Some hours later, past midnight…

d2: + 21 months

d3: − 1 year, 3 months

Part IX: Prove me right, prove me wrong

A car drove by in the distance and Nick held his breath for a moment. Seeing it pass the turn-off, the backlights soon disappearing in the darkness he relaxed though. He leaned against the doorframe and lit another cigarette. It was his third already.

He took a deep drag, and closing his eyes, he held the smoke in his lungs for a moment, knowing the nicotine was actually increasing all his vital functions but welcoming the false impression that it made him calmer. Nothing better than self-deception.

He heard footsteps behind him and when he felt someone standing next to him held out the cigarette.

"I'm sorry I'm dragging you into this," he muttered, keeping his eyes closed a little longer.

"Cut it out," Phil grumbled annoyed, resting against the doorframe as well now, and Nick could hear him blowing smoke circles into the night sky. "I thought went over that on the phone."

Right. They had. Not with words but with that tacit understanding they had shared ever since childhood. Ever since…

"Want a souvenir?"

He looked up and saw Phil holding something in his hand, studying the tiny object as if he was mesmerized by its efficiency.

"You got it out?"

"Yeah," Phil sighed, tossing him the bullet. "She got lucky. No damage that can't be fixed except for the scar. She'll have to live with that."

One more or less, I'm sure she won't mind.Nick smirked.

"Hey, I'm a doctor but I can't do miracles around here," Phil got defensive, misinterpreting the expression in his friend's face. "I was lucky I could see enough to know what I was doing."

"I know, I know," Nick hurried to assure. "I didn't mean it that way."

Phil frowned but remained silent although he had to have a hundred questions. But he won't ask.

Nick pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Sometimes he couldn't but wonder if they would be as close and relying if things had been differently back then. He had wanted to bring it up a couple of times but never known how to phrase it. And in the end he had always convinced himself that some things better remained where they belonged - in the past.

"Look, the cops are going to check with every doctor and every hospital in the area. I can't ask you to –" he tried but, again, Phil cut him off.

"You don't have to. Besides, I'm not doing myself a favor if I tell anyone, am I? I mean, I heard about the shootout, I can do the math. I don't think anyone would believe me if I said I didn't get suspicious about this." He held out the cigarette. "I don't know who she is and I don't know what she did, and I sure as hell have no idea how you got in the middle of all this. But if you think it's better for me not to know – then that's fine by me."

"It is better," Nick affirmed, taking the cigarette from his friend's hand. "For both of us to be honest cause I wouldn't know how to explain it anyway."

"Works for me."

They fell silent for a moment, sharing what was left of the cigarette before Phil stubbed it out.

"Anyway, I gave her something for the pain. Should keep her asleep a little longer. But once she wakes up…well, I'll leave you some of the good stuff." He grinned and Nick couldn't but laugh.

"You got some of that for me too?"

"Sure, what do you need," Phil joked back. "Got a bag full with free samples in the trunk."

"And there's the explanation to your choice of profession."

"Right."

Again neither of them spoke for a while, both marveling at the strange sensation of being back and the memories it revived.

"Are you happy?" Phil suddenly broke the silence.

"What?" Nick almost laughed.

"I mean, are you alright. Is your life…is it good?"

"Hm." To be honest he had been trying to avoid that question for a while now. "It is good," he shrugged. "It could be better. But I'm getting by." He hesitated. "Why do you ask?"

"Eileen wondered."

I'm sure she's not the only one.

"Last night when you left after dinner. You know how she is."

He did and he didn't. He had only met Phil's wife at a few occasions. But each time he saw her together with Phil, he knew he didn't have to ask his friend whether he was doing alright or not. It was obvious.

"Does she know?" He had never asked. "Did you tell her about…"

"No," Phil replied, determined and an idea brusque. "No," he repeated then, his voice softer. "Thought about it a couple of times. But I put it past me so why burdening her."

Nick didn't say anything but immediately felt Phil's eyes on him, looking for a reaction.

"I know what you're thinking. You think I didn't tell her because I'm afraid. Of what she might do, of what she might think of me. But that's not it."

Nick looked up and was surprised to find a smile on his friend's face.

"I know she loves me. Every stupid, stubborn part of me. And…I don't know if she would understand. But I know she wouldn't stop loving me."

