NOTES: Guest suggests that I have interesting ideas (thank you!) but also too much going on at one time, and that some of these plotlines ought to have separate stories. I actually agree.
I went back and forth when I decided to start posting this world, should I start 'chronologically', or start where my imagination first caught fire? There were up and down sides to both options. The chronological option would be to 'begin at the beginning', and open my first story in early 2012, right after the season five finale and move forward from there. The other choice (the one I opted for) is to begin with the point where my own imagination caught inspiration.
My first inspiration came when I asked myself: 'What might follow from the season five finale, if Sarah did not immediately and completely regain her memory?' Oddly enough, the thing that ignited my imagination was the sudden image of Charlotte-Mary and Stephanie Bartowski, Chuck's daughters. They appeared in my head, and I asked myself: 'How could they happen?' 'What is their world like?' and pretty soon I had a fairly complete vision in my head.
I could have started at the start, and maybe I should have. It would have been more orderly, and there would be fewer huge question marks about 'How did THAT happen?!' But the down side would be that I would be starting in 2012, right after the finale. I still do intend to write a story starting there that goes into detail about what happened back then. But to start with that story...one problem is that that story, almost by its very nature, is going to he heavy sledding. It's necessarily going to be heavy on the angst and the pain, in the aftermath of Quinnzilla. Even I wasn't sure if I was up for that much angst as a starter for the stories. I mean it would like "Our story opens with pain, loss, betrayal, counter-betrayal, accusations, counter-accusations, dying dreams, loneliness, misery, mistakes, regret, divorce, family dysfunction, painful self-knowledge, and then there's the enemy actions." Believe it or not, folks, I really do have some Charah sympathies, and 2012 was a rough year for Chuck and Sarah as a couple (and not much better for them as separate individuals).
So I decided to do my first story in this world in the near-present, in a better (better than 2012, anyway) time. Not everything is perfect by any means, but it's a lot better for our cast than 2012 was. It lets me open the stories with a mix of drama and humor, rather than pain, whereas in 2012 even the laughs hurt. This way, when we're watching Chuck and Sarah trapped in their waking nightmare in 2012, we can know that it will get better.
But the downside of starting in 2020 is that we're joining our characters with their lives and stories ongoing, and stuff is going on that makes sense in light of unrevealed past events and choices. I'll try to have it all make more sense as we go, but some things won't be explained until I do those stories set earlier in the time line.
For now...Onward!
NOTE: Dialogue with [] marks indicates Italian language, / / indicates Russian.
CHUCK vs. THE NO-WIN QUESTION CHAPTER 9: Business and Pleasure 8...
The Carmichael Industries safehouse outside Naples, Italy, 6:00 p.m. local time...
The pleasant smell of hot bread filled the building, as the fresh loaves of newly baked bread were taken from the oven, sliced, and slathered with butter and garlic. Carefully prepared fish, seasoned with herbs and vegetables, were being carried on platters out to the dining room. Pots of vegetables were almost ready as well.
Francesca Nachera supervised the preparations, as was her wont when her family was together. It had been decided that her two sons and three daughters would join her husband and herself for dinner that evening, partly so that her husband could discuss business matters with their sons, who were currently carrying much of the load he would normally have been doing. Currently, under fear for his life and safety after the amazing abduction attempt in Naples days before, he was spending most of his time either in this safehouse with his wife or on the move with his protectors.
Along with the chefs, and Mrs. Nachera, those protectors were also present in the kitchen. Indeed, the security personnel from Carmichael Industries were everywhere, double-checking the perimeter security, searching the house for signs of untoward presences, observing lines of sight near windows and doors, and yes, observing with polite but sharp eyes as the food for the evening meal was prepared.
My husband is certainly getting his money's worth, Francesca thought. They seem to be everywhere and thinking of everything. It's obvious they've done this before.
She reminded herself that there was little reason for nervousness. What she intended to do would need only seconds and an instant of privacy, and the C.I. people provided privacy for her spouse and herself.
Why would anyone suspect me? Francesca asked herself. Cosimo and I celebrated our 45th anniversary this year.
For a moment, Francesca felt tears trying to come to her eyes, she blinked them away and reminded herself of why things had to be the way they were.
Francesca left the kitchen, having ascertained that preparations for the meal were properly underway. She was determined that this meal would be good. It was the least she could do for her husband, and her children, that the last meal they would share was pleasant.
