SEDATE FALLS CHURCH, VA

"Say Stan," Henry said as he finished the last bite of his own cooking, "do you ever wonder where they are?"

Now that they were finished eating, both reached for their post-repast beer at the same time. Ever since Henry had quit hockey and had turned 21, he had quickly been able to match his mentor in alcohol consumption. Henry knew that that was not genetic - the tie he now had with the 50-year old man across from him was far, far stronger than DNA.

"Hey Henry," Stan replied after his obligatory swig, "it's my night to clean up. So you just put on the game, and I'll be there when I'm done. Leave the sound up, though."

Instead of moving, they just sat at the table in silence, neither looking at one another, but averting their eyes to random places in the room.

"You don't talk about it, Henry. That's one thing I've noticed these past five years."

"I have to thank you and Rene, I really do," Henry said sincerely. "You didn't have to take me in." Henry paused, smiled, then stifled the grin because of the thoughts which immediately surfaced. After a silence, Henry added, "you and Rene, you were pretty hard on me when I quit hockey. When I'd come in pie-eyed. But I always had a place, thanks to you. I've not ever thanked you." Taking advantage of Stan's silence, Henry further added, "you don't talk about them, either."

Stan put his elbows on the table, but not enough so that the beer bottle wouldn't reach. He then asked, "Your parents? They're difficult to talk about."

Henry winced a bit, "no, not them." Stan and Henry, indeed, had rarely mentioned either Elizabeth or Philip. But Henry was thinking of others. He said, "Sandra and Matthew. It's been ten years, Stan. I admire you, I admire that you've stayed in this house. And I'm thankful, I really am. That you and Rene put up with me all those years."

Beeman's first thought that always annoyed him was that he owed Philip. He owed Paige. There was still a rear-corner of his mind where Philip was his friend, his best friend. THE friend that The Bureau always informally encouraged Special Agents to cultivate outside of the FBI.

All of that was fresh, albeit now almost six years stale. However, in front of Henry he'd always managed to stifle those feelings of betrayal - after all, Henry was the 'identified victim' of The Jennings, a convenient person to be around to ignore one's own shit, because the trauma of his parents was 100x for Henry what it ever could be for Stan.

"If you clean up, Stan," Henry said, "I'll get the game on. It's really weird the way they begin with the commentators taking about 'Monday Night Football records', as if 'Monday Night' was some special, embedded NFL season."

Stan took a longer swig, then said, "well, it is for them." Holding up his beer, the label facing Henry, he smiled and and added, "it is for their sponsors!"

However, Henry did not get up. "So, what is it, Stan? Do you miss them, Sandra and Matthew."

Getting up to the 'fridge, grabbing two more cold-ones for him and his little buddy, Stan returned, sat down and sighed, "more than you know, kid. More than you know. But thanks for asking." After a particularly long swig of the new, fresh coldness, he said, "I still have moments in this house, where I expect Sandra to come up from the laundry room."

"I know you can't talk about it, those other people, Stan…. then again it may be as you say, with me living here, it's not as if they keep you up to date with things 'USSR'!"

"Henry, the USSR is in our rear-view mirror. Honestly. If I wasn't in my fifties, I'd be learning Arabic, just to keep current. No one cares." Stan's face reddened a bit, as he looked away from Henry, considering if he should make the next confession.

Stan said, "want to hear something stupid, Henry? Two weeks ago, I got written up - inner office lingo for getting caught. I got caught doing a search on the FBI computers for…" Beeman paused while he noted that the boy across from him had tensed up, anticipating what was coming.

"Well, for Philip Jennings. Then Elizabeth Jennings. Then Paige. Vanity, non-operational searches. Verboten." Stan drained the remainder of his second beer, then said, "look, I should clean up, the game is not going to watch itself."

Henry remained at his place, only now sipping the second libation. "No, Stan. I want to hear this."

Stan said, "okay, I may as well. If you don't tell, I won't. Do you know how many Philip Jennings there are in the USA - assuming. Assuming that they're not right now in Moscow helping the oligarchs steal all of the remaining Soviet heavy industry? Assuming that Reagan had not pardoned them? Expunged any FBI record of them? I mean, there are not even boxes any more, boxes of evidence you can open up and get your hands on. It's all fucking computers."

"They can't be that hard to find, Stan. Not for the FBI."

Stan smiled, "there's this Saudi, I can't say too much about him. But he's one of those rich Saudis, a child from one of those huge, four-wife, richer than stink, so-called 'friends' of ours in the Middle East. He pissed off his family by funding 'jihad' in Afghanistan. Against the commies. He's now a big hero, our CIA loves him. The rest of the bin Laden's they hate him." Stan then reached over and collected Henry's dirty dishes.

Before going to the sink, he just stood there, dirty dishes in hand, "I remember well the days when people like your parents were job #1 at The Bureau, we'd gone to war against them. It was hard enough back then, when we were on the lookout." Looking over at his front door across the entryway, he added, "even when they were walking in and out of here, sharing a beer with me. Even in the 'Sandra'-days. Even then, when you guys were just across the street! We couldn't find them."

Stan looked away from the front door, and headed to the sink.

"Now, it's everything Islamic that's our new shiny toy. Jihadists, like this bin Laden guy."

Stan ran the water in the sink, just like Elizabeth had done back in the day when she did not wish to be overheard. "Hard to find? No one's looking, Henry, no one's looking. The only place I know they aren't, is across the street. Or drinking beer with me." Honestly, Stan missed his late night sessions with Philip.

Henry winced, "that's harsh, Stan."