"And that's enough?" Nick couldn't stop himself from asking.

"That's enough," Phil nodded. "I think she knows there's something I'm not telling her. But she never asked, so, I figured it's not important to her. She'd love me anyway, regardless of what I did in the past. As long as I am the person I am today."

Nick didn't know what to say and stared down at his feet. He envied the way Phil had simply let things go. He envied his ease. I always have. I wish I could go on like that.

He heard Phil clearing his throat and looked up.

"Are you sure you don't want to –".

"It's too risky, Phil. We're fine here for now. And we won't stay long."

Phil nodded. "Give me a call if you need anything else."

"I will," Nick assured, knowing he wouldn't. Phil had already done enough to get himself into deep trouble, he wouldn't bother him again.

"Well, Eileen knows I'm with you so she won't be worried, but I should get going. Just in case anyone is knocking our door tonight, I guess it's better if I'm home."

"Yeah."

"Let me just get you those painkillers before I leave."

¤¤¤

Suddenly she was awake. And before her mind could recall any details, something warned her not to move. So she lay still.

Someone was there, very close. She could hear the breathing and the rustle of clothes. And the same moment her memory came back, she felt a hand at her throat. Jerking her eyes open, she grabbed it firmly.

"I was just going to check your pulse," Nick stated calmly, looking down at her, "but as I can see you're doing just fine."

She lifted her head up and quickly glanced around the room. But there was no one else there. And turning back to Nick she hesitantly let go of his wrist.

She was lying on the old couch now, Nick sitting next to her on the edge.

She hadn't shot him.

She had passed out.

And unless it hadn't been more than a few minutes, he hadn't called anyone.

She looked around again and noticed it was dark outside. It must have been hours. They would have been here a long time ago. She felt relieved but also instantly alarmed again. It was unlikely she should have been out that long if she had simply fainted. And shifting slightly to get into a more comfortable position, she realized the pain in her leg was almost gone.

She stared at him, waiting for an explanation, but he didn't offer one, just kept looking back at her with this calm expression on his face. Too calm. He clearly wasn't going to spare her to ask.

"What did you give me?"

Her voice sounded husky, another indicator that she had been out quite some time, and she swallowed to clear her throat.

"I didn't give you anything. But the guy who pulled the bullet out of your leg did. I'm guessing some sort of morphine."

Her eyes wandered down to her leg and she noticed the bandage around it. Clean, proper, and hardly coming from the first aid box in her car. So he had called someone. And since they were alone again now, he had probably let him go.

"Don't worry," Nick sneered, obviously anticipating her line of thought. "You don't have to go after him. He's not going to tell anyone."

He was mocking her but also seemed to be sincere. Insecure for a second, she frowned.

"What did you do?"

It earned her another, even wider smirk.

"Nothing you would have done."

He got up and took a few steps across the room, her eyes following him. Of course you haven't. You're not me.

She shrugged the thought off, trying to focus. There was something else she needed to know. Something even more important.

Why hadn't he turned her in? Why wasn't she in restrains already? It seemed he had been honest back at the hotel, he had never tried to set her up. But what did he want now? What was he waiting for? He had been close to getting shot twice and been held at gunpoint several times. Every halfway sane person would have taken off the first chance they got. She knew she would have. So why was he still around? What did he want?

She turned her head to have a closer look at him standing by the window, looking out, and she discovered her gun, lying next to him on the ledge. Maybe she had found her answer.

As if he had felt her glare in his back, he turned around. And shoving his hands in his pockets, tilting his head a little, he simply stared back at her.

Why? she wondered, but refused to formulate the question while it was obvious that he was waiting for just that. Knowing, of course, that it would be a tiny victory.

Was that it? Had he lured her here to be alone with her, taken care of her wound to make sure she wasn't too weak for another round of questioning? Was it still all about him breaking her? Could he be that obsessed about it?

She frowned, still sustaining his gaze just like he resisted hers.

All she knew was that - despite his claim that he just wanted to warn her - he had asked an awful lot of questions. And now he had helped her escape and was hiding her. And he wasn't stupid enough not to be aware of the consequences. By not calling the cops he was making himself liable to prosecution. Harboring a fugitive was a punishable offense. So why should he risk that much? Just to finish that interrogation? It seemed unlikely, but maybe she had underestimated his ego. Maybe she had made yet another mistake.