She entered the main room, were she found her youngest daughter engaged in conversation with one of the C.I. men. Ana was 20, much younger than her other siblings. Indeed, Ana was younger than some of her nieces and nephews. Ana had been had been something of a surprise because Francesca had been entering menopause when she became pregnant with her youngest, and given birth to her at 47. Ana was thus her only unmarried offspring, and Francesca had noticed before that she was often seen conversing with one of the security people C.I. had sent. She suspected her daughter of harboring a crush on the young American, and from the way he looked at her, it might well be mutual.
Not likely to survive the night, that crush, Francesca thought sadly. Much like my mate.
The American security officer suddenly stood straighter and looked more alert, and Francesca saw that Mr. Casey had entered the living room and favored the boy with a glare. Francesca prided herself on 'reading' people, it was a skill she had developed intentionally throughout her life. Her 'read' on Mr. Casey was that even his own subordinates at C.I. feared him, but also respected him. She had noticed that no one gave him any 'lip' or talked back, except occasionally that woman, Elaine Carmichael and her brother Michael Carmichael.
Thoughts of Elaine Carmichael brought a slight frown to Francesca's face.
Very strange, that one, Francesca thought to herself. She looks nothing like her brother Michael, she is taller than he is, they do not resemble each other in the slightest. But there is obviously much affection. And they are the only ones who seem willing to ever tease or ignore a glare from Mr. Casey. Of course she is his boss...but there is more to it than that.
Francesca looked across the room and saw Elaine Carmichael herself, speaking quietly with her husband Cosimo, and her frown deepened.
She is very beautiful, that one, Francesca mused. Tall and strong, and a figure worthy of a movie star. When she smiles it lights up a room. And Cosimo is spending a great deal of time with her these days...
Francesca shook her head in bemusement at her own thoughts.
Am I jealous? Am I actually jealous...considering what I mean to do tonight, am I actually jealous of my husband paying that young woman so much attention? She is guarding him, she commands all these men and women from Carmichael Industries, of course she is the one who would be speaking with my husband...surely I am not jealous over a man I mean to terminate?
Francesca shook off the strange thoughts, as her hand went to the tiny vial in the pocket of her pantsuit. It was natural enough, she supposed, that she would have conflicting thoughts. Forty-five years of marriage, five children, and she was sure that Cosimo had always been faithful to her. That last was something she knew many of the other women in her social group could not claim, that their wealthy, successful husbands had not strayed. Certainly she knew Cosimo had had his opportunities, but she was sure that from the day they married, 22 years old and full of excitement and fear, that she was the only woman Cosimo had bedded, much less loved.
No wonder I'm conflicted, Francesca thought. But it is far too late for sentimentality now, as Arkady would say.
No matter how much he might chastise her for it, in her mind she always thought of her handler by the Russian name she had first met him under, not any of the Italian names he had used since.
A sudden motion, and she turned to see a young woman wearing C.I. insignia apologizing profusely. The girl was carrying a platter of smoked fish, and had obviously just come through the door with it when they collided. The girl had stumbled, spilling the food, and caught herself on Francesca's dress before either one quite realized what had happened.
["I am so sorry, Mrs. Nachera!"] the little brunette was saying. Francesca guessed her to be about 30. ["I didn't see you there until it was too late!"]
["Quite all right,"] Francesca assured the flustered girl.
"McReady!" Mr. Casey's voice snapped. "What's going on?!"
"Just a small accident, sir!" the girl replied, even more flustered to have caught John Casey's angry glare.
"Clean that mess up and call in your backup, and wait for me in the security office. I'll deal with you shortly!"
Now the girl was more flustered than ever, frantically trying to gather up the spilled food and get out from under the angry glare of the huge man.
["My apologies, Mrs. Nachera,"] Mr. Casey was saying to her. ["She's very new, and I'll see to it nothing like that happens again!"]
["Quite all right, please don't be angry with her,"] Francesca said. ["Just a human mistake!"]
From the expression on Mr. Casey's face as he moved on, Francesca Nachera was not quite sure if he believed in the concept of 'just a mistake'.
As the evening went on, the mood lightened. The dinner proved to be delicious, and the conversation wonderful. There was a musical feed coming in, soft, slow-paced music at a low enough volume to be soothing and permit easy conversation. It was the first time all five of her children had been together in many months, along with the four spouses of the married ones. Both of her sons were so busy now, doing their work and their father's work too. Sadly, Francesca mused, that was likely to worsen after today.
