Despite Mac's order not to do so, he had dozed off after she kissed him goodbye. It was the sound of the mousetrap that startled him awake before he could sleep through his appointment with Lenny. He considered letting the creature succumb by itself. But this one was turning out to be a fighter, and even he couldn't listen any longer to its struggles. So he groaned, rolled out of bed, and padded in his boxers to the top of the steps.

He hadn't been down to the basement in weeks, not since the morning of the Embassy party. Mac had no reason to visit the cold, unwelcoming space. And he only did so when mouse duty called; and admittedly, he had been neglecting that responsibility lately.

He flicked on the light switch, but the bulb burned only for an instant, its filament choosing that moment to wear out. So he grabbed a flashlight instead and headed down the wooden steps.

Like water streaming forth from an open faucet, he could hear the rainwater pouring through the weep holes in the old, cinder block foundation. The runoff then ran down the slightly sloped, cement floor on its way to the drain and eventual return to the Thames River. Consequently, during particularly wet periods, and that meant most of the time in London, the basement had a damp, pungent, musty smell. And while that smell was present now, it did little to camouflage the malodorous stench permeating the place.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to identify the source. He was obviously paying the piper for not having disposed of a few dead mice. The odors swirled around him, each smell chasing the other, creating a vortex that not only accompanied him, but pulled him down the steps.

The farther he descended, the faster his thoughts spiraled until, like a centrifuge, his present circumstances separated from his past. And it was the latter onto which his mind again grasped. And like before, he dreamt the dreams he could never recall, and he re-lived the events which couldn't be real.

----------------

He re-lived dropping the first storage container into the Atlantic … the confrontation in the Staszow airport hangar with the bullying mechanic … his new friend … the sweet smell of Bazooka gum … Gregor is strong, cheap labor … the nauseous feeling when he realized the tomato soup had been tainted with a debilitating drug … the orders to take him to the hospital.

He re-lived waking up in that 'hospital' to find it a sparsely furnished cave with a low ceiling … his face just inches from the wall closing in on him.

He re-lived the sounds of scuffling feet, an incessant hum, and a steady ripple … the smell of blood … the mounted video camera, with its blinking red light … his elongated body, with its slowly rising and lowering chest … the saliva running down his chin … his inability to form words or simply curl his fingers … the shocking realization he was paralyzed.

He re-lived the lithe fingers unbuttoning his short, sliding the garment off his shoulders, and exposing his torso to the cold air … the stethoscope's icy bell … the woman's uncaring demeanor … his sleeve bunched at his bicep … the needle sliding deep into his vein … the removal of four vials of blood from his arm.

He re-lived his head being straightened on the pillow and the disgust on the woman's face when his drool transferred to her hand … his silent pleas going unheard as his watch, ring, and neck chain were callously removed; and every article of clothing being stripped from his body … the cruel hypocrisy of his belongings being handled with more attention than his disconnected, naked, shivering body left splayed on the thick mattress.

He re-lived the extension of his neck … the three attempts to insert the feeding tube through his nose … the sick feeling of watching it descend down his throat … the milky substance entering his system without his permission … his terrified whimper as the diaper was pulled up between his legs … the tabs snugly affixed around his waist … his humiliation when Gregor later attended to the soiled 'nappie'.

He re-lived the placement of 32 electrodes … the parting of his hair until his scalp was exposed … each area cleaned … the skin pulled tight and roughed up with a stylus so the conductive paste would have something to grip … the metal ovals held tight against his head until the paste set up … and the emotionless, play-by-play recordings of the progress being made.

He re-lived Gregor meticulously wiping the unending froth from his chin … the placement of electrodes deep in each ear … thinking about Mac, and his friends and family … Gregor shaving his face and his insistence that an analgesic be used … the woman bending in close … her tainted breath kicking in his gag reflex … the insertion of wires into his burning cheeks via syringe.

He re-lived the burst from the aerosol can directed up his nose … the ammonia capsule forestalling his fainting … Gregor bending his head back … his first view of the EEG machine … the violation of his nostril … the blood spurting from his nose and running down his throat … the subsequent insertion of the final electrode until it rested against his brain … the two-way switch on the EEG!

