Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

*****

Epilogue II
Los Angeles
Three days later

"I didn't do it." Heavily accented English, wreathed by the perpetual cloud of smoke that follows her everywhere.

"Of course not." With a sigh, I consider what this means, besides the fact that my job is on the line.

Trish raises an eyebrow as she exhales. "Of course, there is another possibility…"

"It's not an option," I say quickly, words sharpened by my anxiety.

She chuckles and shakes her head. "But you insist on the truth, yes?"

"What version?" I'm a black and white kind of guy, but my aunt colors her universe with myriad shades of gray.

Trish stamps out her cigarette and lights another one. "That depends," she answers after a long beat.

We could draw this out for an entire afternoon. "On what?"

"You know the answer to that, Michel." With a toss of her hair, she offers a smile to a passing child on his way to the playground.

Trish was my last hope for salvation. I mean, she's never listened to me before and why should she start now? "Sharon couldn't possibly…" I blurt out foolishly, words dying in my throat when I see the gleam in her eyes.

"Are you sure? Because Elise is telling a different story." Her arms are crossed and I see she means business.

My grandmother, the Manhattan miracle. Cringe-worthy headlines plastered on every New York daily. "Saved by an angel," is passed from street corner to taxi stand, from the lowliest urchin to the highest levels of New York society. "She was hallucinating," I mutter, dropping my eyes to the dusty tips of my shoes.

Trish raises her chin proudly, green eyes glittering dangerously. "Your grandmother is many things, but a liar? You know better than that."

I hang my head in shame. "Sorry, it's just…"

To my surprise, she pats my arm in commiseration. "You're still grieving."

That brings my head up, and I start to protest. "But…"

"I saw her," she says quietly, dropping her bombshell with perfect precision. "She was there. Watching the two of you."

Me and Syd. Together, but not really. "Why didn't I see her?"

I expect her usual Gallic shrug, but she stops and stares at me through her bangs. "You've seen her before?"

The question catches me off guard and I start to stammer, "M-maybe. I'm not sure."

"But not on that night?" When I shake my head, she adds, "Perhaps you sensed her presence?"

It all comes flooding back, drowning my head with a vivid series of stills. Shadowy figures fighting. Sydney catching sight of me. Ana knocking her to the ground. And me hovering in the background, shaking with fear, even hesitating, never calling out to Syd like I always do. Red lips, accessorized with a matching bullet hole.

"Yes."

*****

Los Angeles
December 31st

The phone rings and I hear her voice on the answering machine. "I'm worried about you. Please call me back."

From my perch on the couch, I can see the red light blinking. Reminding me that my return to the real world is imminent, that I have to eventually face the music.

There's the small matter of my delinquent report, lying fallow on my hard drive, which is really the least of my problems.

And there's Alice, suddenly gone from my life. Not even a polite phone call to ask how I'm doing.

Last but not least is the woman who keeps calling me. Lovely Syd, eyes brimming with emotion from the open wound of her life.

Something drives me to pick up the phone. "Can you get away?"

"Sure."

I supply an address. "See you in an hour."

******

Rosedale Cemetery

"Issey Miyake," I whisper as she comes up behind me, throat closing with emotion at that comforting scent.

Syd touches my shoulder and moves to a respectful distance. "It's beautiful here."

I nod my head in agreement and open my fingers when she clasps my hand. "Yes."

"They're asking a lot of questions," she says quietly.

At any other time, that would have pissed me off, but I'm too tired to care what they think of me. "Sorry."

"You want to talk about it?" Syd squeezes my hand and draws me down a nearby path that winds between graves.

We walk for awhile as I gather my thoughts. "You've read the ballistics report."

I stop to face her and she nods solemnly. "The Sig killed her."

"And you heard my testimony?" That is a bit of ugliness that will forever tarnish my record.

"Dad gave me the Reader's Digest condensed version."

Sure he did. "None of it adds up."

"So what really happened?" She fingers her throat and I see the fading bruise from the blow that nearly took her life.

