Note from Author: Once again, thank you all for reading! The story moves in a way I didn't plan on but I hope it's still satisfying. Bless all of you and stay safe out there.

Caged: Reclamation

Chapter 28

Téa gazed out of the SUV's window as they snaked their way to the Method Maker farmhouse. It was late morning—she normally went in early but she couldn't sleep, not for a long time, then when she finally did fall asleep, she dreamed about the bombing, the devastation of the building itself. She wandered a smoky burned-out house, window shards beneath her feet, ruined furnishings everywhere, and screamed madly for Esperanza, convinced she had been in the house and died along with Todd. Woke to Reese and Lucia in her bed, both crushed against her, no school since they were on summer break. The monitor on the nightstand showed Espy sleeping soundly still. She lay for a long time as they all slept, looking at Lucia especially, noting how quickly she had grown, how she still looked like a baby though stretched out, getting tall already at her precious ten-years, how fast time sped by. Hate felt far away with them so close to her.

Their children. His.

And the lack of hate in her heart with her babies cuddled and sleeping so soundly forced her to acknowledge, to understand, to face that this was a new day indeed and she could not pretend otherwise. Todd was alive and he had been a powerful presence in Esperanza's room, no amount of hate able to erase, deny, change that truth. Her heart broke into a million pieces for all that had happened, seeing him in the dark that way, crawling through a window into his own home, walking and cradling a daughter he met for the very first time. She felt how he loved her already, how Espy loved him in return, already. She wanted to run to him.

My god, he's alive! He's here!

Weakly, the anger objected.

Forgiveness is a free pass.

But then she heard Jed's voice in her head… that she should get on with accepting the miracle and helping him come home. That she should stop grieving, that SHE could then come home too. Because of course, she wasn't really home, was she? As dead in some ways as Todd had been.

She also couldn't ignore Viki's sorrow on full display, a not-so-silent plea to Téa to stop her war, to encourage Todd to come out of hiding. Viki never even asked what happened because it didn't matter, did it? She only cared that he was alive. She KNEW he was alive, recognizing him on sight because of course! He was practically a son to her. And a mother knows...

Thank God, thank God. The nightmare is over, right?

You can stop crying, stop the hate.

Except he killed her family! Murdered them in cold blood by willingly blowing himself up!

The conflict settled into a hand-to-hand combat all around her, a grey, bloody battle as her soul tucked in, huddled with ghostly hands up around her ears and eyes shut tight. And in that state of denying paralysis, she couldn't jump into the pool of gratefulness the way Jed and Viki had. The way Starr had. Her embrace of Todd in Espy's room proved she fully forgave him though she didn't know about the bombing so didn't understand the full extent of Todd's destruction. No doubt Rolon was just as grateful. He obviously assisted Todd, helped build the cover. She couldn't think about Pedro and how Todd had accepted the help from him, too.

She let her fingertips rest on the glass as they passed the lush acreage of Pennsylvania's Llantano region. Ghosts of the Civil War lurked behind trees, spilled blood deep in the ground that fed the forest that grew up all around.

Her eyes drifted to Mark in the passenger seat, in his black balaclava, next to Tony, equally masked. He'd agreed to come in earlier to ride shotgun which normally wouldn't have happened since technically Mark had done so much time yesterday, into the night-shift hours. Whoever was managing this didn't take into account Todd's personal late-night escapade. Mark wouldn't work without any break. She wondered when he would switch places with Todd and then… no, she didn't wonder much past that because she got distracted with the differences between the two men. Glaring differences. She knew there was something wrong right away in truth, that Mark wasn't Mark. This, on the other hand, was Mark in the flesh. He sat differently, talked differently, had a whole different attitude. And yes, the tattoo was different. Similar but different. But… but… unless you were looking, overall it wasn't a bad setup. Outsiders could easily get fooled.

Tood is alive, she told herself again, he's not so far away, hell clearly sending him right back home. She almost laughed at the idea, that he was too rotten even for hell, but then she had to fight tears, goddamnit, because there he was, wounded eyes on hers, light eyes that always revealed the truth to her. He was always so skittish, wasn't he? Always about to run, about to lash out…

Her arms ached to hold him once again. To touch him. To tell him it was okay!

But… no, no, no! Love gives him dispensation, forgiveness, a fucking pass!

They drove all the way in silence and now the beautiful old farmhouse loomed ahead. The apartment, the ashes on the kitchen table, yelled at her consciousness. As soon as they parked, she got out of the SUV and immediately marched upstairs, ignoring the chorus of hellos from the workers, from her adopted people.

Once inside, she headed straight to the kitchen and as she expected found the ashes still ignobly spread on the kitchen table. Hurriedly she scooped up the mess with her hands, putting it back into the bag. She carefully lay the staples on top, re-tied the bag, and placed it all back in the box. She washed her hands, the ash washing away down the drain. Someone...washing down the drain.