The opportunity to do what she was planning came between the final course of the meal and the dessert. The group was spread out across the large living room, in conversing groups, while the service staff cleared the table and prepared to serve the postiera napolitana. Cosimo commented that he would not mind a glass of wine, and Francesca offered to get him one, and one for herself as well. It was the effort of a moment to pour the contents of the vial into his drink.
As she handed him his wine glass, the steward summoned the diners back to the table, which now boasted several of the orange-water cheese tarts that Francesca knew were a favorite of Cosimo and her sons. That was why she had decided to serve them as the desserts for this meal. It really was, she mused, again with a hint of tears trying to come, the least she could do for her husband.
As they were sitting down, for a moment one of her sons engaged her in a conversation about her grandchildren. When she looked back, she saw that Cosimo had begun to eat a slice of the tart, and was pouring himself another glass of red wine. She lifted her own glass, took a sip, and asked, ["Another already, Cosimo? What would your doctors say?"]
["Oh, this is my first,"] Cosimo replied. Her husband gestured to where their oldest son sat across from them, drinking his own wine. ["I gave the one you handed me to Alfeo."]
Francesca heard a sound of breaking glass, and it was only after several moments had passed that it occurred to her that the sound was her own glass shattering where it had fallen from her hand onto the floor.
Then the sound of conversation and the soft background music was drowned out by Francesca's scream.
A 'black' training facility in the Mojave Desert, 10:45 a.m. local time...
"Adams!" Sarah commanded. "Status check!"
Monica Adams, one of the CAT trainees that Sarah was currently shepherding, stopped in her tracks and began to examine herself and her equipment.
"All square, Ma'am," Adams replied after a moment.
"Check your canteen again," Sarah ordered.
Adams picked up her canteen from her belt, and for the first time Sarah saw her expression change, as she noticed that ti was lighter than she expected.
"Check the seal," Sarah ordered softly.
Adams did, and Sarah saw her blush red.
"It's loose, Ma'am," she admitted.
"Obviously," Sarah replied, gesturing as the wet patch on the seat where Adams had been sitting moments before. "It's been leaking all the time I was addressing the group."
"I'm sorry, Agent Walker, I'll refill it and double-check the stopper."
"You'll do that, yes, and then you'll report to me at 0800 tomorrow morning for an additional two mile run," Sarah said. "I will not tolerate carelessness, you should have been aware of that leak long before I noticed the moisture!"
It was obvious that Adams wanted to defend herself, but she thought better of it and simply nodded. "Yes, Ma'am."
"Join the others."
Sarah sighed as she watched Adams rejoin the other trainees. Adams was actually not normally careless or foolish, just inexperienced. Of course, that was part of the point of the desert training. Adams had probably never in her life been in a place or a situation in which a bottle of water was quite literally a matter of life and death. But as a CAT, it was entirely possible that she would be such a situation at some point.
Hell, it's not just possible, it's damned likely, Sarah mused. So they have to internalize stuff like this now, because there won't be a second chance in the crunch.
The CAT trainees ranged in age from 20 to 28, and all of them were highly intelligent, above average physical specimens, and highly motivated. None of which would matter in the least if they did not learn what they had to learn to not just survive but accomplish their missions while surviving. Sarah kept a hard school, but it was not because she did not care about her students, it was because she did care. She cared enough to be a bitch to them when need be, to punish their mistakes and reward their successes with equal fervor, to second guess their every move and make sure they could function under pressure.
The Mojave facility was hidden deep in the remote, dry reaches of one of the driest deserts in the United States. It was an excellent place to teach students how to handle weapons, how to deal with poison gases, how to handle emergencies far from help. It was also, of course, a good place to teach desert survival skills.
That was what Sarah and her students were engaged in today. They were about to march into the desert, several miles from the training base, and then Sarah would leave them to find their own way back. It was a good way to test them to see if they had been paying attention during the training lectures and hands-on demonstrations.
Of course, they were not really being abandoned to find their own way back. Though the students did not know it, Sarah and others would be monitoring their every move, there were cameras and microphones lacing the entire area for miles around the base. Nobody would be abandoned to die if they panicked or screwed up, though they might well wish they had been if they did, once Sarah got done with them afterward.
Sarah was grateful to have this activity to occupy her mind. She knew that as soon as evening came, when she was free to think, she would begin to fret and worry again. Ever since Chuck had revealed to her where her father was and what he was doing, and worse, who he was doing it with, Sarah had been fighting off fear and anxiety and, yes, anger. She knew that as soon as the day's work was done, those emotions would be back.