I open my mouth and the words won't come. They stick to my craw, refusing to come out of their usual closet. After a few deep breaths, I manage to say, "It was Sharon."

Syd shudders and her hand falls away from mine. "That could be a problem."

Tell me about it. "Yeah."

She gathers her coat around her and slides her hands inside the sleeves. "So what will you tell them?"

That's the 64,000 dollar question. With a shrug, I walk toward a monument and hope that Mrs. Danforth doesn't mind me leaning on it. "Not sure."

"I could help…I mean, if you want," Syd says breathlessly, eyes scanning my face before she looks away. "Words are kind of…my thing."

"Thanks." It's hard to remember that behind the double agent lies the distance promise of a real life.

"So Trish came to see you." And Weiss has a really big mouth, which is the only way she could have known. "How did that go?"

"It was interesting." My aunt never traveled without purpose, especially to LA.

"What did she say?" Syd's hand creeps back into mine.

I knew it wasn't a social call, 'cuz it never is that way with her. The words burn my tongue as I say, "She told me to let it go."

"Oh." Syd's eyes blink with tears as she remembers the story of Sharon. Then she adds, "It wasn't your fault, Vaughn."

I want to say that I know this and even accept it, but part of me will always doubt it. Trish had essentially told me the same thing, but her words still tore at me, reminding me that my guilt would kill me one day (like she was any judge of healthy habits). "Maybe not."

She hears a discordant note in my voice and asks, "There's more, isn't there?"

My laugh is short and bitter. "It seems that Markarov…was on the board of several charitable foundations. Umm…since my grandmother has found a new lease on life, she decided to give a large amount of money to each of his charities."

"That's really…" Syd stops when she notices my frown.

"They were fronts for K-Directorate."

Her breath rushes out of her and she looks a little green around the gills. "Does Kendall know?"

"Not yet." It's what's been keeping me up at night.

She dares to ask, "How much money?"

I feel the battery acid that passes for morning coffee swishing around in my gullet. "Twenty million dollars."

Syd tucks her hair behind her ear and looks at the ground. "Wow. That's…"

"We're in deep shit."

She nods, still not meeting my eyes. "You missed the memorial service."

For Agent McKillip and her unfortunate partner. "I wasn't up to it."

"I understand, but Martha might not."

Instant censure, I'm sure. Maybe I'd get lucky and she'd refuse to talk to me. "What about those other dbs?"

"Markarov's security guards." She rattled off a half dozen names in flawless Russian and I shook my head at the waste.

"And what does his government say?" I ask tightly.

She shakes her head. "It's a diplomatic nightmare."

Trish had dismissed that topic with a flick of her hand, uttering some nonsense about hating politics and not wanting to get caught in the middle. But we both knew she had friends in high places, so she probably guessed what the fallout would be. "What about my misadventure?"

Her dazzling smile startles me out of my personal gloom and I smile back when she says, "They plan on docking your pay."

It won't put me in the poor house, but I'll definitely feel the pain. "Ouch."

"So, have you heard from Alice?" Expectant and hushed as she waits for my response.

"Not recently."

"I see," she answers, hiding a smile as she turns away. I sigh, remembering the time I met her at the car wash and she made the same gesture after finding out about my fight with Alice.

"Do you? Because I don't…"

She stops my flow of words with her hand. "Vaughn, I…do you remember what I said to you in that café?"

"Yeah." Something so small and distant, yet it looms so large on my horizon, along with her scorching touch on my mouth.

Her finger traces the curve of my lips and I can barely breathe. "I don't want to forget."

I close my eyes, head falling against her shoulder, arms finding her back, nestled by her strength and courage. "Neither do I."

Syd steps away, moving swiftly through the trees, drawing my eyes to the crown of the hill. Where Sharon stands, watching me. Dressed like she was on that very last day, golden hair wrapped in a brightly colored head scarf, fair isle sweater twisted around her neck, faded blue jeans hugging her in all the right places.

With her hand raised in farewell, she turns with a smile and fades into the wintry afternoon.

You'll be all right now.

A whisper in my head. Her voice, or maybe it's mine, finally seeing the light.

The End