"Sorry for putting it that way, kid. That's where things are. They could well be in the USA right now. Do you know how many 'Philip Jennings' came up in that search I caught shit for doing?" Then again, Stan thought, if they had come back, they wouldn't be stupid enough to use the same pseudos. Not in the USA.

Amongst other things, that would make suspension of disbelief hard to maintain!

HE'S NO PASTOR TIM

Oh boy, Elizabeth thought. There're two of them. Two of them separated by a continent as well as an international border. The border of which was only 24 blocks south of the church office she was sitting in.

The minister across the desk, he was no Pastor Tim. In fact it turned out that in Canada, liberal ministers like Trevor across from her never referred to themselves as 'pastor'. In Canada, that would have marked them as American-style evangelicals!

In White Rock, Elizabeth had even attended this little church's Sunday Service two days' previous. Trevor had been right, this church while Christian, was light on religion.

Just like Reed Street Church. Just like Pastor Tim. Since returning to America, she'd not once even thought of Pastor Tim or Alice - their daughter Claire Louise must be in school by now, IF they'd made it back from the Argentina sojourn the KGB had sent them on.

Looking at Rev. Trevor as he was patiently looking back at her, Elizabeth's mind became flooded with Paige as a elementary school kid. Precocious, always two grades ahead in her reading level - and often, even then, getting Henry ready in the morning while both Elizabeth and Philip were away on missions.

Often for days at a time.

It couldn't have been easy, Elizabeth thought. Paige growing up in that house.

Then again, Elizabeth had been hooked by Rev. Trevor in that restaurant last week, the one across from the bank where the safety deposit box was.

Where she'd seen Paige, an older incarnation of her daughter, but her nonetheless striding confidently inside. The awkward Paige that Marilyn complained about so, that young girl was no more.

Paige looked like a woman. Knowing her daughter's background, Elizabeth marveled at the countenance Paige had displayed in those precious few moments Elizabeth had seen her - before Elizabeth lost it, her fugue interrupted by Rev. Trevor's initial, 'you look like you need a friend'.

The Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you, The Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace.

That's how Rev. Trevor's service had ended two days' previous. It was that word, 'countenance', the word that so matched what Elizabeth had seen from the restaurant, it was that which drew her to Pastor Tim's….. er, Reverend Trevor's service the previous Sunday.

There was also an explanation for why Elizabeth could not find Paige again, not in White Rock in any event. In one of her calls to Philip back in Seattle, he had offered, 'I still don't know who that Canadian SVR-illegal is, but he or she seems placed to gather intel on Clinton and Yeltsin at a place called 'Little Mountain' in Vancouver. No one will say if that person is a one-time asset, or a regular, long term, embedded Canadian.'

It was Rev. Trevor who'd spoken first, him being the one of the two uncomfortable with too much silence.

"You were talking about your family. I gather you feel somewhat alienated. I guess that's the trouble with kids growing up, they make their own decisions."

She thought, 'this guy, he's no Pastor Tim. But out here on the west coast, I guess he's all there is.'

DEAR DIARY, WHAT A DAY IT'S BEEN

Dear Diary, Moody Blues. My oh my, oh my.

Did I say, 'oh my'?

She's coming into the office again tomorrow morning, said she wanted to talk further. Said I was a good listener. Hah! She's either dense, or she's playing with me! I think she's coming because she knows I'm not! The reason why my counseling load is so light, is because me, I talk too much - when I should be listening.

So she's run into someone who's guaranteed not to get her talking. I think that is by design.

So why even bother?

It's over, will tomorrow be the same?
I know that they're really not to blame
If they weren't so blind then surely they'd see
There's a much better way for them to be
Inside me, yours truly, dear Diary

Why does my inability to stay in 'listening mode' attract her to my services? I think I know why. 'Thinking' is what I do best. 'Overthinking' is why I wait for after 11 pm, when it's quiet, to record it here.

Y'know, I still don't have her name. I mean, I asked. This is a woman who never answers. She's smart, racehorse smart, that is obvious. I asked her a question, and just when I think she's answered - it takes me until later to realize she's run rhetorical circles around me. And me, I'm smart! Well read. It's why I don't do a lot of counseling. Me seeing and articulating their problems for them, that doesn't do them any good.

So, 'what's-her-name', Dear Diary, there was one thing she said which simply had to be truth. And biographical. The ONLY thing I could hang my professional, counseling life on.

'When I start shaking, shaking uncontrollably at the of worse times, but often in bed alone, I realize it's about her.'

Her? I'd asked and it looked as if she was going to reveal who this 'her' was. But, you guessed it. Was this the 'her' she'd comatosed about in the restaurant when we first met, she seeing this 'her' go into the bank? I don't know. When I'd asked, she subsequently never said anything that overtly had 'evasion' written on it. But when the referees checked the replay cameras, sure enough - pure evasion. That's what she'd done. Artful. Expert.

Who could this woman's parents have been. She in her 50s, surely they're now long gone. Like my own, I bet they were war vets, PTSD before anyone called it that. I'll bet all the money in my pocket that she's a sexual assault survivor. I never know how to slip that in to a session. I mean, I can see it, but unless they can, why say it? She has to go there on her own, and if so, then me, I'd have to make a referral to a sexual assault expert. Then I'd never know. My bet is that she's untreated.

I can guarantee you she, as a woman somewhere north of 50 years old, that she would never go there with a younger make like me.

So who were her parents? Were they monsters? What was done to her was obviously monstrous. I've seen sexual abuse, I've seen affairs, but nothing I've seen compares to what I'm hunching she's coming to see me about.

Tomorrow morning. For a second session.