Requiem (4)   So much to do today: kill memory, kill pain, turn heart into a stone… She eased her arm from his hip, her thigh from his thigh, her breasts from his back and rose gently from the bed, taking the heat of her body with her. That warmth was unnecessary now, her wombed embrace secondary to the dream he'd entered, his deeply-rhythmed delta sleep. Four hours in and two more promised if only the quiet held; if the woods offered little beyond these small birds cheeping, this languorous wind drifting through the boughs of its claustrophobic trees. She didn't trust the woods, couldn't count on a forest to behave the way a desert did - the wadi, the sabkha, the Rub Al-Khali; its dunes, its dust, its scrub. How could one trust a thrust of Nature that thought to steal the sky? That barred the vision, ate the space, multiplied the shadow a thousandfold? Whose paws and claws rarely walked the earth but perched like vultures above it in a cunning camouflage of leaves? They recognized this, too. Look at their fairy tales, their Riding Hoods, their Hansels and Gretels, their men who paused to nap against the trunk of an old, gnarled tree just to find themselves awakening decades later. A dark place to be, were the woods, and even darker to belong to. It was the part of him she would never understand, and would likely never bother to try. She didn't think to shed her sleeping clothes, just lifted her bag from the floor by the bed and crept into the hall, closing the door behind her. She had a fire to start in the hearth, a blended tea to put to boil. And while he would complain of the fuss, chafe in annoyance at the ministration, he would know this as the price. The price of having her along on his pilgrimage of pain. Fool. He was nothing but a fool to believe he could find his solace shaking a coffin, calling attention to the dead. The owls would rise, as the Jahili said - the Jahili Arabs who believed men's souls took the form of this bird. The owls would rise and, should they find their deaths unavenged by their kinsman, take flight from the grave to demand, Give me drink! Give me drink! What vengeance could he offer? What blood would he spill to slake that thirst? None. She knew him. This well she knew him. None. Her naked feet pressed softly to the stair, toes light of her full weight as she tested for the creak. Her ears were open to every noise and she was halfway down when she heard it. Not the yawning cinch of wood, but the rattle of a lock. No knock, just a jostle and a twist; a measure of resistance. Her bag dropped, its zipper thrown and a hand sunk within as her eye lifted to the vibrating knob of the cottage's front door. Descending slowly, her back to the wall, she heard his tools inserting and watched the deadbolt turn. She was in position by the time he drew the card to trip the bottom lock. The door opened and he slipped inside. She waited for the taking of his first sly step before she swept in behind him and introduced the knife to his throat. "Hush," she hissed, pricking his neck with the point of her blade as his body stiffened against her. "Are you alone in this, or did you think to bring some friends?" "Alone," he answered grudgingly, pride still tight in his tone. His hand moved to his jacket but stopped abruptly with an increase of pressure to his throat. "There's a badge in the coat. I'm a cop." "You say that as if it pardons the crime of breaking into a house." She withdrew the badge, noted the name and slipped it back into his pocket. Her hand then fell to his shoulder holster, resting on the gun. She could sense his tension build. "Just so we understand one another, Officer Spencer, once I take your gun you lose the ability to sweep this incident under the rug. The loss of a gun must be reported, am I right?" "Yes," he seethed through his teeth. "Yes," she concurred. "So the question becomes how badly you wish to keep our encounter a secret. Badly enough to be on your way with a promise not to return?" "Who are you?" he growled, then bit the question back as her thumb popped the snap on his holster. "Yes! Yes, I'll go." "And the promise, Mr. Spencer? I'll need your word." "You have it." He could feel her fingers wrap themselves around the grip of the gun. "You have it! You have it!" "Good," she declared, releasing his weapon and propelling him to the entry. A firm shove forced him onto the porch. The door closed before he could turn to catch a glimpse of her face. She huffed a sorely-aggravated breath and inspected her blade for blood. "You have the word of a Spencer, whatever that may be worth." She looked up to find him on the stair. "Twenty-four hours, Maxim. Twenty-four hours and already he is underfoot." There was nothing to say to that, of course. She had to satisfy herself with his expression which, fortunately for him, she found to be properly contrite. Mac took his bowl over to the sink and began to eat his breakfast. Years ago, lifetimes really, he used to get to sit at the table. There used to be children here, you see. There used to be little girls - half-dressed, eyes half-mast, barrettes askew - who used to need their cereal opened, their cartons of milk split and splayed, new spoons to replace those that had fallen to clatter across the floor. There used to be giggles and tears and fights that would flare and finish in an instant. Messy, sugared kisses. There used to be a lot going on at that table, and every bit of it included him. This changed though, evolved in the way little girls do, to bigger girls, sullen girls, girls scratching away with pencils at homework they should have done the night before. Girls who couldn't eat, who were watching their weight. Girls who were only there because they were waiting on a bathroom. Girls on the go, girls in a rush, girls he could and did forbid to go out the front door looking like that. Cursory, on-the-cheek kisses. Then somewhere down the road of this routine he'd been forced from the table, forced to stand back, trading his seat for a place at the counter; a listing stance that allowed him to watch these growing girls go by, racing through their mornings, their breakfasts, this house, their sudden sixty-mile-an-hour lives. And, inch-by-inch, year-by-year, he'd side-stepped to the sink. Now he watched them through the window, these winsome bright-eyed blondes, who bought their breakfasts, drank coffee with their friends and saved their kisses for boys they judged most tragic and grievously misunderstood. And every day he spooned these flakes, he slurped, he crunched and swallowed as he watched them walk away from him through a partitioning pane of glass. There was nothing for it. Nothing he could do. Life went on. "Do you have anything you'd like me to take to the cleaners?" He caught her reflection through the glass - keys in her hand, one foot out the door. Another blonde on the run. He shook his head, lowered his bowl and emptied its milk in the sink. "She was in the garage last night." "I know." Can't commit to this, can you? Just don't know where to start. "This has got to