After breakfast, John put a new set of cast bags on Nathan's feet. While he shrank them tight with the blow dryer and filled the tub, Harold got the good scissors and cleaned up his haircut. Then he tidied up his beard and mustache. "It's almost a spa day," Nathan joked dryly.

Harold chuckled. "You look somewhat less disreputable, at any rate." He stepped back, eyeing his face critically, then made a few more adjustments. "Not quite professional, but not bad." He brushed the stubble off Nathan's shirt, then gently unwrapped the dressing around his neck.

Ingram did not want to look in the mirror, still. But it was time. Past time. He swallowed hard and turned his head.

Then he looked away.

His appearance was every bit as bad as his reflection had led him to think.

"Ready to soak?" John asked.

Nathan nodded. They got him undressed and into the tub. Harold turned on the bubbles. Ingram sank down to his chin again and closed his eyes. If he cried a little, the spray from the bubbles hid his tears.

After a time he opened his eyes and looked in the mirror again. Over the edge of the tub, he looked like a skeleton in some horror movie rising from the steam. His skin was loose and pasty gray over the bones. His eyes were sunken. The circles beneath them looked like fresh bruises. His hair was so short it practically stood in spikes, and there was more gray then blond in those spikes.

He had to admit, the best parts of his face were the beard and mustache. They provided some cover, at least.

He studied the reflection. Then he closed his eyes again. "Are you sure?" he asked.

Neither of the men in the room with him asked for an explanation.

"He'll be okay," Harold promised. "He'll love you no matter what you look like."

"And you will get better," John added.

Nathan shuddered in the warm water. But he did not change his mind.

"So," Will Ingram said, in the car, "are they buying the B&B or the bookstore?"

"Or both?" Julie added from the back seat.

Behind the wheel, Reese raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think they're buying either one?"

"Uncle Harold calls out of the blue, asks us to pack up the baby and come for the long weekend, says he has a surprise for us. Says you're coming, too. It's got to be one or the other. Or both."

Reese glanced into his rear view as he merged the car onto the highway. Then he shifted a little to find Julie looking at him. He knew she'd already picked up that he was watching for tails. Hopefully she would just chalk it up to habit.

"Just what you need," he said, "another business or two to run right now."

"Never stopped us before."

"True."

"So is that it?" Will persisted. "Or don't you know, either?"

John shrugged. "It wouldn't surprise me."

"Whatever it is," Julie said, "he's not wrong that I needed to get out of the house for a few days." She leaned and adjusted Angela's blanket. The baby cooed happily in her car seat beside her. "You like car rides, don't you, love?"

"You should have said something," Will said. "We could have gone somewhere."

"I didn't realize how much I wanted to go somewhere until Harold invited us."

"We could have gone to visit your parents," he teased. "Green grass and fresh air."

"Shut up."

Reese checked his mirrors again. Not that he expected to be followed. Just habit.

Just habit.

"Where are we?" Will asked, when they stopped at the gate.

"Whose house is this?" Julie added.

"Carlos Zaccardi's," John answered. He drove past the gate and eased up to the garage as the door came up.

"The Wall Street guy?" Julie asked. "How do you know him?"

"I don't. I know his wife's godfather's widow."

"What?"

"I don't think a Wall Street guy runs a B&B out of his house," Will protested.

"He doesn't." John parked the car, waited for the garage door to shut behind them before he got out. "But we are borrowing it."

"We? You and Uncle Harold?"

"Yes."

"John, what's going on?"

"Come inside," he said. "You'll see. You'll like it, I think."

The younger Ingram clearly didn't like this part. He took a long look at his wife, and only when she finally nodded did he move to get their sleeping daughter out of the back seat. By then Harold was at the door into the house. "You're here!" he said cheerfully.

"What's going on, Uncle Harold?"

"Come in, come in."

"I'll bring your gear," John offered. "Go on."

Will went in, carrying the baby in her car seat.

Julie paused and stared at John for a long moment. He remembered, of course, that before she had been a wife and a mother and his friend, she had been a worthy adversary. She still could be. He nodded, acknowledging her concern. But he gave her a smile. "It's okay. I promise."

She still hesitated. "It better be."

Will looked around. "Nice place, Uncle Harold. But what –"

"Here," Harold answered, "give me the baby." He took the handle of the car seat, smiled briefly at the sleeping baby. He was flustered, excited. Nervous. He gestured. "Go on in. In there. Go on."

"It's not my birthday or anything, you know," Will answered, suspicious.

"No. No, it's not. Go on."

Will went into the living room. He stopped in the doorway and stared at the man in the wheelchair. Harold saw his shoulders square as he assessed his potential patient. Saw his gaze rotate from the bandaged, half-elevated feet to the thin body to the half-healed neck. Saw his hands open and close when he saw the face. Because, Finch knew, he couldn't believe it. Why would he?