"It's interesting," he suddenly broke the silence and revealed a sneer. "You seem much more talkative when you're the one in control." He reached out and picked up the gun, weighing it in his hands in an almost playful manner. And she couldn't but tense a little bit. "See, for me it seems to be the opposite. I found that out today. I get a lot chattier when someone is aiming one of these at me." He looked up and met her eyes again. "You wouldn't know, of course, cause every time we meet I do most of the talking. But let's just say that's more the exception than the rule." Turning his attention to the gun again, he took a few steps across the room. "For example, I didn't feel like sticking around and be part of that little reunification with your friends at the hotel," he continued in a conversational tone. "But once I realized that - Jared? - that he was going to kill me, I quickly changed my mind. I suddenly really felt like talking. Now, I guess that's more the rule than the exception."

He looked up again and she quickly displayed a bored expression. But knowing he wasn't just rambling on because he liked the sound of his own voice, she couldn't but be curious where he was going with this.

"So, coming from there, I can see some things a little clearer. At Division, you wouldn't talk to me because you didn't want to and there was nothing I could do to force you. And later on, when they tried to force you, I'm guessing, you estimated that you still had more to gain from keeping quiet. Until the day that bomb was supposed to go off. You saw a chance, you took it."

He's still just warming up. It was obvious. He had more to come with than walking her through her own past decisions.

"So, I think it's safe to establish that you really don't reveal anything unless you want to. Unless you think there's something in it for you. I mean, pain obviously isn't a convincing argument either." He stopped, folding his hands across his chest and looking at her. "But I heard threatening your life showed some success."

Once again she had to wonder where he had gotten his information from. Someone at Division? Someone he had used to work with? Chappelle would fly into a tantrum if he knew someone's leaking out classified information, she thought amused in the back of her mind.

"Isn't that right? When it's all or nothing, you at least reveal a minimum of information. Not more than what you think is really necessary but at least something. Enough to stay alive." Once more he played with the gun in his hands, lightly stroking over the barrel. "So maybe I should try that," he stated casually, slowly riveting his eyes on her and then raising his arm and targeting her. "Would that get me your cooperation?"

Cooperation? She frowned and took a deep breath but didn't show any sign of worry. She wasn't even sure if she should feel any.

"What do you want?" she asked, imparting a somewhat annoyed intonation to her voice. And he held her gaze for a moment, before he sighed in played frustration and let his arm drop down again.

"See, that's the problem," he complained sarcastically. "You're just not taking me serious. You don't think I'm capable of killing you. Probably not even of hurting you."

Did she? A couple of hours ago she wouldn't have. But now she suddenly wasn't too sure anymore. She still couldn't see an explanation for any of his recent actions, including this slightly remarkable performance.

No, he's not, a voice inside her head argued. He's not capable of hurting anyone on purpose. And he surely wasn't a killer. But it was his job to send people off to being tortured. He sent you off to getting tortured. Did you forget that?

She hadn't. But it was something completely different to sign some documents and watch than to inflict pain on someone with your own hands. Plus, he hadn't exactly liked that side of the job. It was the reason why he had quit. And looking in his eyes now, she was almost sure. He's not gonna hurt you.

"Alright," he sighed, darting a last glance at the gun in his hand. "We both know I'm not. So I'm not gonna pretend I am."

And without a warning he suddenly tossed the gun to her.

¤¤¤

It threw her. He could tell. And although she managed to catch the gun, she just stared at it as if she suddenly didn't know what to do with it.

"Exciting twist," he stated with an ambiguous smile on his face, wondering though if he had lost his mind to go this far.

But he felt encouraged by her reaction. Looking startled and confused she failed to maintain her composure, and although she still remained silent he was sure that it – for once – was for a lack of words rather than intentionally.

"Now we're gonna find out, aren't we?"

Find out what? he could read in her face.

"Something, everything," he explained, and let a second pass before he continued to maximize the effect of his words. "Whether there's still some part in you that's human."

And again she couldn't hide her reaction well enough, staring at him in sheer disbelief.