stop, Felicia." "I know." "I'm serious." "I know." "She won't talk to me." "She feels guilty, Mac. You can understand that." "Maybe she'll talk to you." "I'm trying." Are you? Are you? He left the kitchen before he allowed himself to ask that question. That and all the others she never seemed to have an answer to. "Emily," he whispered, calling her out from behind the curtain of her dream. "Em," he coaxed, turning on her pillow, inches from her face, close enough now to mark the tensing of her brow as she fought this rise to consciousness. His eyes ranged over her features; her tranquil cheek, her precocious nose, the perfect curve of her lips as they parted to keep her breathing even; to regain the deep, somnolent rhythm that might slide her back to sleep. Oh no you don't, he contested, arresting this retreat with a kiss. Her protest lodged in a slumbered moan that languished at the base of her throat. He drew back to catch the instant she awakened; the very second those lashes trembled and rose; the moment she reconnected with the world and provided him the only reason he had left to exist within it. He didn't know when it happened, the how of it or the why, only that this woman had come to represent everything he longed for in life. She was his hope, his challenge, his final chance - the last on a sad list of perilous promises he'd made to himself as a child. The last of what he wanted; of what he thought he might be able to achieve. Just a simple future of marriage and children with a woman whose vision ranged no further than the honest love they shared. And here she was, that promised girl, with a heart so pristine, so plainly pure, it seemed perfectly virginal in comparison to that of the woman who bore him, or the grandmother who couldn't be bothered to turn her avarice aside - his father, his uncle, his part-time aunt. He was so far past being tired of the lies, the manipulation, the endless calculation required just to hold his life steady, just to keep his course straight; so far beyond being able to deal with the inevitable deception, the contemptuous prevarication, the subterfuge, the feint, the plan within a plan within another nested plan that rarely, if ever, served to camouflage less than a certified atrocity - gone, he was so far gone from the place, that space inside where he could hide himself, save himself, protect himself from this familial pestilence, this bold, brutal, bloodless poison that passed, on a good day, for love, that he couldn't imagine it was possible to find his way back. Stefan's death…well, he was done. In fact, were he to be honest with himself he'd be forced to admit that what he loved so fiercely in Emily had less to do with who she was than what he knew she would never become. And he was certain, absolutely certain, she would never become one of them. She would never become a Cassadine. She simply didn't have it in her. The smile came first, that drowsy smile, and a swallow, the touch of her tongue to her lips. She was questing after him, tasting his echo, chasing that soft, initial kiss. That's right, Em, come back to me. Come back to this bed, these arms, this bargain, this ridiculously dismal life. Come back and I'll give you anything you want, all that you desire. Just make sure, please make sure, to bring every ounce of your love. "What?" she murmured faintly, her eyes now open and fixed. "What are you thinking?" "Just how perfect you are," he responded, leaning in for a second kiss. If she didn't know better she could have sworn Mrs. Landsbury had grown more lively. Or was it just that she'd always seemed three steps from dead and any spark of exaggerated movement belied that fact? Well, she wasn't dead. She'd never been dead. But something was definitely different. If she weren't mistaken, that stiff gothic mask had slipped a degree or two; her pallor the same powdered white but with a curious flush beneath the skin. Perhaps it was the product of the breakfast effort - possibly a feature of her age. Yet she'd never known the woman to step out like this. To permit herself to be seen. At least she couldn't recall perceiving her so clearly in the past; could not think of a day when that demeanor wasn't bound as tight as a Prussian drum. She was a servant of the Old School, after all. Obviously they'd fostered a standard of impeccable reserve. Whoever trained her to serve, that is. And who was that? She couldn't remember; in all likelihood had never known. A question for Stefan who, sad to say, wasn't taking questions anymore. That's enough coffee, Alexis. Her hand hovered over her cup, denying a third refill and sending this suspiciously-animated version of Wyndemere's housekeeper scuttling back through the service door. "You're here. Good." She refrained from remarking on the thirty minutes she'd been sitting at this dining room table, waiting for him to arrive, and instead took in the potent presence of her much-beloved nephew. Such an attractive man he was, even in jodhpurs and a riding shirt; just virile enough to carry it off. Refined, urbane, arrogant some would say, yet never was arrogance worn so well as it was by the men in this family. Their elegance smoldered, kindled by the twins of pride and privilege - the telltale signs of affluence. A titled heritage. An inherited grace. It became him. And she could appreciate it all the more because she knew, in her heart, he was the best of them. The most humble, the most kind, the most affectionate of the bunch. He was the only member of her family she found she could actually respect. Had always respected, really. And adored. Very much adored. "So handsome," she teased, watching as he set his crop to the cloth and pulled out a chair at the table's end. "Marriage seems to agree with you." "I'd like to say the same," he responded, lifting his head to catch her eye. "You look tired, Alexis. Is Ric responsible for that? Is he giving you any trouble?" She produced a weary smile. "You don't like him very much, do you?" "I don't trust him, no. He's not an honest man. He's arrested me more than once for crimes he knew I didn't commit, simply to buy himself time. Cody? Zander? But you know that." His gaze dropped to the china cup Mrs. Landsbury was filling with coffee. She finished, he nodded and she stepped away. "Just toast this morning, thank you." "And Emily?" his aunt inquired, flowing over his disapproval. "Will she be joining us for breakfast?" "My wife is sleeping in." Alexis bristled at the clipped possessiveness of his tone; the echo of an old fear rising; a childish panic she thought she'd abandoned a lifetime ago. For an instant she was back in Greece, on summer's break from Yale. For an instant she was young again, untested, scared. For one sudden snatch of a second, she could swear she was staring down the table at his father. My wife is sleeping in. She sought out Stefan instinctively. Of course, he wasn't there. She covered her distress by reaching for her briefcase, pulling out a file. "How do you want to handle this?" "What are my options?" "It's simple, really. You just