A courier had arrived that day, with a sealed pouch that she knew had come from Carmichael Industries, through Heaven only knew what devious, indirect routes. Sarah knew it would contain the information she had demanded from Chuck about what was going on in Moscow. Sarah hoped it would ease her concerns, but she suspected it would not.
A substantial part of her still thought that she ought to be on a plane to Moscow instead of training students in the Mojave. No matter that the rational part of her mind said she needed to be patient, somewhere inside her a terrified little girl was wondering where her Daddy was. It was a feeling Sarah had felt all too many times in her life, and somehow it never became any easier.
The group had assembled, and Sarah pushed aside her worries and said, "All right, everybody into the carrier, on the double!"
The Carmichael Industries safehouse outside Naples, Italy, 8:30 p.m. local time...
Francesca Nachera was shaking. She was shivering with terror, not from the glowering and immediate presence of Mr. Casey, but from something far more terrifying and potent. Normally, Casey leaning over her with that expression on his face would have made her blood run cold, but right now he barely registered.
After her scream had ripped through the room, Francesca only half-remembered what had happened next. She did remember babbling, half-incoherently, telling everyone of the drugged drink that her oldest son had just consumed. As soon as that had penetrated, controlled chaos had broken out. A tall, handsome man, who Francesca vaguely remembered as a Doctor Woodcomb from when he did a checkup on her weeks before, had arrived in a few minutes, and he and Elaine Carmichael had been fussing over her son, checking his pulse and heart rate, his temperature and his blood pressure. Dimly Francesca recalled a sort of dull surprise that the beautiful, mysterious 'agent' Elaine Carmichael was apparently a doctor herself, from the sound of her discussion with Dr. Woodcomb.
After they had whisked her son away, her brother Michael Carmichael and Mr. Casey had taken charge, and now Francesca found herself sitting in a chair, with armed guards all around, as the short bearded man, the hulking Mr. Casey, and her husband and her other son looked at her as if they had captured some evil alien out of a horror movie. The entire house was locked down, there were armed guards everywhere. The roads approaching the house and the surrounding territory were being patrolled, every door and window was watched. Francesca doubted if a squirrel could safely get in or out just then, much less a human being.
["I told you,"] Francesca said dully, ["I don't know what the drug is. I don't know how it works, all I know is what it does. Please, you have to do something!"]
["We'd love to,"] Michael Carmichael said to her, remarkably grimly for such a short and usually cheerful man. ["But we need to know what you gave him!"]
["I didn't give it to HIM!"] Francesca screamed. On some level she knew she was now half-hysterical, but her voice was not obeying her mind in that moment. ["I meant it for my husband, not my son!"]
["That's all very well,"] Casey said, ["but your son is the one who drank the poison! So tell us what he drank and then maybe we can do something to save him!"]
["I TOLD you, I've told you and told you! I DON'T KNOW!"]
["Then why don't you tell us who does know, Francesca?"] Cosimo asked, his voice icy. ["If you don't know what you've poisoned our son with, why don't you tell us who we need to ask to find out? You had to get the stuff somewhere!"]
She shuddered. She could not tell them! She knew that...but Alfeo was dying! He had already had a heart attack, much like his father. If the drug would bring about a second attack in his father it surely would in her son, too! But...she felt as if her mind was going to explode, torn between unthinkable choices.
["Time's running out!"] Mr. Casey growled, apparently totally uninterested in her confusion. ["Looks as if your son might be dead by the time you make up your mind!"]
Memories ran back and forth in Francesca Nachera's head, memories of her training, memories of her baby boy in his crib, memories of her commitment, so long before, memories of a little boy playing football in the back yard with his friends. She remembered the day her first handler had complemented her on her performance, and the pride she had felt...and she remembered Alfeo the night he introduced her and Cosimo to the young woman who would eventually be his wife. She remembered the sense of obligation when she had decided what she was going to do with her life, and why...and she remembered the day Alfeo's first child had been born...and something in her broke.
["Beppe Rubino,"] Francesca said, her voice barely a whisper. ["He gave me the drug. He told me it would...would induce a second heart attack in anyone who had already one a first one, in a few hours."]
["Rubino?!"] Cosimo said in shock. ["My chief of accounting?"]
