancing up, her eyes first met with Walter's shocked and pain filled blue-eyes. She could see his chest heaving in an effort to control his breathing. She watched as he silently excused himself, retreating to the kitchen.
She turned her gaze back to Michael and realized he sat stoically on the loveseat, his expression unchanged. Slowly, Alicia pulled away from her husband and knelt beside Michael, giving him time to adjust to her proximity before she moved closer or spoke. Behind her, she heard Walter reenter the room and hoped his presence would lend Michael some comfort. Tentatively, Alicia reached out and took one of Michael's hands. She waited for him to pull away, grateful when he didn't. Taking the necklace that she had clasped, she gently placed it in Michael's hand and then closed his fist around it.
"Nikita bought this the day before we were taken. The medallion is the Archangel Michael. He's the patron saint of law enforcement and the leader of God's Army of Light. It reminded Nikita of you. I am not sure how, and I could never get her to tell me why. All she would tell me was that it did. She was wearing it when we were taken. I am not sure how she hid it, only that she wanted you to have it."
Leaning over, Alicia kissed his hand before rising to feet. Turning toward her husband, her eye once again caught sight of the 8X10 taken on the Fourth of July. Reaching down, she lifted the picture and turned back to face Michael.
"Michael, Nikita once told me that the only thing that really scared her was dying and leaving you behind. I badgered her for a week before she told me why. She was scared that you'd shut yourself down, or worse, get careless with your life. Although she wouldn't give me specifics, she said that you had reacted that way in the past. She was so scared that if anything happened to her, you wouldn't let anyone help you get through the pain. She loved you . . . so . . . much. Don't let them steal that love, Michael."
Alicia let the tears fall from her eyes unbidden, gently lying the picture on the table in front of him. Turning back to her husband, she smiled and accepted his outstretched hand. Quietly she followed him from the room toward the front foyer. Turning back, she found Walter standing behind them. Impulsively, she walked to him and embraced him. "I don't think we will be staying for lunch. I think you both need time alone," she whispered to him and felt his answering nod of his head against hers .
"Thank you," Walter said, pulling back from the embrace. Then staring her straight in the eye, his voice calm and sure, he continued, "You gave her death purpose. I think he'll see that, too. When he's ready." By the time he finished, his voice had grown thick with restrained tears.
All Alicia could do was nod her head affirmatively before placing a kiss on his cheek. Turning away, she and Patrick left Nikita's home for their own.