say no." His gaze narrowed, unappreciative of the flippancy, and she hurried to explain herself. "As Stefan's closest living blood relation, the court is guided by your feelings in this. It's not a criminal matter. They're only asking for verification that the body is actually his. If you like, you can send them copies of the autopsy report and the death certificate." She pulled these documents from the file and laid them on the table. "Or not." "I don't understand, Alexis. Who are 'they'? And how did they get the order in the first place? Didn't they have to go to court for that?" "They did," she conceded, pulling another page from her folder. "A Manhattan law firm petitioned the court approximately three weeks ago. The judge felt an adequate case had been made. Here's a copy of the order." He reached to take the page. "Weren't you notified? Why are we finding out about this three weeks after the fact?" Her shoulders fell slightly, a sharp tooth worrying her lower lip. "They served my office. I had Kristina…the transplant, her recovery. It slipped through the cracks. Listen," she insisted, bypassing the blame. "I don't have the details yet but, Nikolas, it really doesn't matter. I'll contest it. The hearing will last all of five minutes. We say no and the issue is closed." His brow furled as he studied the order in his hand. "Aren't you curious at all? I mean, why would someone need proof that he's dead? Why would anyone care?" "I honestly don't know. It could be one of his creditors, or an enemy he made. I have to believe he had plenty of both by the end. And let's not forget he orchestrated his death once before. He's a Cassadine, Nikolas. And Cassadines have the irritating habit of coming back to life. Were it any other family then, yes, I'd be curious. Ours? It's a valid question." She could see that answer didn't work for him. "I'll look into it, if you like. But I'm telling you, from a legal standpoint, you're holding all the cards. If you don't want the grave disturbed, then it won't be. I can promise you that." "Before you go making any promises, there's something you should see." He rose from the chair and left the room, returning with a card he thrust into her hand. "Take a look at that." She plucked up her reading glasses and propped them on her nose, puzzled by his intensity. Then she saw its cause. "Maximillian Cassadine? Who the hell is Maximillian Cassadine?" His shoulders shrugged, his palms tossed up in an exaggerated air of confoundment. "That's the point, Alexis. I have no idea. Do you? Did Uncle ever mention a relative named Maximillian? Is he one of the European relations? A distant cousin once or twice-removed?" "Where did you get this?" "It came with the honey," he responded dismissively. "It doesn't matter. I need to know who he is." "And you think he's behind this business with Stefan." She fingered the imprinted script, lost for a moment before the words he'd spoken registered in her mind. "Wait a minute. You got honey?" She glanced up to see him nod. "So he's here? In Port Charles?" "Apparently so," Nikolas pronounced, dropping into his chair. "He's got to be a million years old to remember that custom." "Not necessarily. You did, and so did I," she replied, distracted by the effort to sift through her memory for Stefan's mention of the name. It wasn't there. "Can I keep this?" "Yes," he allowed, an arm launching out to point to the stack of documents at her side. "I want you to discover all you can. Where he's from, where he's staying, what he wants and why. There's a reason for this. Find it. In the meantime, I don't care what he throws at us, how hard he presses or how much he spends, he can't disturb that grave. No one goes near that grave." "Even if he did," she dispensed pragmatically, sliding the card beneath a paperclip and returning the file to her case, "and I'm not saying he'll get the chance, because he won't, but even if he did there shouldn't be a problem. I don't see…" "Alexis." Her head popped up at the tenor of his voice and she caught the warning in his eye. Uh oh. "No one goes near that grave," he repeated. Did she want to know? Did she have to know? Good grief, she was getting too old for this. She closed her eyes and sighed. "I realize I'm going to regret asking this, but why?" "Can't you just take my word for it?" "No, Nikolas, I can't," she snapped. "Out with it. Now. Why can't anyone go near that grave? What's wrong with it? What have you done? Why don't you want them digging it up?" His earnest expression collapsed into a scowl, all thin squint and grinding teeth, as he resentfully released the truth. "Because it's empty, Alexis, all right? It's a pile of dirt. There's nothing there." Requiem (5)   Move him into the sun - Gently its touch awoke him once, At home, whispering of fields half-sewn. Always it woke him, even in France, Until this morning and this snow. If anything might rouse him now The kind old sun will know. If he'd had a personal coat-of-arms, an insignia rendered on a tabard or a shield, somewhere upon that escutcheon - amid its bearings, its beasts, its familial mark - there would have to sit a bench. A bench on the broad black field of his cloth. A bench alone, entrenched. A bench as a symbol of the weapon of thought, of strategic calculation, of tactical intent. He had a weakness for cogitating benches. You knew it if you looked; if you could manage to see beyond the view. The island in Greece. Spoon. His estates in Geneva and Milan. All were possessed of benches. Benches that were used. Was it cruel to have put this bench by his grave? A bench he'd never be able to reach? A bench he could spend an eternity yearning to rest his cold bones upon? There had to be a thought or a thousand he still despaired of thinking through. Could he do that on his back, in a box, within a boundary of hard New England dirt? Or did he need the bench, the breeze, the sun and the inevitably superfluous view? A part of him - the indignant, recalcitrant, childish part - imagined digging him up with his hands, clawing open that coffin and lifting his body to this bench; convinced it was the cure for the curse of his interment, the miserable mistake of his death. His eyes would flutter, his chest suck a great, galvanizing gulp of air, his lips chop once or twice for spit and there, and then, his head would turn as it had that day in Versoix and he would say…what? What? What were the words he would say?   "Maximillian. It was her father's name." He didn't give a damn at that point, his heart still filled with the urgency of going back. He had to return, any fool could see it. Any fool had to know. He'd argued. He'd shouted. He'd screamed himself hoarse in an effort to be understood. No one said a word. Fine, he determined derisively. He was more than willing to share this hell. On to the silent treatment. Let's see how long this lasts. "Her father was a tailor. That's what she would say. In fact, he was a clothing designer of no little repute. The successor to Givinchy, some claimed. Others thought Yves St. Laurent. I know nothing of fashion and can't tell you if this is true only that he was, as a man, well-traveled, well-funded and possessed of a whimsically artistic contempt. Her mother was one of his models, a great beauty of her time. They never married, but Leta said they had two good years between them. And two good years with the great Maximillian were more than had been managed by anyone else." He turned then, his suit coat ruffling as the wind rose up from the lake. "I tell you this so that you know your mother was happy with her parents. Despite their inconsistencies, she had no complaint. She was very European in that way. Bewitchingly avant-garde." You could see he had her in his mind's eye, was holding her image in his head, and the very fact that he could do this - that he could call that face to the fore, that he owned the memory to draw - simply made him more of an enemy; more the man to despise. "I'd come to France if not against my will then certainly against my better judgment. I'd been dispatched by the family to perform yet another in a long line of princely errands my brother couldn't abide - this the delivery of our annual contribution to the American Hospital in Paris. The size of the donation was such that the board of directors felt obliged to arrange a formal presentation, followed by dinner with the department heads and an extensive tour of the facility. An arduous business. Deadly dull. I remember thinking at the time how unfair it was that Stavros could pick and choose among his social obligations and was never forced to take the sour with the sweet. Although, as the apple of our mother's eye, one could argue on the sour…" His sentence trailed, straining as it did beneath the weight of the history it carried. Later. That would come later. This decision, like all the rest, made under the mistaken impression they had all the time in the world. "I'd started the tour tired and tense, the brulee was sitting badly. This hospital's food, even as prepared for its prized benefactors, left much to be desired. I was, I discovered to my dismay, in clear danger of losing that dessert one way or another, and so was keeping an eye out for a discreet washroom retreat. She would often say it was not fate or luck or destiny that brought me to her, but a curdled custard and that was true. Her small suite's bath, choiceless as I was, became the lavatory of last resort." His features softened and fell in a kind of wistful defeat. "She told that story better, providing me a graceful desperation that helped to erase the shame. Where Leta saw its humanity, I saw only weakness and profound humiliation. It's a testament to her graciousness and sympathetic wit that she managed to talk me not merely into leaving that bathroom, but taking the chair aside her bed. Her beauty too, I won't deny it. I thought her completely captivating. By the end of an hour I was lost. Or found. Possibly found." The introduction of affection in his tone rankled the boy beside him, made him want to believe. Made him want to hang his hat on a fantasy of love. He wouldn't do it. It wasn't true. Just another wickedly treacherous ruse in this intricate tissue of lies. "She told me she wasn't sick and I believed her. There was too much life in that bed. Bright blue eyes, the way she cocked her head, the way her hands danced through the open air as she strove to make a point; it was proof enough to wonder if she'd fallen victim to an unfortunate diagnostic mistake. She laughed when I suggested this, amused by the concern she saw in my face - insisting that beneath my stoic resolve there beat a heart that had already begun to care. I pressed, it is my nature, and she alluded to a vague condition; some affliction she'd been born with that required the occasional test. She wouldn't be losing her life, she said, and apologized for denying me yet another opportunity to suffer. Suffering, she surmised, was something I did well. Suffering, she suspected, was something I was in the midst of endeavoring to raise to an art form. Was I that dour? Was I that morose? I don't remember. I must have been." All he had lost to this woman was suddenly visible on that bench. Twenty years and it was obvious he still fretted over the cost. The might-haves, could-haves, should-have-beens plagued him like mosquitoes sinking into the skin. He waved them away, unthinkingly lifting a hand to bat the breeze. "I took her home the following day, to a small garret along the Bois de Boulogne, and stayed an entire month. I've never spoken of this time before, not to anyone, not in detail. The experience seemed far too precious to debase in that way. When you are in the mood for an old man's folly, his lapse into mawkish sentiment and idealistic whim, find me and I will recount that month to the best of my ability. We will need hours, I think, and comfortable chairs, a fire and a good deal of brandy. You must bring your patience, Maxim. And I…I will bring my courage." "You abandoned her." Because it couldn't wait. Because it was what he'd been told. The condemnation struck like a pistol shot, thrusting him back from the sharing of his confidence, back into the confines of his overproud shell. "We parted," he responded, his tone now encased in ice. "On good terms, I might add. No, I didn't know she was pregnant but then again neither did she. Do you honestly believe I would have left her in Paris, left her for a year, just gone on my merry way had I known she was with child? This would have been a dream come true. This would have been my heart's desire." "You had Nikolas. It was Nikolas you chose." "There was no choice!" he thundered, launching from his seat. "Nikolas had not even been conceived when I left your mother. I had no idea she carried you, no one called on the day you were born. She may have tried to reach me, I don't know. Did she speak to my mother? My brother? Had someone intercepted the mail? Do you imagine these questions didn't plague me for years? That they don't haunt me now? Because they do, Maxim. I can assure you they do." And as if on cue, the dark grey clouds that had gathered above them began to weep a lightly-drizzled rain. Neither seemed to notice, the encounter had grown so cold. "By the time I returned to Paris she was gone." "Dead," he corrected. "Dead, yes," allowed the older man, his gaze fixed on the turbulent lake whose waters had shaded to black. "It was then I discovered she'd given birth. It was then I found out about you." His hand slipped inside his jacket, plumbed a pocket and pulled a page, presenting it to his son. "This was all that was left. Read it. Tell me where she went wrong." He hunched over the folded square to shelter it from the storm as his fingers plucked apart its edge. Less than a dozen lines of a form, widely-spaced, inked in French. His birth certificate. Names, date, weight and time. A sad little thing. His eye lifted, unable to see the problem. "She named me as your father." All he could think was that the man would try to deny it now, so sensitive had he become amid this multitude of fresh