He re-lived his nose being packed with cotton … the wad of gauze stuffed into his mouth to stifle his raw screams … the realization there was no one was present who could or would prevent the unsolicited modification of Harmon Rabb Junior.

He re-lived being alone in the dark … his joints aching from the cold … the fingernails of his right hand scratching the bed sheet as his head faced the cave wall … hour after hour after hour … being turned occasionally … but always the cave wall mere inches from his face … a fresh bag of food … more ammonia … a fresh diaper.

He re-lived finding out it was only 'Day 4' when it felt like 40 … 'Phase 1' mapping completed … Phase 2 about to start … "Why are you doing this?" … his legs being spread, creating a workspace on the bed … "Why me?"

He re-lived his toes being pried apart … the alcohol swab … the prick … Rohypnol! … the wires being attached to his eye lid and finger … and the HMD being tightened around his head.

He re-lived every image that cycled through … his father … the deaths of Jem, Diane, Mace, and Jordan … his relationships with most of them plus Annie and Renee … Mac … Mac and Bumby … Mac and Webb … Paraguay … and Never.

He re-lived … images … pain … images … ammonia … images … feeding … diaper change … images … PAIN … another toe … images … ammonia … being turned.

He re-lived "Remove his nappie" … Gregor's big hands fumbling to remove the recently changed diaper … the cold air on his exposed privates … "Bring me those two buckets" … so tired … so cold … so alone … "Pour it over him" … the slurry of ice water shocking his system and soaking the mattress beneath him.

He re-lived COLD! … so cold! … Too cold to concentrate … Too cold to fight … Temperature is 94. Down another half a degree. More breaks are developing!

He re-lived hearing it drip to the floor and trickling toward the unseen drain.

He re-lived the wire being removed from his finger … the hand … Oh God! … the pressure … the heat … the smell … the wetness.

He re-lived Mac's photo (NEVER!) … Webb and Mac together (LIKE EVERY OTHER WOMAN YOU'VE KNOWN, SHE'S RUN FOR HER LIFE.) … his CIA Badge (GO WRESTLE ALLIGATORS) … the images eroding his walls.

He re-lived the cell phone ringing ... "Damn it, not now." … It rang again … "What is it! … Now? … For the love of-- … Fine! I'll be there" … "Sissy mad?" … "We have to go." … "But Gregor not done working at hospital." … "Leave him!" … He felt the wire reattached … "Where are we going?" … "You're going to your room." … "For how long?" … "As long as it takes! And for Gods sake, change your lab coat. You look like a meat butcher gone amuck."

He re-lived the awareness that no one was coming to service him … no one offering 'relief' when it became physically impossible to keep his eyes open … no one coming to offer a respite from the pain.

--------------

After a brief intermission, the dream resumed … When it did, he didn't know Gregor and Cynthia had unexpectedly departed the scene 70 hours ago. Or that 48 hours ago the impersonal machine had developed the algorithm and schematic needed to breach his mental firewall. Or that once it had, it humanely cut off the electrical shock and allowed him to sleep torment-free for two days.

When he woke after those two days, he found himself curled up on the cave's dirt floor, alone.

He had been alone for awhile. The stench coming from his diaper and the painful growl emanating from his stomach supported the theory. The movement of his arms and legs added credence. And the dead battery in the video camera made it hard to refute.

Some sort of macabre justice had intervened when he evidently toppled himself off the bed, the motion pulling free the electrodes in his ears, nose, and cheeks. Now pushing his weak body up to a sitting position, his trembling hands fell upon the discarded HMD and then the puddle of water that had kept him alive. Those same hands proceeded to tear away the remaining cranial electrodes still attached to his head; then went to work on the wire taped to his eyelid and wound round his finger. The burns on the latter stung but hadn't blistered.

All that remained was the tube snaking from his nose. It still tethered him to the empty bag of 'Nutri-Aid' hanging from the pole. Without thinking, he threw his head back, grasped the tube at the point of his nose, and pulled straight up. The tube was no sooner out than he vomited up what little phlegm remained in his stomach.