"And whether it's stronger than the rest of you," he kept going, knowing this was his last chance. It was either now or probably never. "We both know I can't kill you, and why should I? We also know that you, on the other hand, are perfectly capable of killing me - If you think you have to. But I don't think you'll do it. Not after everything that's happened."

She sneered, finally showing that well-familiar smile again.

"Really? Is that why you got me a doctor? Should I be so grateful now that –".

"No," he cut her off, smiling back at her. "I got you a doctor because you needed one. That's all," he clarified. "I know this sounds weird to you, and in your world it's probably…completely absurd. But in my world, it just makes perfect sense."

She gave him a patronizing look, but he could tell she wasn't that unmoved. She was faltering. Her rock-solid facade was disintegrating.

"What I meant was something else. When I met you at Division, I wasn't sure whether you really didn't have any emotions or were just perfect at hiding them. Now I know. At some point, maybe that night, maybe a long time before that, you realized that emotions are a weakness, no matter how good you are at disguising them. So you simply stopped having any. Or at least you tried. But it's not working anymore, is it?"

For a second he could see her struggle before she managed to maintain an unreadable expression on her face, trying not to give herself away. But it was enough for him.

"I saw your face when we found that woman in the hotel," he continued. "You were disgusted. And I kept asking myself: why? Why would the death of a complete stranger bother you? Someone you probably would have killed yourself if she hadn't been dead already. And it wasn't before we were in the car that it hit me: that was just it. You knew that if you wanted to get out of this mess without letting anyone know that you were involved, that you were even in the country, breaking your pardon, et cetera – it wouldn't be enough to just erase your name from the guest list. You would have had to kill anyone who could have identified you. You would have been…forced," he emphasized the word, "…to kill her. And that, for some reason, appalled you."

He was right. He knew it, saw it in her face. In the smile that wasn't there anymore, in the complete absence of mockery. He was right. Got you! And he couldn't deny it felt just a little bit good to see her like that. But there was no time to indulge in the feeling.

"And then in the car – boy, that must have been the first time ever you actually got an idea defensive although you had the situation under control. I mean, you had the gun," he mocked her. "Was it the injury? Did the pain make you weak, did I catch you off guard?"

She still didn't object, and with every second that she remained silent he felt more secure. It wasn't just his imagination. At least a part of his conclusions were accurate.

"And last but not least – the very fact that I'm still alive. Why is that?"

"Why don't you tell me?" she retorted.

"I'm not sure. I said and did enough today to really piss you off. Now, I know you're not acting on emotions, so, you wouldn't kill me just for that, would you? But even from a rational point of view – you'd have to kill me. If you let me walk and I do as much as mention your name in connection to today's…incident…you're screwed. They start digging, they'll find something. And I'm guessing you're not just worried about jeopardizing your pardon. Cause if you were, you simply could have avoided all the trouble by staying away. But since you're here, I'm assuming becoming a fugitive again is the least of your problems. I thought it's just Jack but obviously there are more people after you. So, to sum up: it doesn't make sense that I'm still alive. Not when I apply your way of reasoning."

She shook her head, producing a thin but nonetheless condescending smile again.

"Are you asking me to kill you again? I thought we'd been over your alleged suicidal tendencies."

"Now, having said all that," he ignored her remark, "let me get back to my original hypothesis. I don't think you're going to kill me."

"And you're so sure of that because…?"

"Because it would mean that I'm wrong, that there's nothing human left in you. And I don't think I am."

She raised her brows in surprise.

"And you're willing to bet your life on that?" she sneered but he simply smiled back at her. He was sure.

She frowned, not saying anything else, but he noticed the change in her expression. The way her eyes suddenly stared more intensely, scrutinizing him, studying him, as if there was something specific she was looking for. She seemed concentrated and thoughtful and he did his best to hold her gaze, all the while starting to feel just a little bit uncomfortable.

"What?" he finally asked, realizing she was about to stare him down. And she took her time before she spoke.

"I'm guessing it was something in your childhood. Not too early though. You were already old enough to understand the consequences of what happened. And you struggled with them."

Holding his breath, he tried to control his features but felt them petrifying nonetheless. He hadn't seen it coming.

"You didn't get traumatized," she stated, tilting her head to give him a patronizing look, "but it changed you. Resulted in that interest in criminal psychology and your overly strong developed sense of justice. What is it you were trying to fathom? What are you trying to explain and make up for so hard?"