revelations. And it hurt even more to have it done to his face, after they'd met. Had he already been judged unsuitable as a member of the Cassadine family? Was he so very plainly unworthy as a son? "If you don't want to be my father, that's fine. I'll get along without you. I've been doing it for years." A bold bluff, betraying no hint of the sting, yet somehow the bastard saw through it. "Maximillian, you misunderstand me. I am your father, you are my son. Your mother's mistake was in writing that information down." He stepped back swiftly, returning to the bench, reckless of the rain that had fallen on its seat. "This was the reason I couldn't risk hunting you openly and was forced to act as if you didn't exist. This is the reason it has taken so long for us to meet. And it is also the reason you can't go back. She may or may not have known about you all along. She is certainly aware of you now. We've had proof of that, haven't we?" Logic was putty in his hands. He could twist it into any shape he liked. What if these were all excuses? What if it were all some elaborate hoax? His chin thrust out defiantly, his expression stiffened to stone. "Maxim, if you take only two truths away from this conversation, let them be these: Your mother was a vibrant, caring soul who opened her heart to a man who was far more trouble than he was worth. My mother, on the other hand, is the kind of woman who derives great pleasure from tormenting whomever wanders within reach. She destroys. Hearts, minds, souls - I've watched her do it all my life. She will not get the chance with you. I'll die before I let that happen." He wouldn't meet those eyes, wouldn't concede to anything that was said. To do so was to accept as fact that the world he had entered was real. It couldn't be. It was such a miserable deal. What was offered here was less a life than an on-going battle to the death; less a dream than the makings of an endlessly re-occurring nightmare. Who would choose that? Who could make it work? An angry tear spilled down his cheek to mingle with the rain. "I can't do this. I can't." "But we can," his father insisted, a protective hand falling over his own. "We can do this. Together. Together we can succeed. We are Cassadines, Maximillian. There is nothing on this earth we can't achieve."   "You knew him, didn't you?" He roused to feel the press of her hand and the trail of an orphan's tear still wet on his cheek, startled for a moment by this tactile intertwining of the present and the past. Her arrival was a surprise, her empathetic gesture a puzzle. He thought to reject the touch but did not; it consoled him in a manner that was difficult to explain. "I knew him very well, yes. It's hard to believe what they say, that he'd become a monster by the end." "Then don't believe it." She said this with such authority he was forced to cast his memories aside and give her his full attention. "Do you know something, Max?" he asked, marking the ease with which she sat this bench and the modest bouquet of flowers she'd laid across her lap. "Only that a whole lot of people like to assume they know the truth." Her expression hardened, sharpened to steel; a very old anger appearing on her very young face. "It's like they need an excuse. She was old, he was sick, she was crazy, he was a criminal who deserved to die. That's what they say. It's like they find this single sentence that simplifies it all and absolves them of their guilt. Oh, there was nothing we could do!" she mocked, a false wonderment stitched to her tone. "There was nothing anyone could do, no. He made his choice. You could see it coming. You could see how it would end." She looked down to examine the hand she held and watched as it spun to interlace its fingers firmly with her own. Her chin began to tremble. He tightened his hold. "You've given this a good deal of thought, haven't you?" Soft now. Careful with the wound. "I don't know. Yes. I guess. What I don't get…" she began, then stopped to swallow and stall a tear. Tentative. Retreating. "Is what?" he encouraged, drawing the pain like a splinter from the skin. "What is it that you don't understand?" "Why," she announced, ready for this. Wanting it. Needing it. "If they could see it coming, why didn't anyone try to help?" His gaze narrowed, his mind quickly sifting out the truth. "You tried, didn't you?" "Not with Mr. Cassadine, no." "But with Zander." Her head bounced listlessly, dropping to hide her face behind the curtain of her hair; her shoulders bent, lungs catching for air. A few of those tears came breaking through. "It was like no one could see him anymore, like he'd suddenly become invisible. His heart. How much he cared. How much he'd done for everyone…it all just disappeared. All they saw was this twisted thing they had to catch and lock away." Her free hand sank into the pocket of her coat, pulling out a tissue she touched to her nose. "He was a person," she protested, her voice rising plaintively. "He was a human being, you know? He had a right to be seen." "No one likes to look at pain," Maxim contended gently, his eyes ranging to the headstone of a man who'd known his share. "I've only found a few who can stare it down. But those few, Max…those few," he declared, lifting the hand he held to his lips and gifting it an idle kiss. "Those are the ones worth knowing." He turned back to find her studying him intently. "So are you?" she asked. "Am I what?" "Worth knowing." Ah, a critical question. He sucked a breath and shook his head, exhaling in a long, restive slide. "I don't know, Max. I don't know. I think so," he offered bleakly. "I hope so. It's what I'm trying to be." Her tissue found its way to his face and swept off the track of his tear. "Well, if my opinion counts for anything I'd say so far, so good. I mean, you didn't turn away from me, did you?" Such a little savior, he thought, smiling just to watch her smile back, to blush the way she was doing now, to slip so swiftly into self-awareness beneath the delicate weight of his stare. How many people hadn't seen her? How many didn't even know she was there? "Those are beautiful flowers," he remarked, nodding at the bouquet. "Not really," she confessed, fingering the ribbon the florist had wrapped around the stems. "Between volunteering at the hospital and my schedule at PCU, I don't have time for a real job. Which means no real money. This was all I could afford." He scoffed at that concession. "Add many more and they'd lose their charm, I think. And these are for…?" "Zander, of course," she allowed, sighing as if to admit she'd become the most pitiful of lost causes. "He's over there, next to his dad. Do you want to take a look?" "I should, shouldn't I? If only as the family's representative." His arm stretched out to draw his coat sleeve back from his watch. "Unfortunately, I have an appointment. How about this? The next time you come why don't you give me a call? I'll join you and, if you're in the mood, you can tell me a little bit about these men. I'm certain those stories would mean a great deal to the