Disclaimer: I don't own the situations or characters portrayed herein. I'm just playing with them for a while.


Unfinished Business Part 3 (Based on the Script)

He stopped briefly at Blackthorne's office door to pull out his agency ID. He was no longer here on merely personal business, and he could take no chances of Blackthorne thinking that was all it was.

The older man turned, and his eyes flickered from Lee's gun to his badge, and finally to his face.

"I know what happened," Matthew Stetson's son said, and he saw with satisfaction that the man's eyes blinked just a tiny bit.

But he didn't show his surprise long. "Then you have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Stetson...and I understood the Secret Service asked you not to interfere with me."

He took another step toward Blackthorne.

"Oh, they did, sir...but I didn't listen. If I had, you'd have been rid of Rene Sinclair...but you're not rid of him, and you're sure not rid of me."

He could see the meaning register in the other man's eyes, but the man was a consummate professional. He simply lowered himself into the luxurious chair behind his desk, and pulled out an expensive Cuban cigar. His voice was cool when he spoke.

"I'm not following you, Mr. Stetson, but take your time. I know I'll hear all of it."

A surge of fury almost took over, but he forced himself to remain calm. He pocketed his ID, but not his gun. Grasping the back of a nearby chair, he flipped it around to allow himself to straddle it and keep its solid back between himself and the man who had murdered his parents.

His voice was surprisingly steady, considering the torrents of emotions rocketing around inside him.

"You'll hear it from me, then from the Attorney General and...well, it could go on and on, Mr. Blackthorne. Treason and murder tend to start tongues wagging."

The man smirked. "Enjoying this?" he asked, and Lee was reminded forcibly of Dr. Smythe.

There was an edge in his tone now that he found harder and harder to control.

"I can't think of when I've enjoyed something less. You turn my stomach, frankly — a man who trades with the Nazis, kills the two people who find out, and then has to paint them as traitors for insurance."

The cold smile was growing larger as Blackthorne watched his composure begin to falter.

"Fanciful stuff, Mr. Stetson," he goaded him. "The product of an overworked, overloaded mind. I'm sympathetic. You can count on my support."

It was so hard to keep a level head, and he only was able to do it by remembering that there was another person here that he had to protect. "Don't try that patronizing stuff with me. Just tell me the truth. That was no accident. I know it. I just want to hear it from you!"

Blackthorne's singsong voice became mocking, even while his eyes remained riveted on Lee's gun. "Sure... whatever you want to hear, Mr. Stetson. I don't want to get shot... I'll sing a song; teach me the words. If you say I killed your folks in some phony accident, I guess I must have..."

His teeth were clenched so tightly that his eyes had black specks converging on them.

"You killed my mother and father. Say it."

The older man spoke in a dull monotone, with all the patience usually used for dealing with a lunatic. "I killed your mother and father."

He saw them, as if on slides flashing across his memory: his father and mother, his happy childhood home this man had torn away from him — and, in real life, the man before him reaching into his desk drawer and pulling out a gun.

There was a thunderous crash, as a large ornamental plate sailed like a Frisbee past Blackthorne's head and through the large window behind him with the unerring aim of a Little League coach. He dove for the floor, and a shot rang through the study as Blackthorne fired at him.

He didn't stop to think. His training took over, and he rolled, firing blindly to create an opportunity to flee.

But he didn't need it. Blackthorne stumbled and fell backward. The bullet fired at random had found its mark.

He heard steps hurrying toward him, and then Amanda's hands were on his arm, helping him up. He was shaking badly, and she was warm and real and solid under his arm.

"Amanda?"

Her fingers splayed over his heart, and he barely heard her say his name.

"The monster has a face now," he said, and then he buried his face in her hair and wept.