Minutes later, she headed downstairs, catching curious gazes, eyes going to that dramatic cold urn she held against her chest, and called to Tony, "Take me to LPD. Just you." He didn't question her.

They drove quietly, just like earlier, downtown to the Llanview Police Department.


Bo Buchanan always wondered if he had superpowers because he sensed Téa Delgado Manning coming by this morning. He had woken to thoughts of her because enough time had passed since Jedediah Chant had returned from Cuba and the kid was oddly quiet in that return. A sit down was needed. And THAT made him think of Téa and the Method Makers company that was shaking up the region with its ambitious mission of leveling the economic playing field.

So he wasn't surprised in the least when he glanced up and through his office windows saw her across the floor, heading to his office. A metal box in her arms. She knocked and he nodded, letting her in.

With a flair she dropped the box on his desk.

"We need to talk," she said.

"Shut the door."

He looked at the name on the urn and sat back, eyes on Téa.

"Open it," she said.

Tiredly, he did. Eyes back on her. "What am I looking at."

"Open the bag."

He untied the heavy plastic and right on top of the gray sandy ash sat blackened staples. He grunted and shook his head. "Manning didn't have staples in his body, did he?"

"Nope. Either that was an accident, Cuba not following rules on cremation, or someone in Havana wanted us to know this isn't Todd."

Her demeanor was far too cool to be real, a marked distinction from earlier confrontations with her. In the past months, her anger had put him off, radiated like electricity. Today… she seemed… different. It could have been her outfit, more lawyerly than usual: a fine linen suit, deep blue, offset with an ivory silk blouse with pearl buttons, black pumps with practical heels. Yes, a divergence from her more recent choices in dress.

Bo gazed thoughtfully at her. "We've known each other a long time. Had a lot of conversations about your husband. What are you not telling me?"

She had come here with no plan other than to prepare the ground for Todd's re-emergence by getting information. Bo's response struck her as interesting, curious. It was almost as if he knew about Todd. As if he fully expected those ashes were not Todd's. She huffed and sat on a chair in front of his desk.

"What are you not telling ME?"

After a minute he reached across his desk and pulled out a file that had been buried under a large stack of other similar-looking files. He opened it and from her chair she could see a photo of what looked like a burned body. He didn't push it closer to her. No reason to get any closer to the gruesome shot than needed.

"This is what the Havana coroner sent me. What might not be obvious from where you are is that this person on the table has a gold chain on. Manning never wore gold chains as far as I know. Did he?"

"No."

"It's not him on the table. Those aren't his ashes. So where is he?"

Well. There you have it. He's been sitting on this little tidbit for how long? She said nothing, studying the picture. Eyes back on Bo. "So what are you actually saying?"

"I'm asking… is he alive or just a dead body lost in Cuba somewhere? Is he imprisoned? Hidden? The staples seem to be a message, I agree. Havana does their cremations like in Europe and the United States… staples generally taken out. Those might have identification numbers. It won't be hard to find who they belong to if they do, if that information is accessible. FBI will definitely be interested."

"Do you think he's alive?"

Bo sighed and gazed out across at her. "I don't know, Téa."

They both sat a moment in the quiet, absorbing the deafening pronouncement.

"If this is true," Téa then asked, "what would it mean for him? Is he… a wanted man?"

Bo flipped through the file, strangely emotional, feelings of a lifetime of dealing with Todd surprisingly overwhelming. They had a long history of animosity, and yet… the idea of him dying in that bombing bothered him deeply, triggering a strange grief for a man he had wished dead more times than he could count. Maybe it was Viki and her love of him that affected him. Or a hard-earned respect for someone who has all the cards stacked against him and survives anyway. At the same time as all that stormed inside of him, he also realized that maybe… Jesus Christ…Téa maybe was fishing for information on behalf of her husband, Téa the lawyer, Téa... MANNING's lawyer.

The deja vu of it kicked him in the head.

Holy HELL… was this bastard ALIVE? And did Téa Delgado KNOW it?

"I'd want to talk to him," Bo said quietly after a second or two. "Ask questions about why he was in that house. Whether he knew it was set up to explode and kill everyone inside of it. Whether he knows who did it, who made it happen. I think… I'd want to know where he's been. Why has he stayed away from his loved ones?"

"Is he a wanted man FOR the bombing? As a mastermind or co-conspirator?"

"The FBI is still investigating. I don't have any insight."

"Is he wanted by Llanview PD?"

"Just for questioning…"

"As a person of interest in the bombing?"

"What happened in Havana is not our jurisdiction. All we can do is prosecute him for faking a death, if that's true - otherwise, any criminal actions against him regarding the bombing is within Cuba's rights and the feds. We would be obligated to cooperate in any kind of extradition if he were found or if he revealed himself in our city limits. But again… I don't know where he stands with the FBI."

"What about Cuban authorities?"