Still shaken by the self-administered removal of the tube, he nonetheless pulled himself to his feet. Leaning heavily on the bed, he pulled the diaper free in an equally swift movement. Tossing it in a corner, he reached for a towel conveniently stocked near the bed and allowed himself only mere moments to clean himself before seeking escape.

If he had been thinking clearly, he might have thought to permanently disable the EEG and laptop that sat nearby. But thinking clearly was a lot to ask at this point. So instead, locating an exit became his main goal; finding his clothes in the process would be an added bonus.

Pushing off the bed, he was faced with the immediate decision of which way to turn. During his time on the bed, he'd never seen them come or go. He'd never seen a door, a crawlspace, or a hatch. Setting his sights on an area of the cave not visible from his previously frozen vantage point, he stumbled unsteadily in that direction. Too dark, he couldn't make out anything specific. Still his eyes remained fixed on the area, drawn by something he couldn't put his finger on. And then it came to him – the smell of blood. ((("And for Gods sake, change your lab coat. You look like a meat butcher gone amuck.")))

He slowly walked forward, his arms outstretched. And then his bare, left foot tripped on the rubber hose. Pitched forward several feet, his cold, right foot came forward and splashed down in the puddle of sticky liquid. The solid table stopped him from doing a face plant on the floor. It also drove home the realization he wasn't alone after all.

In a single glance, the smell of blood, the rippling sounds, and the occasional hum he'd heard was explained. For on the table lay a corpse of Middle Eastern descent; a corpse with an obscene hose connecting its neck to a pump; a corpse with pounds of salt in its chest cavity. ((("But Gregor not done working at hospital." … "Leave him.")))

Harm quickly backpedaled in disgust. He no sooner found a small tunnel to retreat through than he ran smack into the metal, six-foot square, storage container. A container no different than the one he dropped into the Atlantic. A container already seated on a hydraulic lift that would no doubt lift it overhead into Staszow's Hangar 13 once it was filled to capacity.

"Oh God!"

His suppositions were reinforced when he unzipped one of two heavy, black body bags lying in the container. The stench of the decaying flesh sent him backpedaling in yet another direction. His stomach flip-flopped, his vision swam, and the blood drained from his own head as he made yet another turn in the dark labyrinth of horror. His legs gave out when he fell into the arms of retired Admiral Harrison Spencer.

------------

He re-lived his encounter with Spencer … "Get out, Harrison! Get out now!" … "My God. Is he who they've been looking for the past three days?" … "No. What they were looking for is beyond your comprehension. Now if you hope to ever continue your own research, you'll walk out of here and forget everything you saw!" … "But he's Commander Harmon Rabb of the U.S. Navy." … "Not anymore. You're living proof the Company is filled with misfits and unwanted transplants."

He re-lived Admiral Spencer turning a blind eye to his plight … the paralytic rendering him useless again … the reinsertion of the feeding tube and the electrodes in his ears, cheeks, and nose without benefit of analgesic … plus one each on his temple and forehead.

He re-lived An explanation for Subject 52's weight loss, Spencer's appearance, and things beyond my control will be dealt with during the memory wipe.

He re-lived "Only two wires left on his head. Two wires means 52 goes away soon. Two wires means 52 no longer remembers Gregor!" … "I wish it was 'soon'. Unfortunately, it'll take 15 more days. But you're right; this is the final leg of his journey, so say goodbye if you must."

He re-lived more of the cold slurry over his torso … his legs spread apart … the leather case unrolled between them … her hand holding his right foot … the alcohol swab … his tender instep registering the pain … his fingers tingling … his left foot swabbed … "I won't forget!" … the needle driven deep … "I'LL REMEMBER!" … his head yanked back … his eyes only able to focus on the two-way toggle switch of the EEG console … "No you won't."

He re-lived seeing the switch flicked from "Receive" to "Transmit" just as his bowels released … the dizziness … visual distortions … restlessness … confusion … panic.

He re-lived a thousand dentists centering their drills on his head at the same time; tearing his mind apart and putting it back together until it was no longer his own.

-------------------

If waking up in Staszow had been rounds one thru eleven, waking up in Leeds was Round 12.

He re-lived it all again … his abduction … the second container drop into the Atlantic … the beating from the CIA's second in command … waking to find the wires protruding from his swollen face … seeing the EEG machine with its two-way switch.