She heard Casey snap orders in English, and several of the armed guards took off at a run, she suspected that Arkady was going to be receiving a sudden visit very soon. Idly she hoped he had contingency plans in place...or did she? Suddenly she was not sure what she hoped for. She had already crossed a personal Rubicon...
["His real name,"] Francesca said, her voice a little stronger now, ["is Arkady Agapov. He is a Russian, an officer in the SVR...or maybe the GRU. He might have lied about that. They sometimes do."]
["Keep talking, Mrs. Nachera,"] Michael Carmichael said, surprisingly gently. ["We're listening."]
Was there any point in not talking, now? she wondered. With what they already knew...sooner or later they would get he rest of it, if not from her then from others. It suddenly struck her that she might need their good will very badly, very soon, as it occurred to her that she was now a classic 'liability'.
["I'll tell you whatever you want to know,"] Francesca heard herself say, somewhat to her own surprise. It was as if she had become two people, the person who she had always been...and a person who suddenly wanted very badly to live to see her next grandchild born. ["Just please, please, save my son!"]
For the next two hours, Francesca Nachera did exactly that. She answered questions from her husband and second son, from Mr. Casey and Mr. Carmichael, endless questions. Her husband and son were more interested in the personal side of things, Mr. Casey and Mr. Carmichael wanted names, dates, times, reasons why, but she answered them all. It was the first time in over 45 years that she openly spoke of the things she was telling them, and somehow, the more she told them, the easier it became. She had believed that betraying her youthful ideals would be painful, and it was...a little. But it was a dull, distant pain, nothing like the sharp agony she felt as she imagined Alfeo's heart failing him, him gasping for breath and clutching at life.
A private residence in Naples, Italy, 3:25 a.m. local time...
The man slept peacefully in his bed, his much younger female companion equally at peace beside him, her brown hair a cloud on the pillow. The only sound was the constant, unending sound of the huge city all around them, but the expensive sound proofing reduced that sound to a distant hum. The bedroom was in shadow, and all was still.
Then, suddenly, the silence was broken as the door was kicked in on one side, and a window crashed in on the other. Men came pouring into the bedroom through both the window and the door, and the man came awake to find himself surrounded by masked strangers, all of whom were carrying guns!
The man and the girl protested, the girl pulling the covers up around her neck to cover her barely-clad form, but the men showed little interest in either the protests or the visual pleasures embodied in the girl. The circle of men parted and a large man appeared, wearing no mask.
["What is the meaning of this?!"] the man demanded.
/"Spare me,"/ John Casey said in Russian. /"You know who we are and why we're here!"/
The girl, a terrified expression on her face, started to sink deeper into the covers, only for Casey to point his pistol directly at her head and say, in English, "Don't even think about it, Svetlana."
The girl froze in her motion.
After a still moment, the man in the bed seemed to reach a decision, and answered Casey in English, "I take it that Mrs. Nachera has been indiscreet."
Casey smiled wolfishly. It was a smile that sent chills down the man's spine.
"You could say that," Casey replied. "Are we gonna do this the easy way or the hard way? Me personally, I'd rather do it the hard way. I've had a long day and I'm kinda pissed off about a bunch of stuff and my ankle hurts. So by all means, if you two want the hard option, go for it."
"The easy option, of course," Arkady Agapov said. "Might my companion and I have a moment of privacy to dress?"
"You might not," Casey replied. "I wasn't born yesterday, and Svetlana and I know each other from way back. She's not modest and my boys might as well get a treat tonight. It's been a long day for all of us."
Svetlana Bortnik kicked aside the sheet, revealing that she was indeed a vision of apparently delicate feminine grace, clad in panties, and leg holsters with knives, and little else. She surrendered the knives to Casey's people, and then, showing no sign whatever of embarrassment or shyness, she proceeded to the dresser and began to get dressed, as did the only slightly more clad Arkady.
It was a matter of only a few minutes to hustle the Russian operatives into a van and away from the residence.
The Carmichael Industries safe house outside Naples, Italy, 4:15 a.m. local time...
["I still can't believe she was going to poison my father,"] Alfeo Nachera said, sitting in the control office for the safe house with 'Michael Carmichael' and 'Elaine Carmichael' and Doctor Woodcomb. ["I mean...I know she admitted it. I saw her admit to it on the surveillance system! But...my own mother was going to kill my father!"]
["I wish there was something I could say to make it easier,"] Ellie said to him. ["I've been at this for years, but this kind of moment...there aren't any words.]