He sat back and huffed… "Cuba… they are…" He cleared his throat and then committed. "The powers that be have been less than interested in Todd Manning as a suspect. They claim he died of a heroin overdose and they're sticking with it. I suspect that Cuba is entirely absolving him of any wrongdoing in the bombing. The coroner acted out of courtesy-he sent me paperwork, alleging this was the only unidentified body, saying off the record that he believed it was Todd Manning."

"So all official records that you know of in Cuba have declared Todd uninvolved in the bombing."

"Right. FBI isn't on board with that though."

She took in the information, eyes on the picture. She reached for it and brought it closer to her. The shot was of the torso and head. Jesus, whoever it was, had been burned beyond recognition. A skeletal face lay on a table with its mouth open. A final scream maybe? And yes, the gold chain had been carefully cleaned for purposes of identifying its metal to a photographer. Clear gold, just a chain. No pendant.

"No body then," she said.

"No body."

She gathered her purse and stood, eyes still on the photo. "No body," she repeated softly as she turned, leaving without a goodbye.

Bo sighed and put everything away again. Téa had left the urn. He took it and put it on a shelf to be dealt with later. Those staples, if permanent, maybe could be identified. He needed a chat with Jedediah Chant now. Absolutely. Because he was thinking… Todd Manning was indeed alive and he suspected that the Manning family knew it.

Téa had changed… visibly.


She didn't want company as she trekked her way to the cottages. The air felt heavy with humidity and clouds gathered, dulling the summer sun. She looked upwards and felt a lone drop of water on her cheek like a single tear. She huffed with nerves. Like with Bo, she had no plan beyond seeing Todd. Tony had followed her orders without question to go to Pedro's and all the way here, she felt him stealing glances at her in the rear-view mirror. He kept his feelings and judgments to himself.

The house guard had let her on the property after a quick call with the man himself. The conversation was brief and, as usual, Pedro was overly kind, on the verge of vulnerability. She dismissed it. Accepted the permission without comment. She walked slowly across the back stretch of the mansion, surprised she didn't see Pedro, glad of it, imagining he watched her from a darkened room.

Téa chewed her lip, anticipating seeing Todd again, fighting the gut-sourced need to touch him, to feel the realness of him. She told herself she simply needed to confirm she wasn't crazy, that he wasn't a ghost. She tried to whip into shape the hate but it was still far away. The love of Lucia and Reese draped her like a thick coat in the dead of winter. She saw the courtyard and its surrounding cottages soon enough and counted them. Knowing which was his. Number Six.

Now she wondered… would he be alone? Would a lover be consoling him? Why should he be consoled? He's a killer… right?

She stood outside the door of the cottage and pressed her forehead against it. Without asking for it, the past swept in, reminding her of how she stood outside a similar door, a motel room that time, waiting for Todd to answer. Jedediah had told her where he would be and with whom. Found a heroin addict holed up with a prostitute. She huffed at that, the memory serving as an additional buffer. A protection against love, against desire, against forgiveness.

What you want, baby?

I have no idea.

With a burst of strength, she rapped the door with her knuckles, the sound loud and intrusive. Heard a soft, "It's open."

Turning the knob, Téa cautiously pushed open the door and stepped inside a daylight-lit room, shades not enough to stop the muggy sun. She didn't want to lay eyes on him yet, no, she needed to gain context, control, needed to understand seeing him… here… so she took in the small kitchen, the ivory walls, chairs around a table, an untouched takeout box. A bottle of rum sat with an empty tumbler. She saw clothes crumpled on a small couch, an open-mouthed black bag, the innards cloaked, and an open closet beyond the bed, sparse with just a few sets of clothes on hangers. A dresser. The smell of cigarettes hit her as did the sound of the familiar sound of Abram panting.

Her heart skipped at that realization, Todd's dog.

"Ok," he said and in a second the black pit-bull terrier landed at her feet and wagged his tail and Téa dropped down, saying, "Hey Abram, wow, hey…" as she petted him and gave him kisses and got tearful, then in a minute he was back on the bed by his master, by his person.

She stood once again and only then did she finally look directly at Todd on the bed.

"I'm glad you're not alone," she said.

God, GOD the sight of him went through her heart like a bolt of lightning. It wasn't so much the physical sight of him but rather his gaze. He held her hard, light eyes bright, intense, laser-focused. An expressionless face told her nothing. Revealed nothing.

God, it's true. Here you are. So very much alive, eh amor?

He sat pushed up against pillows in the unmade bed, a white sheet and a gray blanket pooling at the foot. He wore nothing but black boxer briefs, one knee up, a cigarette in one hand that rested on his thigh. He was thinner than she remembered, muscles defined though, a hardness she didn't need to touch to know. A plate of ashes and crushed cigarettes nestled next to him. And still all that ink, blazing black and green and blue, Los Reyes across his belly. Every scar she could count. Every unseen wound she could feel.