He re-lived the lithe fingers undoing his tie … his shirt sliding off his shoulders … his battered chest exposed to the cold air … the thermostat turned lower … the ever present threat of the battery and wires … the icy water poured over his torso … the subsequent drenching of his arms and legs … the frosty draft coming through the vent … the ice between his thighs.

He re-lived Mac's red dress … Webb's hungry lips … her demure smile … his splayed legs … the removal of his shoe.

He re-lived asking "Is Robert your strong, cheap labor now?" … her anger, worry, and fear … "WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF STRONG, CHEAP LABOR?" … his despair when he couldn't answer because he honestly didn't know … the ampoule of Rohypnol … the syringe … his toes spread … the hot needle prick … "What do you remember!" … the cigarette and spearmint mixture … her clenched fist as it came down hard on his chest … the ring on her little finger opening a cut near his clavicle.

He re-lived the ice … wet clothes … air-conditioning … the relentless questioning … assaults from an endless supply of ammonia capsules … more blows to his body … "What do you remember!" … more ammonia … more ice … more water … more smoke … "What do you remember!"

He re-lived her reaction when he answered "the cave" … his mental scream when she launched himself at him … frantically reaching between his legs … another syringe … his praying when she selected the ampoule of PCP ... his relief when he found out it wasn't intended for him.

He re-lived waking to the banging of the door … the naked, crazed woman standing beside him … "Cynthia, what the hell is going on?" … "It's your fault. And it's his fault. And you're both going to pay." … the shooting of Robert Kroger between the eyes … the slamming door when she left him alone.

He re-lived the dim, 40-watt lit interior … Kroger's wide open eyes … the picture of Mac and Webb … his trousers and boxers down around his knees … his struggles to break free of the ropes.

He re-lived hearing the high-pitched tone from the EEG indicating his 'Corridor' had been located.

He re-lived the dramatic contrast of his declining condition with that of a refreshed Cynthia McPherson towing a very alive Gregor behind her.

He re-lived asking "Why did you kill Robert?" … "He got me into this mess. Never listening when I told him there were too many. Never listening when I told him I needed more time." … "Too many what?" … "Subjects."

He re-lived "You have one last chance to tell me -- How do you remember?" … and his response "How? Not 'what'?" … and the realization the woman had gone off the deep end.

He re-lived "No answer? Fine, let's prepare you for return to your wife." … the nails coercing his wedding band from his clenched fist … the ring hidden away … the blazed trail of lipstick.

He re-lived searching desperately for any mental protection that might conquer the onslaught yet to come … "I promise I'll remember everything." … her juvenile retribution when she looked pointedly at him and said "I need to check on Peter," then turned and left the room.

He re-lived "Gregor, who is Peter?" … "Peter is Gregor's nephew. I watch over him for Sissy. He's sleeping." …"Oh God! Gregor, help me. Undo the ropes." … and the bullet ending the simple man's death.

He re-lived the injections of the mind altering, hallucinatory drugs … and his continuing mantra of "I promise I'll remember."

He re-lived the army of jackhammers breaking apart his mind and the sledgehammers that followed, trying to fit square pegs into round holes.

-----------------

When Harm didn't arrive for his appointment at Lakenheath and Mac couldn't raise him by phone, all concerned parties descended on the Rabb residence. Arriving at the same time, their quick search of the flat left them with one final possibility. Mac's feet pounded down the basement steps. Lenny McCoy followed behind along with his wife. The overpowering smell momentarily halted their descent, but not for long once they spotted the flashlight below them. Its fading light served as an immediate beacon for the prone body in the dimly lit corner.

"Harm!" Mac rushed to his side. He laid face down, his torso trapping his arms beneath him. The cold rainwater from the weep holes flowed around his shivering form, soaking his boxers, the only garment he wore.

"Wait, Mac. Let me support his head. We don't know whether or not he fell," Lenny warned.

Taking the necessary precautions, they carefully rolled Harm onto his back. Connie and Mac reacted together, both seeing for the first time the putrid mouse clenched in his hands and held to his bloody nose. "Oh, God."