["Would-would it have worked? The poison, I mean? If it had actually been used?"] Alfeo asked.
["We have to assume it would have,"] Devon said. ["This looks to be something new. But they wouldn't have tried to use it if they weren't pretty damned sure it would work."]
["But fortunately they never got the chance,"] Morgan said.
["I'm still amazed at how you all pulled this off,"] Alfeo said.
["This isn't our first rodeo, as we say in America,"] Ellie laughed. ["Since we knew that your mother was the person who was going to administer the drug, we watched her so closely that she was never out of our sight. Either our people or our cameras or both were on her every moment, all day. She was nervous, she fingered the bottle in her pocket with the drug, and we spotted that. After that, it was just a matter of what we call a 'brush pass'.]
["One of our people, a field agent, was playing the role of a trainee in the kitchen detail,"] Morgan said. ["She 'accidentally' collided with your mother, and in the impact she switched out the drug for a harmless bit of colored water. So when your mother drugged your father's drink, all she was doing was diluting the wine. We saw her dose the glass on camera, and signaled your father to pass it to you, and that's what you drank. So Dr. Woodcomb here, and my sister, they put on a show, made it look like you were about to die. After that, well...we just let your mother's fear for you and her guilty conscience finish the job for us. She may have wanted your father dead, but not you. She was so desperate after she thought she had poisoned you that all it took was a little pressure from your father and your brother, and us, and she was telling us everything."]
["I still can't quite get my mind around it,"] Alfeo said. ["My mother, a Russian agent! All my life!"]
Ellie smiled slightly. ["Believe it or not, Alfeo, I can sympathize. But actually, she's not an agent, she's an asset. There's a difference. You heard her over the microphone as she was talking, she's an Italian, they recruited her in college, when she was just 19. She's been an occasional and mostly a 'sleeper' ever since."]
["But why?! Why would she let them do such a thing with her?!"]
["How old are you, Alfeo?"] Ellie asked.
["I just turned 44, Ms. Carmichael,"] Alfeo replied.
["Do you remember being 19 years old? Did you have your head on straight then? Tell me truthfully?"]
["Well...I admit I had a lot to learn."]
["So did your mother,"] Morgan said. ["And she was 19 years old in 1971. That was not a great time to be 19. She wasn't the only young person to find Communism...appealing in theory...at the time."]
["We have an acronym, in our business,"] Ellie told the confused man. They were not that far apart in age, but in that moment she felt as if she were decades older.
["It's called M.I.C.E. It sums up the most common reasons why people do things like what your mother did. It stands for Money, Ideology, Compromise, and Ego. The KGB first got your mother back in 1971 on the second one, when she was young and foolish and naïve. Once they had her hooked and she had done some illegal or embarrassing things for them, then they had her on 'Compromise', too, she knew she could be blackmailed."]
["They probably got her a little on the Ego, too,"] Morgan said. ["She was young, inexperienced, and probably had a head full of fantasies. A lot of people like that find secrecy and 'spy stuff' exciting and intriguing, by the time they get into the grimy messy reality, it's often too late."]
Morgan smiled at Ellie as he said that, and Ellie smiled back. She knew exactly what her short friend was thinking about, Chuck had told her about his reaction when he first learned about Chuck's secret life.
["So...what happens now?"] Alfeo asked. ["Where is my mother?"]
["At the moment she's locked in a cell, sound asleep under heavy guard,"] Ellie replied. ["With a touch of sedation to help her sleep. As for what happens next...well, that's a good question. We'll be figuring out the answer with you and your father and your family over the next few days.
["But for now,"] Ellie added, ["it would be a good idea for you to try and get some sleep too. You've been awake for over eighteen hours preparing for this, you won't help either of your parents if you set yourself up for another heart attack on your own. I know that this is a horrible situation, but try to remember that your father is alive, Alfeo, when he could easily have been dead, and so is your mother. Maybe, just maybe, things can get better. At least right now that's still possible."]
It took a bit more coaxing from both Morgan and Ellie to get Alfeo Nachera into bed, and then the process had to be repeated with a still very confused and upset Cosimo Nachera, who was still in a certain amount of shock at having survived a murder plot from the mother of his children. When both men were asleep, Ellie ordered Morgan to bed and went to find Dr. Woodcomb herself. Though tomorrow might bring any number of bad things, for the moment they had time to rest.
TO BE CONTINUED...