"Todd," she said in a whisper. She couldn't stop her heart from breaking all over again. It was all she could do to simply stand there near the door, to not crawl into the bed with him. To not embrace him. To not wildly, savagely LOVE HIM. She turned because she couldn't bear the fight to resist because forgiveness is a pass… forgiveness is a pass.

And I can't give you that pass… can I?

You're alive. The nightmare… was just a nightmare, yes? You're here. You. Are. Here.

Rasping, he growled, "What do you want, Delgado? What the fuck do you want from me?"

Emphasis on fuck.


The morning had come quickly, too quickly. The night before, Todd had run from the shadows of their house on the hill with the forest behind it, literally running down the driveway, past the automatic gate that opened like magic onto the road, planning for a long hike back to Pedro's, not unlike he'd done hundreds of times in Havana. Stupid as fuck, yes, because the distance was three times as long but so be it. He had no interest in that goddamn SUV, no wish to get it back to the farmhouse. Didn't want to be anywhere close to Téa's vengeful life. So fuck it all, he was going to goddamn walk.

A half hour later his own black Porsche 718 Boxster rolled up on him and Jed called from behind the wheel.

Hey Pops. Whatcha doing?

Todd had stopped cold and bent slightly to take a gander at his kid. A million times this boy of his rescued him from himself and tonight was just another time.

Going to the cottage.

He started walking again, his hip bugging him from trying to cover up his limp so much. He heard the uneven crunching of gravel as Jed let go of the brake. He could use some Tylenol after his fucking day. Oh what the fuck was he saying? He could use a hell of a lot more than that.

Let me take you there. It's like twenty fuckin' miles. Seriously.

It's not.

Get in, Pops. Don't be a stubborn asshole.

He relented and got in of course. They didn't talk much 'cause what was there to say? Téa had gone off the rails, refusing to recognize him as being alive, and now he seriously had no idea how to proceed. The rejection gutted him even though he told himself repeatedly he should be rejected. Jed assured him it would get better. Todd could only stare out the open car window, letting his hand cut through the night air, feeling that force he loved as Jed sped the winding roads all the way to the cottages in that beautiful fucking sports car. Goddamn he missed driving this car.

Once inside the cottage, Jed sat at the table, refusing to leave because he didn't trust his Pops to just go to bed so he hunched over and tapped away on his cell phone while Todd downed a handful of Tylenol pills with more than a few fingers of rum and then at last collapsed in bed, sleeping the sleep of the dead. He never heard Jed leave.

Hours later, Mark woke him by calling his cell. It was time for his shift and did Todd want to do it or should he? Todd said something that sounded like "fuck off" and hung up. Tried to go back to sleep. But then of course he couldn't. So he stripped off his clothes and then just lay there like a lump of coal for what seemed like hours. Dragged his cigarettes out and smoked. Pedro had left him a box of food on the kitchen table. He hadn't heard him come in or leave or anything. Nice deli takeout. But he couldn't eat because he toyed with the idea that he was going to call Bo and get shit over with. Thought it would be fun to just walk in the front doors of LPD.

Hey, how you doin'? How YOU doin'? Where have I been? Oh here and there. You know how it is.

Yeah, he was done. He was NOT going to fucking play games with Téa or anyone else.

Fuck off, everyone.

But the moment he saw her open the door, his whole being froze. As he saw her enter the room in her Puertoriqueña queen getup, brown hair long and wild, mocha eyes on fire with shit-to-take-care-of, all plans froze.

Téa.

He watched her pet Abram and love him up and then get back to her feet, just standing there looking at him with her arms crossed. Said some words to her, the truth, the fuck you want from me? Gone was the breakable quality he had seen in her apartment, but the iciness seemed gone too. The hate seemed on pause. He pulled away first when she didn't answer him, giving the dog a belly rub on his return to the bed and sticking the cigarette back into his mouth.

"Whatever," he grumbled, stomach in knots now.

She kicked off her fancy shoes and shrugged off her short-sleeved jacket, the color of night-time blue, throwing it on the couch on top of his own hastily, blindly-removed clothes. The silky cream-colored spaghetti-strapped blouse lay open, plunging, showing the tops of full breasts he made sure to ignore because he was better than that. Well, not in the least, but still. He wasn't going to give her the fuckin' pleasure. She walked slowly to him and then sat on the bed. The edge of an unfamiliar perfume hit him deep and low.

Only now did she answer. "I don't know why I'm here."

"Well… I ain't no goddamn experiment. You can go now."

"I saw you with Esperanza last night, and Starr," she said. "The baby monitor is a camera. It records everything."

He closed his eyes briefly, turning away from her. He mashed the unfiltered on the plate. Stared at the ashes. "Could hear her from outside."

Téa sighed, every bit of her aching now. She reached for him then changed her mind, pulling back and petting Abram instead. "She spent time in the hospital," she said, "because she was premature, and since she got home, she's been colicky, non-stop crying. She's better now but… it's part of her. It's made her—"

"Intolerant of bullshit."