"Harm … can you hear me buddy?" Lenny asked, extricating the rank remains from his friend's death grip. "Harm …"

The odors swirled around him, each smell chasing the other. Until, like a centrifuge, his past circumstances separated from his present. But this time when he woke, the dreams remained for the retelling.

"Mac…?"

"No, that would be her," Lenny answered, making room for Mac.

"Harm, are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm just cold," he answered. His chattering teeth backed up the statement but did little to convince everyone he was fine.

Helping him to a seated position, Mac asked, "Can you make it upstairs?"

He nodded a determined yes, but it took the help of Lenny and Mac to get him on his feet. With an arm draped over each of their shoulders, they started guiding him out of the rancid room. But he held back, not yet ready to leave.

"Harm, what's the matter?" Lenny asked, worried his friend had told a half-truth about his wellbeing and was now paying the consequences.

"More than you know," he answered quietly, his voice cracking.

"Harm, are you hurt?" Mac asked.

"No."

"Then what is it?" she asked, anxious to get him to fresher air.

Harm looked at the foul mouse that now lay at his feet. "Call Webb … Tell him I remember … everything."

Mac, Lenny, and Connie shared the same nervous expression. Then Mac looked into Harm's haunted eyes. What she saw told her 'everything' was unimaginable.

---------------

The way he kept bringing his fingers to his nose unnerved them; and the devastation on his face frightened them. Still they held off their questions while Lenny examined him for any serious injuries from his fall off the second-to-last basement step. Finding nothing worse than the bloodied nose, they waited warily when he insisted on a hot shower. The modicum of relief they felt when he finished it in a timely manner was immediately tempered when he exited looking spent and lost in his Navy sweats.

When he decided to eat a hot bowl of soup and a thick sandwich, they remained patient. But when he mechanically went for seconds, it was time to intervene before he crawled any deeper inside himself.

"Harm—"

"It's alright, Mac. Webb's here. We can get started," Harm said when he heard the doorbell ring.

With forced civility, Mac opened the door and allowed Webb to enter. Uncertain what to say, she settled on "It's been three weeks since we found Harm. I'm surprised you're still in the UK."

"Who says I didn't leave and come back?"

"Did you?" Lenny asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Webb answered then sought out the reason he was there. "How are you doing, Harm?"

Harm rubbed the back of his neck and eased down into the overstuffed living room chair. "How would I know?" he asked bitterly, voicing the first real emotion since coming up out of the basement.

His rhetorical question hung in the air as everyone nervously took seats. Webb was particularly uneasy. "Rabb, some of what you might share is probably classified. Maybe you and I ought to--"

In counterpoint to their sitting, Harm jumped to his feet. "Classified!" he shouted and began pacing. "Hell, they already know about the CIA's MemorySweep Program … They already know it was used on enemy combatants interrogated at a black site … They already know the 'less valued assets' were returned to society with no memory of having been tortured or held captive … They already know it was used on me – not once, but twice!"

His chest heaving and his face red, Harm paused and worked hard to gather his thoughts. With his hands gripping the fireplace mantle and his back to them, he finally said quietly, "They already know I haven't been intimate with my wife since Leeds."

Webb squirmed in his seat. Unable to refute the need to have anyone leave the room at this point, he said, "Fine, tell me what they don't know."

Harm again brought his hand to his drained face, a hand whose still missing ring added credence to the truth of his last statement. Remembering what that same hand recently held, most of them winced as he inhaled deeply; and all waited for him to continue. The McCoys sitting side by side, their hands entwined for support, their faces pale, and their lips dry. Webb on the edge of his seat, the tie of his three-piece suit uncharacteristically loosened. Mac with her knees pulled tight to her chest, tears pooling in her eyes, the biting of her lower lip the only thing keeping her sobs at bay.

Spurred on by the faintest traces of the smell that made the unfathomable all too real, Harm lowered his arms to his sides, put on a brave face, and turned to face them.