The young man took half a step forward. Then he stopped. His hands opened and closed again. He made a noise. Not a word. Something strangled, from the gut.

Nathan said, "Hello, Will." His voice was broken and hoarse.

"Dad." The single word was high, soft. Will cleared his throat. "Dad?" And then he was moving. "Dad?"

He hit his knees beside the wheelchair, grabbed Nathan's face between his hands. "Dad?" he said, over and over.

"It's me," Nathan said, his hands over his son's. "It's me, I'm here. It's me."

At Finch's elbow, Julie said, "Harold?"

"It's him," he assured her. "It's Nathan."

"Oh shit," she whispered.

Will sat back on his heels. "How are you here?" he demanded. And then, "What happened to you?"

His manner shifted suddenly. He reached up to peel back the loose gauze around Nathan's throat. "Just abrasions," he murmured. He stood and looked around the back and the far side. "You got this wet. You probably shouldn't get this wet until it's healed a couple more days."

"Okay," Nathan answered, bemused.

Will held his face, studied his eyes. Satisfied, he crouched again. "What's wrong with your feet?"

"She ground broken glass into them. They got infected."

"She? She who?"

"She calls herself Root."

"Called," Christine corrected quietly.

Will seemed to register her presence for the first time. "I don't … I want to see. I need to see."

"Okay." She went to the bedroom, returned with the box of medical gear. She put a clean towel down on the coffee table and they moved Nathan closer, propped his feet up there. Will put on gloves, took bandage scissors, set to work.

Nathan gazed at Harold over his son's head. Finch smiled a little, shrugged. He had seen Will in Doctor Mode before. It was how the young man coped with stress. If examining father's wounds would reassure him, none of them were going to interfere.

Julie reclaimed the car seat and sat down in the big armchair across from them, with the baby on the floor close by her feet. Bear followed her, sniffed at Angela very gently, then lay down on the other side to guard her.

"Jesus," Will breathed when he got the first foot unwrapped. "He should be in a hospital. He should be on antibiotics."

"He is." Christine brought out her tablet and held it where Will could read the medical chart without touching it.

"Who prescribed this? Who got the glass out? Are they sure they got it all?"

"They used an ultrasound."

Will glanced at her. "I don't understand any of this. Where has he been? Why isn't he in a hospital? Why is he so emaciated?" He looked at his father. "Where have you been? Who is this Root person?" But he didn't wait for an answer before he continued his examination of his feet. "These need to be butterflied."

"I have some here," Christine answered. "I was going to put them on yesterday, but then he tried to walk so his feet swelled again."

"You tried to walk? You can't walk. These will never heal if you put weight on them."

"I found that out, yes."

The room went quiet for a bit. Will continued, tsk'ed and muttered to himself, but ultimately re-applied the dressings. "It's as good as I could have done," he said. "I don't understand." And then, "This level of infection – there's no fever? I wish I had a stethoscope."

Christine produced one from the bottom of the box.

"Thanks." He stood up and listed to his father's heart, and then his lungs. He leaned him gently forward and listened to the lungs from his back.

"Well," Nathan said dryly, "do I pass inspection?"

Will did not answer. He folded over behind Nathan's back, supported by the handle of the wheelchair.

"Will?" Harold recognized first what had happened. With his doctorly assessment done, the young man had fallen back into being a son again. He moved quickly and took him by the shoulders. Will buckled, and Finch lowered him gently to the floor. The boy stayed there, huddled on his knees at his father's side, sobbing.

Christine left the room and came back with a box of tissues tucked under her arm, a glass of water in one hand, and a bottle of Irish whisky and a shot glass in the other. She put them all on the coffee table, then took Will be the shoulders and guided him to sit at the end of the couch nearest Nathan. "T'anks," he muttered. He took his gloves off, blew his nose, wiped his eyes. Looked around, embarrassed. "Sorry about that."

"Nonsense," Harold answered. He returned to a chair across from the couch.

Christine gave him the water. "Drink."

Julie went to sit beside him. She put her hand on his back and he leaned into it. He finished the water, and Christine poured a shot of whisky.

"Kinda early for this," he protested faintly.

"Not today it isn't."

"Fair." He slammed the shot back, coughed a little, wiped his mouth and then his eyes.

"I'd like one of those," Nathan said.

"That's a terrible idea," Christine answered. But she refilled the shot glass and gave it to him.

Nathan tossed the shot back. Then he coughed violently. She handed him a tissue, took the water glass to refill it.

Julie snagged the bottle and the shot glass. She poured herself a shot and drank it, then gestured to Harold and John. They both declined, for the moment.