After a second, she agreed. "Intolerant…yes."

He eyed her again, willing to do that. "So that's it. Came here to berate me for breaking in."

Her eyes welled and she weakened visibly but she then got up, moved away to the kitchenette, to the unopened box of food. "Are you eating?" She unpacked it, finding a couple of egg bagels and cold coffee and a sandwich for later maybe. It came from a local deli she knew had Cuban Jewish owners. Someone trying to make sure he was well-nourished. He hadn't answered and when she looked back at him, she found him off the bed, pulling what looked like a pair of newish jeans on. Buttoning them. Eyes on hers.

Now he said something, murmuring, "Pedro brought that. Not hungry."

"You need to eat. Are you sleeping ok?"

"What is this? I uh... I don't need any goddamn mothering."

"Todd—"

"What? Go back to work or wherever. I don't need this… I don't…fuck off!"

"When did you get that tattoo on your foot? The epilepsy one."

He glared at her for a few seconds. Glanced at his foot like he forgot the black word was there.

"Jed did it in Baracoa. He worried something could...um... happen and people wouldn't help in the right way." He scoffed and muttered words Téa couldn't hear as he went to the front door and then called Abram to let him out. Shut the door when Abram skedaddled and then brushed past her, saying, "go home." He then ducked into the little bathroom. Slammed the door that time, slammed it hard enough that Téa felt the reverberation of it. She heard him urinating and cursing under his breath. The toilet flushed and then he was brushing his teeth and turning on the shower.

Téa wasn't going anywhere even though…

Forgiveness is a pass.

Even though…

I desperately want to forgive you.

She walked the tiny room's perimeter and peered into the black bag, seeing a Bible at the bottom. It took her by surprise. She bent down and picked it up and read an inscription from someone named Beatrice. Believe, Angel. Of course. She assumed "Angel" referred to Todd. He always inspired women to give a damn. Imagined gentle hands touching him, caring for him. Making sure he stayed alive. She returned it to the bag.

She sat on the bed and then crawled to the side where he had been lying. She looked at the ashes on the plate, smelled him on the pillow and immediately tears came. He was here. Alive. A miracle, right? She closed her eyes, sleepy, thinking of Rico as she waited. Remembered haunted dark eyes on hers, a bed far away, a hot humid room on a fine morning in Havana…

Téa, Téa, let's pretend we are the lovers, we are the just-marrieds, yes, yes, it needs to be us right now… I'm inside you, Téa, fucking you, Téa, I'm inside you, Téa, inside your tight hot cunt.

And then all hell broke loose, mí pobre Rico, didn't it?

After a night of love, las tres en la cama.

You were always enough, Téa.

When Todd came out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, he stopped in his tracks. He had hoped she left. She hadn't. He breathed in reluctant relief, a sudden recall that she had been dead too but not anymore. He stood still and quiet as he fully absorbed the miracle of her. The doctor in that Cuban hospital had said she was gone and when he woke up in the convent, the agony of her death had been sharp and soul-wrecking because it was only then he could mourn her loss. Up through the bombing… he had been a pure monster. Driven entirely by hate. Only able to scorch the earth beneath his feet. A fucking fire-breathing dragon.

You are alive. Here. Thank GOD.

He wanted to hold her again. Tight… tight. At the same time, he was terrified she would turn him away even though he wanted her to do that, to firmly decide he was beyond redemption and should return to the dead…

She lay on her side, facing him. She had curled up like a young girl, her feet bare and toenails red. Her breasts pushed together and it was clear she wore no bra and the accessibility of that lit up his imagination, the taste of her on the tip of his tongue and diving hard into his soul. Her hair had new silver in it, a sign that time and the world were coming after her. Her breathing was even, deep. Asleep maybe. Soft. Easy to grab up into his arms. He could practically feel her beneath him, could feel the strength of her thighs gripping his hips, could feel the sweat of their lovemaking, could feel slipping inside of her, and Goddamn he had to will his cock to not reach for her.

Get out… stay here… go home… don't ever leave… fuckin' hell, Delgado, why you doing this to me?

He carefully opened a drawer to get a new set of black boxer-briefs, a special order he had asked of Pedro that he immediately fulfilled. What else do you need, my son, what else? He let the towel drop after drying himself off. He was about to pull the shorts on when he heard her, the shorts still in his hand.

"Come lie with me," she said. "Please."

It took a moment for the words to coalesce and once they did he wondered again what she expected from him, what she really wanted. No matter what lay beneath the sound of her voice, her words flowed over him like the tropical sea in Cuba. Words that could drown him, just like that sea. A million moments flew through him of going to her, crawling to her, loving her. A million more moments of turning on each other just as passionately. Two bullets for one. A lot of heroin and getting jerked off in cars, bathrooms, and prison cells.

He let go of the boxers and they fell to the floor.