"They don't know Robert Kroger, second in command at the CIA personally ran Staszow … They don't know how he funneled ten times more enemy combatants through it than any other black site … Enemy combatants whose terrorist connections sometimes turned out to be nothing more than the color of their skin … They don't know … "

Harm paused and swallowed hard. In keeping with the stunned silence, the volume of his voice dropped several levels when he continued. "They don't know that MemorySweep was too time and resource intensive to return them all with no recollection of their interrogation. They don't know Kroger couldn't have first-hand accounts of the torture exposed, so he simply killed them and then doctored the records to cover his six. They don't know McPherson, fearing the CIA would dump MemorySweep, went along with the murders to protect the veracity of her process."

Harm paused. The rustle as he pulled a piece of paper from his sweats was the only sound in the room. The crinkling as the note exchanged hands with Webb made the real setting surreal.

"They don't know these GPS coordinates … coordinates of where I dumped over 70 bodies into the Atlantic," he said, his voice barely audible; his bowed head screaming shame and remorse.

In contrast Mac's head shot up, no longer able to stifle her cry. Her arms reached out to him, needing to comfort him for her sake as well as his. But Harm wasn't ready and, despite wavering unsteadily on his feet, simply shook his head and grabbed the mantel for support.

"They don't know there are likely other pilots, no longer alive, that did the same."

Even Webb's face finally blanched. Meanwhile, Connie joined Mac in weeping openly and Lenny coiled, ready to vent his anger. He'd already failed once to remain true to his oath to 'first do no harm'. Now his clenched fists battled against a second occurrence. This time, instead of striking out, he turned to Webb and shouted "Why!"

When all eyes shifted to him, Webb uncomfortably gave them the Company line. "If we're going to win the war on terror, a lot of what needs to be done has to be done quietly, using whatever methods are available. That's the world terrorists operate in! So we have to do the same, even if it means working on the dark side."

Connie found her voice. "To eradicate innocent people! To kill and violate our own!"

"Robert Kroger operated within his own parameters," Webb defended weakly.

Lenny shot back. "He operated in the dark ages!"

Webb sighed. "Yes he did. And thanks to Harm, we know that now."

It took a few moments for everyone to consider that the agency whose mantra was 'need to know' had found themselves in the position of 'needs to know.'

"You're telling us the Company never suspected what Kroger was doing?" Connie spat incredulously.

"No, they did suspect. Deputy Director Kershaw even sent a team to conduct a 3-day surprise inspection of Staszow. But they didn't find proof."

"When?" Harm asked warily, still maintaining his position at the fireplace.

"What?" Webb asked.

"When was the surprise inspection?"

Webb again shifted uncomfortably but finally answered. "It turns out the same time you were there – October 2003." There was no need for Webb to spell out all that could have been prevented if they had found what they were looking for.

While the others struggled to get their heads around the cruel timing, Harm re-lived his encounter with Spencer … "Get out, Harrison! Get out now!" … "My God. Is he who they've been looking for the past three days?" … "No. What they were looking for is beyond your comprehension. Now if you hope to ever continue your own research, you'll walk out of here and forget everything you saw!" … "But he's Commander Harmon Rabb of the U.S. Navy." … "Not anymore. You're living proof the Company is filled with misfits and unwanted transplants."

Mac couldn't take Harm's devastated look any longer. She stood and went to his side, willing to risk his wrath. Not saying anything, she grasped his cold hand. It drew him out of his deep reverie but didn't entirely fill the gulf that remained on his face when he continued.

"Admiral Spencer knew of the cave's existence. It was small, excavated out of the hillside behind Hangar 13. But he believed it was used to deal with an occasional interrogation gone terminal, not the extremes Kroger went to. Anyway, when he found me there, he thought it was me the inspection team was looking for. It's also when he … when he …"

"When he infused his mental beacon and then left you there," Mac angrily finished for him.

For a change, it was Webb who next offered up a little more information. "And he kept what he did know quiet to keep alive his own dream of having the CIA reinstate research on Stargazer. At least until he found out that McPherson had abducted you a second time. Then his conscience finally kicked in."

Harm nodded, relying on Mac's grasp to keep him physically grounded.

"Harm, please sit down," Mac implored.

"No."

Even though he looked ready to collapse, Mac didn't pursue the request. Somehow she understood his need to remain in control of what he could. And asserting that control, he turned the tables on Webb. "What we're you doing at the Embassy Party?"