"Is this the good old story about how every psychologist has a screw lose himself?" he asked, still trying not to let her see what effect her words had on him although he knew he failed.

He had been prepared for her to try and turn the tables on him, to show him that she, after all, was good at this too. But he realized now he hadn't thought it all the way through. No, I simply underestimated her.

"You probably were a good and ambitious student before. I'd say you were a very serious kid, didn't have too many friends your own age, probably got along with adults much better. But you started working even harder now that you had a goal," she continued, taking her turn in ignoring his comment. "Your parents must have been really proud, especially since you are their only child."

He tried to sneer, telling himself at least that part hadn't been too hard to guess.

"Did my ego give me away?"

"I'm sure your mum tried the best she could to countervail it. Your dad was probably working a lot, but she stayed at home to raise you. The idyll of a middleclass family. You weren't rich but you had everything you needed and a little more."

It was true. Of course it's true. What had he been expecting? She knew her business just as well as he did.

"I guess I just don't look like I've ever experienced poverty."

"And although your grades must have earned you a scholarship and paved the way for college your parents probably supported you financially anyway."

He cast his eyes down. They had. In a way.

"And I'm guessing they still do. I mean, last time we met I didn't get the impression that you had a regular job. And although you complained about the lousy payment at Division, I don't think that really ever bothered you that much either. Are they proud to have a son who's working for the government?"

"I wouldn't know," he retorted before he could stop himself from saying it out loud. "They died before I got the job."

She tilted her head to the other side, looking at him as if she had just unveiled another piece of a puzzle.

"Then it wasn't them you were afraid to disappoint."

It wasn't? He didn't know anymore. And again he cast his eyes down for a second, angry at himself for letting things get so out of hand. For letting her get back in control. Just when he had had her where he wanted. But it wasn't too late yet. He made a point to heave a sigh and looked up again, holding her gaze with ease.

"Are we done yet?"

"Not quite," she replied.

"Well, then feel free to go ahead without me. Cause I'm leaving now," he stated, and saw her clutching the gun a little tighter. Maybe a reflex, maybe an attempt to intimidate him. He didn't care. "Unless you tell me I was wrong."

"Tell you?" she asked amused, raising her arm with the gun, and leveling it with his head.

"I forgot. You rather don't talk too much." He sneered a last time. "Prove me wrong then. Prove to me that you can kill me just like that. And don't forget to tell yourself that you had to do it. Because you couldn't trust me when I said you can. You couldn't let your life depend on something that is as vague as another human being. Better to be on the safe side – even if it means the prize for staying alive is dying inside. There's really nothing left of you anyway. Right?"

And with that he simply turned around, making his way to the door.

He knew there wouldn't be a shot, but when he had crossed the threshold without hearing a sound, he took a deep breath. Smiling to himself he kept walking until he felt it was safe.

¤¤¤

She had played it cool during his little closing statement, displayed a slight smirk and held his gaze without blinking. But now she frowned, staring after him as he walked to the door with his back turned on her as if there was nothing to it. As if there was nothing she could do to stop him. He seemed really sure of himself. A bit too sure, she thought, lifting her chin up a little more while her arm almost automatically followed his moves to keep the gun trained on him. And letting her eyes focus on the weapon in her hand, she suddenly understood. There really was nothing she could do.

She watched him taking the last few steps and marveled at the feeling inside her. She should be angry, at least a little bit. At him for playing her like this and most of all at herself for not understanding it right away. But there was nothing. She couldn't even feel worried about having made yet another mistake. Maybe it had been so many already, one more or less didn't really matter. And if human error defines humanity, you don't have to worry about whether you're part of it.

He was gone and she let the gun sink into her lap, looking at it for a moment and smirking to herself before she ejected the clip. It was empty.

She slammed it back in. He had wanted to test her but even he wasn't insane enough to put his life on the line just to prove that he was right.

Was he? He probably believed so now since she hadn't pulled the trigger. The clicking sound that never came. But only because she had known, because she had figured it out. No point in trying to fire a gun that wasn't loaded.

Really? Was that all? Then how come she had hesitated long enough to figure it out? Why hadn't she shot him - or tried to at least – the moment he had moved towards the door? The moment he had tossed her the gun actually. Or before she had passed out.