Téa watched him turn in place, fully naked in front of her, a foreign openness in the act. His face stayed inert, cold even. Eyes though were full of words. A story waited. Hate waited. Didn't matter though, did it? He's here. Alive. Why should she ask him anything at all? God, Téa thought, nobody looked like him. Nobody filled a space the way he did.

Even as a ghost, he demanded attention.

He moved towards her, getting a knee on the bed, giving her a good fucking look at him. The mystery of his nudity fizzled-he was being audacious, nervy. Like he didn't give a shit. Like she wasn't worth the time to dress. She ignored the impudence. He was strong, his muscles tight and ready for a fight. If he had been weakened by a coma, that was long gone. Fine hair spread across his chest, mixing with the ink on his shoulders that reached the pectoral muscles. He faced her as he now crawled to her, his cock soft and hanging, a slight swing to it. Though… when she glanced directly… not that soft. He shoved the dish with the used-up cigarettes off the bed, the thing clunking onto the wooden floor, and then finally, he stretched out at her side on a pillow. On his belly. Eyes on hers. Like a cat. Like a resting lion.

Mí León.

No… Rico's lion.

Téa reached for him and he flinched and she hated that but tried again anyway because she needed to know he was real. At her next effort he let her touch him but kept eyes on her as if she were some space alien and he wasn't sure when the probing would start taking place. She placed her fingers delicately on his cheek, stroking downward to feel the neat and trim goatee. She caressed the scar on his cheek, and his cut hair. The scar on his scalp. She gazed all the way down his body, his backside, his legs, then back up to study the tattoos he'd accumulated during his life that she knew so well. Eyes on the black angel and the Grim Reaper.

God… God… so real. Here. Alive.

"What happened…exactly?" She had returned to the scar on his head, fingertips on the white line, feeling the silky sharps of surrounding hair.

"Surgery to um… reduce swelling. Like you said."

"The cut saved your life."

"Supposedly."

She touched his shoulder, his arm, skipping across his back, a touch that caused an involuntary shudder… all while he kept watch on her. He reminded Téa of how he was in Havana, burning still with confusion over how she could shoot him. And now she had made him think she wished him dead, that he should stay dead. Repeatedly it seemed she gave him reason to stay away, a justification as to why he would have stayed in that house through to the end. It made her sick. Her own murder of him.

"Who took care of you? Who made sure you survived?"

"Nuns… I recovered in a… um… a convent. A yellow bird in a cage sang, filled the quiet."

Beatrice who asked him to believe. Believe in what?

"Did you find God there? Did these nuns try to convert you?"

He didn't answer. He just looked at her and it made her crazy.

"Talk to me, please. Tell me your story."

"Why?"

Swallowing hard, tears brimmed in her eyes, "I want to know, I… I want to hear it."

He hugged the pillow, head forward, eyes to the wall because he couldn't take her sudden vulnerability, her china-like breakableness. "It's not a story…" Turning back to her at last, he once again held her with only his eyes. "I didn't find… God…butsometimes I think it wouldn't be so bad if I did because they were very kind to me. Terribly... kind."

"Did they know what you did? The bombing?"

He looked at her a second before turning away again. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded. "One knew. And she helped me anyway. Saving me was her… um… calling, she said."

"Todd," she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Shouldn't I be… um…" The word evaded him and he groaned at its ducking away from him. He tried again. "Shouldn't I be punished or something? Your first instinct was right. To hate me. To want me to stay dead. Are you keeping track of the bodies I leave behind?! I should just go to prison. Go to Buchanan—"

"No, no, no… stop it, stop… "

"What's to argue, Delgado?! I am not fit for public consumption. Especially by my kids."

"Beatrice said to 'believe.' I think this is what she was talking about. Not God…. but purpose in you being protected, being saved."

He pulled away from her, done with this, tired of it. Confused and conflicted. He put distance between them, as much as he could on that small bed, pulling away until he was on his side, up on his elbow. He scowled and sunk into quiet, eyes boring into her. Then said roughly, "I'm not the only one who has shit to tell, you know."

She sighed and tightened her lips before saying in an exasperated tone, "Obviously."

"What are you doing with um… M... Method Makers?" he snapped, fiery eyes on hers. "The fuck are you doing?"

She sat up at the major deflection and used the pillows to rest against. Crossed her arms. "Nice segue, Manning."

"Well?"

No point fighting. "It started simple," she said, her lips puckering like she got caught stealing candy. "Not so much anymore." She paused then added a plain truth, the simple part. "I wanted to end Pedro for killing you by stealing all the MK soldiers."

He huffed audibly and looked away, eyes on the bed sheets. She had opened a door and he didn't want to go through it.

Simple.

Pedro.

"This is problematic for you, isn't it?" she said quietly. "My wish, your newfound loyalty." She didn't need to remind him that he had wanted Pedro dead too at one point.

He said nothing, the answer clear indeed. Newfound loyalty: he saved me. On the other hand, loopholes needed closing. Pedro DID allow and help and participated in Manuel Caro's sickness. In fucking MURDERS of children.

