Chapter Twenty-Two

The man jumped off the bridge at eleven o'clock the next evening. There had been witnesses that said he had been walking along the beach, muttering things to himself, before making it up there. No one had been able to reach him in time to stop him, and by the time they dragged his body from the water, he was long dead. It was easy to identify him for the Agency had all his records. His closest friend identified the body, near hysterical when they pulled back the sheet to reveal a still familiar face. He'd sat outside the morgue for nearly an hour afterwards, head bowed and eyes red.

It hadn't been hard for Weiss to pretend to grieve. All he'd had to do was think about what would happen if this didn't happen, and the mess they had gotten themselves into. Even the tears weren't hard. He was exhausted and they were mostly due to that. He wanted his life to go back to the way it was and he wondered what it would be after this-if he survived. He'd barely eaten and barely slept, running on pure adrenaline. Breakdown was just around the corner.

When he finally got up, his legs were stiff and he had to hold on to the wall to steady himself. It was a nice touch, he thought. The people he passed that knew looked at him with pity, and he hoped they went home to tell their friends and family about the CIA officer who had committed suicide that day. He knew they would whisper about why he did it. Was it because of the secrets he'd had to keep? Or maybe it was because of things he'd seen? In any case, it would only solidify the story, and then Vaughn would truly be safe.

Weiss only hoped that the name he chose in his next life would be Eric. It would be a nice touch, too. As he went to his car, he wondered what he would do with Donovan.

* * *

Geneviéve was enjoying a quiet dinner with her friend Jeanne when she received a call. Still laughing at something Jeanne had said, she wasn't prepared for the solemn voice on the other end of the line.

"Eric?" she said. "What's wrong?"

"I have some bad news," Weiss said quietly, hating his job, his sense of duty, and his friend. "It's Michael."

The phone dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers and Geneviéve would have collapsed on the floor had it not been for Jeanne's quick reflexes.

"Qu'est-ce que se passe?" she asked. What happened?

"Mon petit Michel," Geneviéve sobbed. "Mon pauvre petit Michel. Il est mort." My poor little Michael. He's dead.

Jeanne put her arms around Geneviéve and let her cry, her body racking with sobs. Her hands clutched at Jeanne's shoulders to the point of pain, but Jeanne didn't move. She let her friend cry, wanting to cry a little herself at what was happening. She knew how much Geneviéve loved her only son. This would kill her, she knew, but she would do all she can to hold Geneviéve together until the time came.

* * *

Michael Vaughn's funeral drew a crowd. His colleagues from the CIA and friends with whom he'd lost touch surrounded his grave. His mother was there, her limp hand tucked into Eric Weiss' elbow. They stood together, the two closest people to Michael, their faces white as the priest blessed his corpse. Their faces were white, their tears long shed. They held to each other, sharing strength as they received condolences from Michael's other friends and colleagues.

Everyone else was crying, including Michael's ex- fiancée, Alice. She wished she'd told him how special their time together was and how she missed him lying next to her, but it was too late now. She could only wonder why he'd chosen to end his life. He had only been thirty-five.too young for this. As they lowered his coffin, she thought she would collapse. She looked across the way to his mother and Eric. They had their eyes on the shiny brown coffin as it was being lowered slowly, painfully so. Alice had to look away.

On the edges of the crowd, a non-descript woman watched the proceedings. Her expression held the proper amount of sadness, but the eyes she hid behind her dark glasses were studying each face in the crowd. She had a report to give as soon as the funeral was over and she didn't want to miss a thing. For reasons she didn't know, her employer had given her the task of attending this particular funeral and to assess the situation. She deduced that he had reason to suspect that this was staged, but she'd procured the medical examiner's report and had matched up dental records to what was given to her. Even the face, grotesque as it had been, had been identifiable enough to match the photograph she had. Now, looking at the grief-stricken crowd, she knew that she wouldn't be wrong in saying that Michael Vaughn was truly dead.

* * *

Vaughn sat on a crate in the dank warehouse. It wasn't the one where he used to meet Sydney, but it was almost identical to it. A single lightbulb lit the small room he was in as he waited for Jack, restless because he wanted to get going. Every second he stayed away from Sydney, the more worried he became. Something wasn't right about all this. He didn't know what, but he could sense it. The only explanation he could come up with was that she was in trouble. He prayed to God that she wasn't, but his instincts, though certainly not as well honed as hers or her parent's, were hardly ever wrong.

It was then did he notice the corner of a brown envelope sticking out from underneath the crate across from him.

And he knew what was wrong.

Almost tripping in his haste, he grabbed the envelope and tore it open. In it was a Canadian passport, several thousand dollars in cash, a credit card, three plane tickets.and a letter. He dropped the rest of the envelope's contents on the floor as he unfolded the letter. His hands shook as he read it, the paper rustling because of it.

Dear Vaughn,

By now, I'm sure that you're worrying yourself sick because you have a feeling something's off. I'm sorry that this had to happen, but it has to for you to stay alive. I made a mistake in doing what I did and I don't want you to pay for it. I love you, more than you'll ever know, and so I had to make this sacrifice. I have to let you go. I already let it go too far and you have to live another life, but this is the best that I can give you. Sloane is after me, not you, and I don't want you to die for my weakness. I wish it didn't have to be this way. I wish I had a picture of you, but all I have are the memories of lying in your arms and your smile and the look in your eyes when you tell me you love me. I love you. I'll always love you. I'm sorry.

Sydney

Vaughn swallowed hard. He read the letter again and again, trying to force the reality of the situation into his frozen mind. Finally, with an anger he hadn't expected, he crumpled it up and shoved it in his pocket. She'd abandoned him and he hated her for it. His mouth set in a hard line, he picked up the passport, money, and plane tickets. He had to leave and he could never come back here again. He'd uprooted his life for her and she'd left him. She'd left him like he was simply a thing she'd played with and now let go. Anger filled him. Later, he would be sad.

Feeling lost and alone, he walked out of the warehouse, his hand still curled around her letter.