Maybe because she had taken those few seconds to think it through, to go over it again before doing something so irreversible. She was hiding after all – firing around wasn't the best way of laying low. And she was injured. She might still need his help. There had been a hundred reasons for her to hesitate, good reasons, important reasons. She had to stop second-guessing herself. It was pointless anyway. What was more important now was to solve the problem.

She reached for the second clip she was usually carrying on her but found it gone. Nick had probably discovered it when they had taken her coat off. Or maybe he had been smart enough to search her. Either way – the gun was useless to her for the moment.

"Looking for those?"

She jerked her head up and found him standing by the door again, holding out his hand, showing her the bullets in his palm. Great. Now she even allowed him to sneak up on her like that.

"I guess you'll need them sooner or later since you're not that popular at the moment."

She didn't say anything, but his mockery started to seriously annoy her. Not acting on emotions? She would have considered making an exception for him right about now. There weren't too many people provoking that reaction in her. Actually only one.

"You'll understand if I don't bring them over to you," he continued, holding his position in the doorway. "But if you really need them so badly - why don't you get them yourself?" And with that he simply tilted his hand, slowly letting the projectiles drop to the floor.

She watched them scatter around his feet, and when her eyes met his again, she really had to struggle to keep a straight face.

"Good luck, then," he stated, and turned to leave again, but stopped a last time, reaching into his pocket. "Oh, I forgot: painkillers for the leg." He held the small jar out and waited for her to react, and when she didn't dropped them as well. "Suit yourself."

This time she waited. Staring at the bullets, she strained her ears, listening to his footsteps outside and then to the silence that finally convinced her that he was really gone. By foot. He had left the car. The perfect gentleman.

It was an automatic, she could drive with one leg. It's quite a bit to walk, you can still catch up with him. But remembering where it had gotten her the last time she had acted on her anger, she pushed the thought out of her mind. If she hadn't tried to kill Jack, she would have walked away with her original deal and none of this mess would ever have happened. No Africa, no getting back in, no hiding and sneaking around. Yeah, if you would still be alive.

She took a deep breath and sat up, carefully letting her leg slide off the couch. Another deep breath when her foot touched the ground, a smothered groan when she put some weight on it. Painkillers suddenly seemed like not such a bad idea.

She got up, holding her breath at the instant reward, pain ripping through her body. It's okay. It means you're still alive. It meant she was lucky she hadn't been hit worse. And that he got you a doctor.

Slowly, limping, she moved away from the couch and towards the bullets, almost getting there but then collapsing to the floor when she was just a few feet away. It's not okay.

She stayed still for a moment, calming her breath, lying on her side. Her gaze brushed over the painkillers Nick had left, but she forced herself to tear her eyes off of them. She had no idea what exactly they would do to her and she couldn't afford to get knocked out again or slowed down by some drug running through her system.

She moved a little bit, once again ejecting the magazine, and then collected the bullets one by one and put them back where they belonged. Once she was done, she cocked the gun, satisfied at the reassuring sound.

You had the situation under control, she suddenly heard Nick's mocking voice in her mind. You had the gun. And still glancing at the piece of metal in her hand, she swallowed, trying to get rid off the bitter aftertaste.

Here she was, holding on to the damn thing as if it was her only friend. And in a sad way that was maybe true. The gun meant power, meant control. And in the end it always came down to that. It seemed to be all her life was about. Had it ever been different? Yes, it was. But it seemed such a long time ago, she barely recalled what it felt like.

She sighed and rolled over onto her back, and staring at the ceiling she remembered something she hadn't thought of in all those years. Indifference to human life. Words she had repeated in her mind to detach herself from what had been going on around her. From Nick, the interrogation, from him reminding her of what she had done. A person commits the crime of murder if he, with intent, causes the death of another person, or under circumstances manifests extreme indifference to human life.

She had done both. She was indifferent to human life. Killing was no pleasure but if her life was depending on it… Well, not completely indifferent then, she thought. Not when it's my life.

I saw your face, she heard Nick again, still rambling on inside her head. She couldn't stop him. You were disgusted.

So what? Maybe she had been. Did that make him right? Was there some humanity left in her? Hadn't she stopped detecting any trace of it a long time ago?