More goddamn… conflict.

And he hated that.

Shit.

Suddenly feeling exposed, he got up and stepped over to the dresser to actually dress. He pulled on the boxer-briefs with an audible snap against his skin of the waistband, a pair of grey sweats and a plain blue tee-shirt. He walked over to the table, grabbed a chair, and dragged it to the bed, placing it next to Téa. He sat hard on it and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

Fine. Fucking Pedro. I'll open the door but not go all the way through.

"Yeah," he said. "Problematic. Not 'cause…I have feelings or whatever. It's… confusing. Too much to say."

"You said he saved you."

"Yeah…. but… he also gave me Caro. He didn't protect him. He then...uh… protected me from the consequences of killing that… Ivan… fucker back en La Habana. He… uh… copped to it to the guy's cousin or something."

Téa remembered that little confession. She remembered Rolon showing her a picture of the dead man. That was why she went to Havana at all. To… help Todd, to bring him home. The killing proved to Rolon that Todd had lost his way. She wondered now what would have happened had she stayed home.

"But he's responsible for you being in MK, for you being in Cuba, for exposing you to Caro, for Caro's empire! For all of it."

"Like I said… confusing."

Quiet again.

Téa sighed and then said, "In my pursuit of revenge, people have died. Soldiers from rival gangs, innocents in drive-by shootings. MK men. I didn't anticipate Los Muertos taking up the void left by MK soldiers being pulled into legitimacy."

The room felt small and hot and Téa swallowed hard, a tsunami of guilt rushing through her, evidence that she accepted Todd's presence because his being here ended her grief. Ended her numbness to everything around her. He was alive. He was real. And there was a whole world breaking into her. Months of reality making itself known. Ugly. Ugly. She twisted her mouth and her eyes watered. "God damn it, I didn't think about it. I didn't consider what might happen beyond Pedro. I should be punished too. You killed 13? I might be in competition with you. I might win that contest."

Todd studied her now, his face a mask of seriousness, not having realized the comparison. Shocking really. He might have laughed… if this wasn't deadly serious. It wasn't aphasia that stole words now, just speechlessness.

She wiped her eyes and sniffled and waved her hand in a c'est la vie gesture. Then admitted…

"I don't exactly know what I'm doing."

He then did laugh out loud, a relieving rolling laugh, "Delgado… that is the first time I have EVER heard that outta your mouth." He sat back on the chair and threw his head back and then chuckled for a while longer. "Holy shit."

She was the petulant one now. "I don't know what's funny."

"Ya' don't. Téa Delgado, la abogada, the queen herself… started a gang war by accident." He laughed some more and then didn't, eyes on hers, sympathetic. "Ain't you somethin'?"

She could only shrug and shake her head. The moral dilemma they both faced made the judging of Pedro almost absurd. Almost. The two sat in the quiet for a long while. Téa hugging her knees on the bed, Todd stretching his legs out in front of him on the chair, chin down, arms crossed.

"He did save you though," Téa said. "Can't ignore the good he's done for you. He brought you home, made sure you didn't die with those bastards. He protects you by giving you a home and food. He said nothing to me coming here."

Heavy sigh. "Right… that's where we started. Pedro."

"He is trying to do right by you. I hate to admit that but it is true. I think… I think he loves you like a son. I really do. He's been in absolute despair these months. I saw with my own eyes. I liked to think it was about MK." She laughed bitterly. "I might have been wrong on that. I think he was in agony over YOU."

Todd shook his head, picturing Pedro back at the convent, knowing that agony she described. He had seen it too. And he hated it.

"Still a fucking monster, Téa. Did you know he raped Gloria when she was 14?"

Shook her head, no.

"Well he did."

"I'm just saying…it's not as simple as I thought."

More quiet. An impasse with the world. Both in their own silent torment and conflict.

Téa cleared her throat at last and looked at him, taking their conversation back to a more foundational matter. "You know," she said, "they can't prove anything about the bombing or… that other man. Ivan?"

He looked up at her. "Don't know about that."

"Which?"

"Both."

"I don't know about Ivan but I do know about the bombing. What evidence could they have? A recording of you setting it up? No way. Nothing was in writing I assume. All physical evidence was destroyed in the explosion. I doubt they can even argue a circumstantial case. You were there, yes, but even THAT is compromised. All official records say you died of a heroin overdose. Someplace else."

"Public records say that—not official records."

"I don't think it's just public records. Cuba is really pushing the story that you weren't in that house. Full-throated commitment. This then comes down to testimonial witnesses and they are in Cuba, probably all MK associates. Nobody will testify against you. And anyone who did would be easily impeached—no doubt they have criminal backgrounds, lots of motive to lie about you. Even so, even if, looks like they were silent throughout the investigation. No smoking gun, nothing for the FBI to crow about to the media. Todd, I think you're in the clear. Entirely."