Will seemed to gather himself. "I don't even know what to ask. Where to start."

"Start with this," Nathan said. Christine returned with water and he drank before he continued. "They told me you were dead. If I'd known you were alive, I would have found a way to come to you. I swear, I would have found you."

Will reached over and gripped his father's forearm, as if he was afraid to lose contact with him for even a second. For the first time he noted the scratches around Nathan's wrists. He examined them briefly. "They who? This Root person? Who is she, anyhow? Why did she do this to you? She tortured you."

"Her name was Samantha Groves," Harold said. "She was a psychopath. She thought that your father could help her gain access to the Machine."

"The – what machine? What the hell is that? Why did she want it? She held you all this time? Since you were – since the ferry explosion?"

"No," Nathan answered. "She only had me a few months. Before that I was mostly in government custody."

"Government. What government? Why?"

"Our government. And for the same reason. They wanted access to the Machine."

Will sat up a bit, though he kept his hand where it was. "You think our government held you captive?"

"I know it sounds insane, Will, but it's true. And they would do it again in a heartbeat if they found me. You have no idea what they would do to protect it, and to access it. I didn't know either, until the ferry. I thought there might be lawsuits." Nathan laughed bitterly. "I thought they'd be civilized about it. I didn't think they'd kill so many people just to get at me."

"Dad." Will looked truly concerned. "The ferry explosion was a terrorist attack. The government had nothing to do with it."

"They had everything to do with it. They arranged it, executed it, and framed some poor Arab man to take the blame."

"Dad, you can't seriously believe …"

"It's true," Harold said. "I was there. At the ferry. We were going to go to the press, together, and tell the about the Machine. The explosion was staged to stop us."

"You … were at the ferry."

"Yes. I saw – I thought I saw – your father die there. I'm so sorry. If I'd known he survived …"

"When did you know?" Will demanded. "When did you know he was alive?"

"Tuesday. I found out Tuesday. "

"And you didn't call me."

"That was my choice," Nathan protested. "I wasn't ready. I'm still not. God, look at me."

Will stared at him. "You're not dead. That's all that matters."

"I'm grotesque."

"You're vain. You always have been. I don't care. You're not dead."

"What," Julie asked, "is the machine?"

"Oh." Will looked at her, startled. "Oh, shit, I'm sorry. Dad, I … I got married. This is Julie. She's my wife. I got married. We got married."

"Hello," Nathan said. "It's nice to meet you. I'm sorry I'm grotesque."

"Nice to meet you, too."

"And you have a baby."

"We have a baby." Will started to get up, then stopped. "She's asleep, it's her nap time. Her name is Angela. She's … she's …"

"Let her sleep," Nathan said. "She's beautiful."

Will sat back down. His eyes filled with tears again. "Dad …"

"What is the machine?" Julie asked again.

"You built it," Will remembered. "There was a champagne cork. The Machine, Day One. What is it?"

"The Machine is an AI," Harold answered for him. "An artificial intelligence. It monitors every electronic communication, every surveillance device, compiling disparate data to find warnings of mass casualty events. It gives information to the government in time for those events to be stopped."

Will stared at him, then looked to Nathan. "What?"

"It's a super computer. We built it to prevent another 9/11."

"We?"

"Well, him, mostly."

"Uncle Harold?" Will chuckled uneasily. "But … he can't even set the clock on his microwave." He looked across again. "Isn't that right? That's what you always told me."

"I lied," Harold admitted. "About a great many things, I'm afraid."

"I don't understand." Will rubbed his eyes. "I don't understand any of this. This machine, the government trying to kill you, this Root person. And now my Uncle Harold the insurance agent is some kind of computer genius."

"Yes."

He looked around the room, and his eyes paused on Christine. She was standing against one side of the doorway; John was leaning against the other. "You knew about this."

"Yes," she admitted.

"And you lied to me, too?"

"Yes."

"Damn."

"This machine that everybody's willing to kill for," Julie asked, "where is it?"

"We don't know," Harold answered.

"You built it, but you don't know where it is?"

"The government took the servers when we turned it over to them. Before we knew they would try to kill us. But after it became fully autonomous it moved them again, by itself. We don't know where. No one does."

"You built Skynet," Will said.

"Something like that."

"We thought we were helping," Nathan explained. "We were helping. We did help. It spotted dozens of plots, prevented terrorist attacks all over the world. It saved lives."

"It still does," Harold added quietly.

"But why did you lie about it?"

"It had to be secret," Finch said. "If people knew that every phone call, every e-mail was being seen and tracked …"

"Wait," Will said faintly.

"Security cameras," Julie added. "Traffic cams. Browsing histories. Bank accounts."

"Grocery store loyalty cards," Christine added.