people back in Florida. What do you think? Does that sound like something you'd be interested in?" "Sure," she agreed, brighter with the promise of a future conversation. The grip of her hand loosened, its fingers beginning to slip apart. He caught them before they escaped. "Thank you, Max." "For what?" she asked, genuinely bewildered. "For seeing me," he said, then rose from the bench to deliver a bow his father would have been proud of before turning to walk away. Requiem (6)   All of us were there: the innocent ones because they didn't know and the guilty ones for legal ignorance the more cultivated accomplices… "It's obstruction. Tampering with evidence. Maybe even conspiracy after the fact, I don't know. Look, Dad, you gotta take this seriously. What you did was a criminal act." "You wanna know what's a criminal act? You coming around here in that cop suit. Makes me itch to snap to attention," which he did, thinking the kid might need a visual aid and throwing in the duck walk for free. "Jawole, mon Kapitan!" he saluted. "Eine, swei, drei, yer mutter." His patrons laughed at their tuxedoed host goose-stepping his way around the blackjack table and he cackled right along, sidling up to Lucky's side. "You're bad for business, cowboy. Can't you go undercover? A leather jacket? A bolo tie? Please," he begged, the flat of a hand slapping over his heart. "For me?" His son scowled in disgust. "You're not listening." "Neither are you," he replied, throwing himself on a barstool and gesturing for a drink. "Can I buy you a stiff one, Officer? Anything you like. Gotta warn ya, though. Our shooters come in a glass." "I'm involved in this, you know. You made me a party to the crime. If you're not going to save yourself, the least you can do is tell me what's going on." "Nothing, man. Nothing's going on. Would you just loosen up?" He gave half a second to entreating his son with a look that used to mean something, then broke off the effort and turned away. Watching a Spencer surrender his soul to the bureaucratic bluster of the boys in blue - those sputtering spuds who couldn't find a capital crime without a compass, a murderer without a map, a corpse without sniffing it out through the snout of a duly-deputized guide dog - was not his torture of choice, and the fact that Lucky threw it in his face as often as he did smacked of a kind of revenge. "Ain't nothin' goin' on you need to worry your pretty little penal head about," he growled, lifting the whiskey to his lips. "Ain't nothin' comin' to bite you in the ass." "You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for that." "I might not, cowboy," he mused, twirling the finger of liquor still remaining in his glass. "I just might hold it against you for the rest of my life." "Dad, look…look," urged his son, hushing as he moved in closer to hover at his shoulder. "You said you tossed him on Stefan's coffin. That's what you told me. Now someone wants to dig that coffin up. How is this not a problem?" "Alright, Officer, I'll give you that. It's definitely a problem," he admitted, draining the last of his drink. "It just ain't mine." Luke looked over his shoulder, meeting those eyes dead-on and waiting for the good ol' Spencer Sink - that third-numbered tumbler that clicked in their genius outlaw brains and opened the mental safe to Other Possibilities. Put it together, boy. Follow my lead. But the kid stuck to the surface, trudging his way to his answers like the flatfoot he'd become. And that hurt. It hurt real bad. "So you're saying they can't trace it back to you, right? When they dig up Duncan's body they'll go looking at other suspects. Who? Skye? Tracy? Heather?" "What I'm saying, ye of zippo faith, is that they're not going to find the congealing corpse of the dearly departed Detective Duncan in a grave at Memorial Glen because he…ain't…there. I laid him out on Count Vlad's box and, unless that vampire up and moved him, that's where he is today." "Wait a minute, wait a minute. If Ross isn't…then Stefan isn't…" his son stuttered, wheezing along like an Edsel fresh off the blocks. Any minute now he expected to hear the tailpipe rattle and bang. "Then where are they? Where?" And there it was. Right on schedule. "Ah," purred Luke, rising from the stool. "Suddenly you want an invite to the party of this crime? You're a lawman, son. Ipso facto you're out of the loop. And if you want a little piece of fatherly advice," he added, leaning forward to whisper in his ear, "you'll learn to get used to that." "Cassadine, you said?" Mac takes a solid look at the man, his gaze invasive, intense; charging over boundaries of personal space into this face he suspects is a mask. He opens himself, frankly and ferociously, to every observation he can make. Age, twenty-seven, twenty-eight. Height, six foot. Weight, one-seventy tops. Affluent. Educated. Cultured in a vague European way. Good suit. Clean hands. Clear eyes. At first glance substance-free. And still he hunts for more. Sometimes it disarms them, this comprehensive inspection, this careful examination for lies. Sometimes not. Yet it always serves to put them on notice. It always succeeds in bumping that initial self-confidence aside. "I guess it's too much to hope you're no relation to the family on Spoon Island?" The man matched his stare, intractable, digging in for the duration. "A relatively distant relation." "Not distant enough," Mac maintained, revealing the line drawn in his sand by a long and bloody history. "You want to tell me what you're doing here?" "It's the reason I've come." The man rose to extend a portfolio, then withdrew his passport from the pocket of his coat and set it on the desk. "My credentials and identification," he allowed, returning to his seat. Mac stabbed the intercom. "Fellocetti, get in here." In the silent seconds they spent waiting for the rookie to arrive he examined the passport, comparing face to photograph, then perused the document mounted in the portfolio; his fingers flipping through the papers tucked in a sleeve on the opposite side. "Yes, boss," barked Fellocetti, slipping into the room. He snapped the portfolio shut and laid the passport on top of it. "I want all of this copied and returned to me." The rookie accepted the materials and turned toward the door. "ASAP, Tommy. No delays." "Got it, boss," the trainee retorted, exiting swiftly. The door closed and Mac fell back in his chair, adopting a neutral expression. "So, Maximillian…can I call you Maximillian?" A nod from the man. A slight smile. "You live in Russia." No question there, just a statement seeking confirmation. "St. Petersburg, yes. I'm interning as an archivist at the National Library, in the department of historical manuscripts. Most of my work centers around the Povest Vremennykh Let, or Primary Chronicle, compiled from the years 1037 to 1039 and considered the oldest authenticated history of Rus. Not as dry a labor as it sounds, although it qualifies as academic," he submitted with a concessionary shrug. "I took this path at my father's instruction. He felt I might