After a second, she added, "Unless the bomber confesses or brags."

He glanced at her and she narrowed her eyes. "You didn't actually set the bomb."

"No."

"So is he a talker?"

Shook his head, no, then gazed at her a long time then didn't. In Spanish, he said, "But I know the truth."

"Except… you are not that person to your children. YOU are not a threat to them. I know this."

"You're… delusional."

"I might be more a danger to them than you."

"Come on, Delgado."

The two held on to each other, that look that was a physical tie between them, a look that held all their history, all the love and hate and learning and confusion and… their whole shared life and journey from the moment they met in his office, where the brain trust of the Sun newspaper hung out. He had invited her. She had run to the opportunity.

I heard you were worth meeting, he had said.

I heard some things about you too, she had said.

None of them good, he had retorted.

That depends on what you mean by 'good.'

Since the beginning their mutual view of good and bad had bound them, hadn't it? They lived in the gray, didn't they? Maybe that's why they fell off the proverbial wagon—they had each decided to choose what they saw as black and white and fell on opposite sides of fate.

"Can we give this time, Todd? Let the FBI finish their investigation at least… and you and I in the meantime can… find a way out of the Los Muertos situation?"

"What about Buchanan. He's like a dog with a bone when it comes to my… um…" Culpability escaped him. He settled on… "my guilt in anything."

"Usually." She hesitated then didn't. "I left the ashes with Bo. He saw the staples. He had his own suspicions on the truth of your death. He showed me an autopsy picture-the body wore a gold chain and he knew you didn't wear gold chains regularly-"

"At all."

"Right, he knew that. So he already concluded the body wasn't you. And… I sensed something in him. Almost…sadness? Real emotion. He was… different."

He only looked at her, his eyes finally softening with the familiarity of their conversation. Just a little… like them. Like who they used to be.

"Todd… I don't hate you. I don't understand what happened that morning. I get that you thought I was dead, and even that maybe… my having shot you gave you no reason to stay alive, but I keep thinking the children would have been enough to get you to rise above…?"

"I don't have an answer. I never will."

"I am seeing that. Which means… my understanding of what happened is irrelevant. We need to move forward and I—" She paused and moved, getting on her knees, her own cat-likeness, holding him with as earnest a gaze as she could muster because her words were TRUE.

"I want that," she said definitively. Absolutely. "I want you home. And I want you to WANT to be there. I want to put away Cuba, everything that happened there… put it away. Bury it. They were evil people who deserved that end. And no, when I say put away Cuba, I don't mean Rico."

His expression changed at the mention of his name. Oh God, Rico. He shifted in the chair and huffed hard, a woundedness erupting all over. More difficult conversation he was clearly not ready to have. She reached out to him, a hand resting lightly on his knee.

"Maybe we find him. Maybe I am not the only one who needs to hear your story?"

Head down again, one leg bouncing. No words now; too much to say. Rico had to wait. "Not now," he said. "On Rico."

"Ok… but the rest… do we have a deal?" Téa asked.

A deal. A million-dollar deal.

He lifted his eyes to her, warmed up, sorrow there, the edge of tearfulness in them. He so wanted to go home but was so afraid he couldn't. That waiting… would lead to devastation. That at the end, the convent might be his only way out. A life given to God, yeah?

He didn't really believe Téa was as culpable as he was in burning up the world with hate no matter how many people fell to the war. She really wasn't the cause…only the catalyst. America was the cause, a fucked-up society that bred criminal organizations like mushrooms in a dank forest. War was always on the horizon.

Well, shit.

At last he agreed, giving a slow nod. "Fine," he said. "Whatever." They would wait for more information from the authorities on where they were going with the bombing, wait for better footing on where Todd fit into their investigation.

And in the meantime, he would help with Los Muertos.

The trill of Téa's cell phone broke up the hypnotic moment. She got off the bed and pulled it out of her jacket pocket. A text from Rolon.

Eladio wants to meet with you. Guess where?

Diego's place?

You got it. He must be ready to come clean.

Ok. I'll see you in a few.

She looked up. "The head of Los Muertos wants to talk. Come with? Mark?"

"Guess so."

She smiled as he got to his feet, moving closer to him, closer… closer… until she felt his body's heat against her. She reached for his hands. Holding them in hers. He looked down at their intertwined fingers as did she. Then they met with their eyes.

Alive. Here. Real.

In her bare feet, he stood over her. A reminder of the power he always had, power he knew how to use. As did she.

"Okay, Manning, let's do this."

"Okay… mí Reina." No sarcasm this time.

And with that, he bent and gave her the lightest…most delicate of kisses… their lips drawn together immediately, a kiss that turned hard, harder, an electricity bursting between them that made them gasp and certainly caused the summer storm above to finally tear out of the heavens.

Hot summer rain slammed into the city and plains and mountains and woods, bashing the roof of the little cottage, a torrent not a soul could ignore.

To be continued…