"You're not helping," Harold said.

"Sorry."

Will shook his head. "Why did you lie to me?"

"Knowing about the Machine puts you in danger," Nathan began.

"It began with me, Will," Finch interrupted. "I have lied about nearly everything since I was a very young man. I had my reasons, but … because of my lies, other people had to lie. I did not mean to hurt you. Or anyone. And for that I am truly sorry."

Will shook his head. "I still don't understand. I don't understand any of this."

Harold took a deep breath. "In 1966 the government began development on a program called ARPANET. It was the very first incarnation of what would become the internet. Naturally they wanted to keep it for themselves. I had other ideas. I shared it with the world, in 1980, using a homemade computer. But I very nearly got caught. They came after me – the government. So I had to disappear. I never used my real name again."

He paused. There was so much more to that decision. Leaving his father, confused, perhaps lonely, in the care of strangers. The not-old man with the illness-ravaged brain, sitting at the windows, watching the birds he loved. Becky Baker's words came back to him yet again, sharp-edged and comforting at the same time. He was glad the young bird flew away. He always hated … to see a young bird get caught in a snare. He wanted the bird to fly away. He was glad it did. Finch didn't believe in psychics, of course. Of course. But how could she possibly have known?

In any case, that was not part of the story that Will – or any of them – needed to hear. "I went to MIT under the name of Harold Wren. But I have used a great many names over the years." He nodded to himself. "After graduation we started the company …"

"IFT," Will interrupted. "You're Swann. The silent partner Swann. The one who owned the other half of IFT."

"Yes."

The young man exhaled and sat back. "That makes so much more sense, now."

"Yes."

"I still don't see why you didn't tell me. After Dad … after the funeral."

"Your father had been killed – I thought had been killed – because of the Machine. Because he knew about it and could expose it. I couldn't risk that. I couldn't risk losing you, too."

"You should have told me."

"Yes. Perhaps, yes. But at the time, Nathan had been killed, I was injured –"

"Not in a car crash," Will realized aloud. "You were at the ferry."

"Yes."

Angela stirred in her carrier, made a little noise of protest, settled again. Christine slipped out of the room and returned a minute later with the diaper bag, which she set on the floor, at the ready.

"We started the company together," Harold resumed.

"He invented things," Nathan said. "I met the investors and cashed the checks. We made a fortune. Two fortunes."

"You didn't mind getting any of the credit?" Julie asked Harold.

"Not at all. I was a very private person by nature, and my early brushes with the law had reinforced that tendency. I was delighted to remain in the shadows, able to work in peace and not deal with the corporate world."

"But you didn't tell anyone?" Will asked. "You didn't tell Mom, even?" And then, "Oh, shit, what are we going to tell Mom?"

Nathan groaned out loud.

"We'll deal with what to tell Olivia later," Harold said tersely.

"You don't want me to tell her," Will shot back, accusation in his tone. "I can't keep this a secret from her. I've never been able to …" He stopped. "And that's why you didn't tell me any of this, isn't it? Because you don't think I can keep a secret."

Harold pressed his lips tightly together. Then, "We told no one, Will. No one at the company knew. I founded a law firm, and a lawyer identity, to handle the paperwork without annoying questions. It was a very carefully crafted and curated secret. No one knew, except us."

"Bittern, Cardinal and Smyth," Julie breathed. "Son of a bitch."

Finch nodded. "That company's relationship with your grandmother's estate is entirely coincidental," he offered. "I had retired from there long before our first encounter."

"But … I've met Henry Cardinal," she protested. "And he wasn't you."

"You haven't met Harold Bittern. Until now."

Angela woke and complained in earnest. Christine moved quickly to unbuckle her and lift her out of her carrier. She snuggled her a moment, then carried her and the diaper bag to Julie. The baby was content, for the moment, just to be held.

Harold watched curiously. Normally Christine would had kept the baby, changed her and played with her until she demanded feeding. It wasn't like her to hand Angela off so quickly. She resumed her post against the door, and Finch saw that John had noticed the same thing.

Julie shifted the baby into her husband's lap. "This is Angela," Will said, sitting her up so Nathan could see her. "Do you want to hold her?"

Nathan face was filled with longing. He reached his hands out. They trembled visibly. "Maybe in a minute," he said reluctantly.

"It's okay, Dad," Will said gently.

Nathan extended a bony finger, and his granddaughter grabbed it firmly in her little fist. "Oh," he breathed, smiling, tearful. "Oh, she's beautiful. And strong."

Angela pulled the finger to her mouth and gnawed on his knuckle.

"It's nice to meet you, too, young lady," he laughed. "Don't bite your grand –" He broke off, choked with emotion, and hid his eyes behind his free hand.