benefit from familiarizing myself with those legendary events of the Mother Country in which his family played a part. I am currently…rather obviously," he stated, spreading his hands above his lap," …on leave." "Family business, yeah. I read the letter. Funny thing, though," Mac remarked. "It doesn't say why you're here, only that some Cassadines I've never heard of have assigned you to operate on their behalf. That's pretty vague. I don't suppose you could give me a few more details? Be a little more specific about exactly what it is you have in mind?" "I'll do my best," assured the man. "I'd appreciate that," Mac replied, settling in for an accounting that was sure to be more style than substance. Didn't matter what he wanted, what he claimed, what he would or would not promise to do. The name said it all. The name was enough. This guy was going to be trouble. If he sensed that precipitous opinion, or the cynical bent of the ear that opened to hear his response, the stranger gave no sign of it. He simply took his breath and began. "I've come as a representative of those members of the Cassadine family residing overseas," he announced, arriving at the point with a practiced ease. "There are a number of us, all ancillary relations who, in one way or another, exist beneath the aegis of what is commonly referred to as the Cassadine Empire. We are the lesser kinsmen; the businessmen, the financiers, the artisans, the entrepreneurs - considerably less noble, collectively less notable, and most certainly less notorious than the royals you've come to know, yet every inch as Cassadine as Nikolas himself. And yes, as antiquated as it may seem, we still adhere to the old forms - those concepts of title, lineage, bloodline; a princely sovereignty; an inherited reign. As such, we have a vested interest in the fortunes of those presiding over us. Lesser though we may be, we keep a proprietary watch on their accomplishments, their prosperity, their continued well-being." He paused a beat for a comment or question, marked the silence and moved on. "It's no secret that the Cassadine Estate has hovered on the verge of bankruptcy for well over a year. This does not concern us. Wealth is, at its heart, tidal in nature and has a propensity to ebb and flow. Centuries have taught us patience in this regard. Nor are we particularly distressed by the adventures of our acknowledged Prince. A burning hotel falls on top of him. He emerges unscathed. We've come to expect no less. An accident robs him of his memory yet, after a brief period of time, he summons the strength to regain himself. Cassadines are quite resilient. We make it our business to survive. And in understanding this truth, in accepting it as fact, one begins to discern the crux of our dilemma." Here he sighed, halting his discourse in an effort to sort his words. Clearly dissatisfied with his choices and hesitant to put the wrong foot forth, his tone broke, his cadence losing its confident edge. "What unsettles us is the sudden possibility that Cassadines are actually dying." His throat released an odd noise, something akin to a laugh, though graveled by what Mac surmised was a heavy dose of irony. "We don't die, you see. Not in verifiable ways. There's always a cloak of uncertainty - always a question, a measure of doubt. When the Count was declared deceased by the Port Charles medical examiner, given his funeral and sunk into the ground, you'll forgive me if I say we didn't blink. This was the same agency, after all, that had been wrong on so many other occasions. Nikolas, his mother, his brother, his father several decades ago, just to name a few. And it wasn't as if the Count was averse to using this particular tactic when he felt it suited his needs. So did we believe you when you called him dead? No. No, we did not." "And now you're beginning to wonder," Mac supplied, half-amused by the inverted logic and half-convinced this was starting to become a monumental waste of his time. "Exactly," the man confirmed, lifting a finger to mark the point. "We are, as a family, accustomed to living with the doubt that our relations are dead. At this juncture we find ourselves doubting they remain alive. It's disconcerting, to say the least. Yet he hasn't stepped forward. We've had no word. Even the rumors are drying up." "You must be relieved about Helena, then." "Relieved she appears to be alive, you mean?" mused this Cassadine, smiling. "I don't know if I would go quite so far. As odd as it may seem to you, Commissioner Scorpio, we are more concerned that, one, Nikolas threw her off a cliff with very little provocation. To think a single threat, and a relatively standard one coming from the woman in question, could elicit such a mindless, fear-based response is troublesome in the extreme. Second, he confessed to the crime. Third, he consented to be imprisoned for it. Fourth, and most disturbing of all, is that he actually believed he'd succeeded." He shook his head, patently bewildered by so blatant a misapprehension. "So many inconsistencies. Far too many questions in the end. All of which the counsel felt merited an investigation. Mine is little more than a fact-finding mission. I've been sent in search of answers." "And exhuming Stefan's body? I take it you're behind the order." "Behind it? No. I haven't been given leave to take action on the family's behalf, only to interview and gather information. The bloodhound doesn't try the case, he merely follows the trail as best he can. Prosecution falls to the counsel. Retribution, should they find it meet, is theirs to exact. You're looking at a man on a leash, if that's any consolation." He could couch it in all the clever metaphors he liked, Mac wasn't smiling. The last thing he needed was a "counsel" of Cassadines descending on Port Charles to dispense their own bizarre and undoubtedly illegal brand of justice to whomever they saw fit. He was about to lay down the law, his law, in no uncertain terms when Fellocetti returned with the copies. One look at his superior's face and the rookie dropped the documents on the desk, pivoted sharply and fled the room. That bad, eh? The commissioner made a half-hearted attempt to school his features and lift a more diplomatic mask into place. "Listen," he said sincerely, occupying himself with the separation of his copies from the originals. "I appreciate the fact that you're here. Most people hit this town running and we end up making introductions after I've read them their Miranda rights. So the courtesy you're extending is something I can respect. Now allow me to return the favor." He rose from his chair and passed the man his portfolio and passport, his grip on the items tightening just enough to force a tug to get them back. Their eyes met over the exchange. "The Cassadines have run roughshod over the city of Port Charles for more years than I can count. They've never had much use for the law or the citizens it was designed to protect. Of course, that's not their job. But it is mine, Mr. Cassadine, and it's a job I take very seriously. If you