"I was in the UK on another assignment. Kershaw pulled me from it and had me following McPherson. She went to the party, I followed."

Harm re-lived the photo propped between his splayed legs … Mac's red dress … Webb's hungry lips.

He shook his head to dispel the image. "How convenient; you so easily gave McPherson what she was looking for -- something to mess with my mind."

"Evidently McPherson knew your weaknesses better than most. In hindsight, it's the same reason she sent Kroger to Paris -- more photos that would trigger something in that hard head of yours," Webb explained, not outright apologizing for taking advantage of Harm's absence at the party, yet truly regretting the role he'd played in handing Cynthia McPherson exactly what she needed.

Everyone glared in Webb's direction. Sensing it was time to leave, he stood. "I need to bring Kershaw up to date. Is there anything else that 'They don't know'?"

Mac tightened the grip on Harm's hand when she felt him start to pull away. She turned to face him when he remained silent. She wrapped her arms around him when the blood drained from his face.

His disquieting reaction brought Lennie and Connie to their feet to circle the wagons.

"Is there something else?" Webb asked.

Harm managed a nod. Before his legs gave out, he answered, "They don't know I had a son."

--------------

Mac wasn't sure what shocked her most – his son or his use of the past tense. There was little time to contemplate the answer while supporting Harm's body.

"It's time to sit, Harm," Lenny ordered, stepping in to help maneuver him to the nearest chair.

Harm spun out of their grasp and fell to his knees. His forearms encircled his head as tears pooled in his eyes. "I couldn't save him! He died in the fire. I let him die!"

Before the others could say or do anything, Webb intervened. "Harm, listen to me. The boy wasn't yours. Do you hear me? He wasn't your son."

Mac, Lenny, and Connie looked at Webb, who shrugged, "I haven't exactly been doing nothing the past three weeks."

Mac settled beside Harm on the floor, holding him close, her tears mixing with his. "Come on Harm. Let's listen to what Clay has to say." The glimmer of hope that Harm might not have to deal with the enormity of such a tragedy was clearly tempered by the fact Webb hadn't denied the presence of a boy in the inferno.

When Harm didn't say anything, Mac nodded to Webb. "What do you know?"

"MI5 did find five bodies in the ashes – Harrison Spencer, Robert Kroger, Gregor and Cynthia McPherson, and the woman's son." When everyone's face portrayed horror, Webb quickly continued. "I should have said the mummified remains of her son. They estimate he died ten years ago."

"By the way, Cynthia McPherson didn't die in the fire. They found a self-inflicted bullet in her head."

"Anyway, it was her twin brother's disability that led McPherson into her chosen field. While Gregor's mental deficiencies were caused at birth, her career choice was nurtured by years in his presence. At an early age, she learned she could manipulate him. She grew to love the power and control she had over him. Once she got a taste of that, she wanted more and eventually developed MemorySweep."

"Her research and work consumed her. It was her life. She wasn't interested in romantic relationships. Then thirteen years ago, when she was 27, she was raped on her way home from work. She didn't tell anyone, nor did she abort the pregnancy that resulted. She continued to use Gregor in whatever capacity she needed, and she kept the boy as a hateful reminder of what had been done to her."

"How … how did the boy die?" Harm choked out.

"They estimate he was two years old when he fractured his skull. It's likely only Gregor and Cynthia know the exact circumstances."

Silence reigned over the place. Each of them digested and processed the information that had been brought to light. Over time, Webb made an unannounced exit from the premises. Later, the McCoys surveyed the scene before them and opted to let nature deal with the healing to come. Left alone, Harm and Mac continued sitting on the floor. The sides of their heads were propped against the others; their eyes were closed, their breathing in sync.

Hours after his day had begun with a tumble down the steps, Harm was the first to stir. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his ring. In a gesture that needed no words, he slipped it onto his finger.

In an equally unspoken act, Mac took his head between both of her hands. With the utmost tenderness, she kissed his left cheek and then his right. Tasting both his tears and hers, she moved on to the side of his nose. Pulling him closer, she let her lips linger on his left temple before turning his head to access his right. Three spots on his forehead were next, then the top of his head, and then every spot she remembered their being a deplorable electrode.

And over time, nature did take its course and worked its healing.