think this little visit, as informative as it was, is going to cut you any slack, think again. One foot across the line and you're mine. Do I make myself clear?" "You do," acknowledged Maxim, tucking the passport back into his pocket and lifting his overcoat from the arm of the chair. "In the spirit of full disclosure, you should be aware of this." His hand sank into the folds of that coat and produced a slim envelope, two fingers extending it across the desk. "In the course of my travels I had reason to meet with the conservators of the trust of Mrs. Mercedes Lewis. Those conservators requested my assistance in retrieving whatever belongings remained to both her former husband, Cameron, and her son, Alexander. I believe you knew him as Zander. Zander Smith? They've also asked that I settle any outstanding financial debt. As it was neither a complicated matter nor out of my way, I agreed. Their letter of authorization. You may copy it, if you like." "That won't be necessary," Mac responded, withdrawing the page to scan the text and scribble out a name and number. "I'll call to confirm, if you don't mind?" "As you wish," said the man, accepting the letter back. "I'm staying at a cottage in the woods. The address escapes me," he confessed, sliding smoothly into his coat. "However, your Officer Spencer should have it on hand. He's already paid a visit." Mac groaned inwardly, managing to hold his temper in check until his visitor left and the office door closed. In the rare quiet that followed he let his annoyance wash through him, pushing past it to detect the one, encouraging upside to all of this. He reached for the phone, found an outside line and punched in the area code for Florida. "Knifepoint, man. I'm not lying." "I didn't say you were. C'mon, toffee crunch. You check your side, I'll check mine." The lid on the old-fashioned freezer case thucked as it opened, releasing a cloud of colder air that spilled to the floor and crept toward her feet. She rounded a display of canned goods, vanishing down the second of three short aisles in a country store too small and overstocked to afford a more distant retreat. Then again, it wasn't as if either one of them might actually recognize her. "You come all the way out here for ice cream?" one complained, tossing cartons back and forth in the sunken freezer well. "Let me guess. It's Emily's favorite." "How did you know where to find him?" asked the other, ignoring his brother's taunt. "Hospital grapevine. Got an in with the nurses." "Why am I not surprised?" "Pretty good crop this year…here." "That's almond crunch. We're looking for toffee." "Huge difference, yeah." A scuffling noise followed, no doubt the product of a shove. "So what's he want with Stefan? Guy's been in the ground for over a year. That's not going to be pretty." "Verification, probably. I'll send him the paperwork. If he thinks he's getting more, he's wrong." Such a casual ease in the voice. Not a single note of residual grief. So open, too. So trusting. This for the son of the man who killed him. Brother or no, he'd have drawn her wrath. She'd have spilled his blood with a slow satisfaction born of the need for revenge. She'd have kept him breathing so many hours longer than he wished - days, weeks, months she would spend singing to his screams, dancing in his pain, reveling in the justice of his tears. Were he alive today he would not be alive by much. Only enough to torment the father; to remind him of what he'd done. "So you're going to fight the order?" "Fight it? It's completely unenforceable. I'm going to make it disappear. No one's digging up that grave." "But he's there, right?" fished the brother in a clumsy bid for confirmation. "I mean, Stefan's still at Memorial Glen? Where we buried him?" Here came a silence with some thickness to it, some consequential weight. "Why do you ask?" "Aw, you know my dad," was the sheepish response. "He's convinced your relatives walk the night unless you put a stake through their hearts. He's kind of got a point, though. I mean, it's not like a couple of Cassadines haven't risen from the dead." "And a couple of Spencers, too. Found it. Hey, grab me that other one will you?" The shuffle of shoes could be heard, then an angry creak as the freezer door closed, thumping to its rest. "So when are you coming for dinner. Emily says she misses you and I'm not to take no for an answer." By the time he heard her key in the lock and the drop of her groceries to the counter, his stew was nearly done. She'd objected to the effort, of course, still believing him the weakest of men; an invalid whose every labor brought forth the risk of reinfection. This had been true for awhile, six months perhaps - six long months she spent hovering about like a cantankerous mother hen. But it was good, that cantankery. A wise approach, knowing as she did that the grind of his grief made him prone to overexertion. There were places he had to be, he'd insist. Matters in need of attending. And she would push him hard back down in that chair like a misbehaving child; ignoring him, berating him, deriding his intent; whatever worked; whatever it took. This was how he'd come to heal - resentfully at first, but grateful by the end. Grateful to be able now to dredge this meat, pare these potatoes, and slice these carrots into coins without seizing for a breath and bracing for yet another crippling bout of fatigue. "How did it go?" she inquired, propping a hand with a fresh tin of pepper lightly over his shoulder. He took the container, snapped the lid and sprinkled the spice in his stew. "I channeled my father," he replied on a sigh. "It was a temperament I felt he'd be familiar with." "And was he?" "I don't think he liked my father very much. But it might have been me." He shrugged and set the tin to the side. "I informed him of Spencer's visit. I hope you don't mind?" "I made no promise," she allowed, touching her fingers to his cheek and brow. "You're very warm." "I'm very hungry. And you? Do you have an appetite?" "For this?" Her expression screwed into a knot, one eye closing, the other slit to catch his quirking grin. "Fit for pigs, I think." "The better pigs," he admonished. "The most discriminating pigs." Her arm wrapped around his waist, her head settling against his back. "How much did you tell him?" "Enough to elicit a warning." He dipped a clean spoon into the pot and brought it to his mouth for a taste, then descended into detail. "He knows my name, my profession, the counsel's concerns. He's aware they've sent me to gather information; that I was chosen to investigate on their behalf. I told him I was 'a man on a leash' and had merely been directed to find some answers. What they did with those answers was up to them." "Liar," she accused in a whisper from behind. "Yajib allaa taquul mithil tilka al-ashyaa'…" "Maadha?" he responded, his head turning over his shoulder in surprise. "You were chosen?" "It's the truth." He met her judging eye with indignance then returned his attention to the stew, annoyed to find her taking issue on so small a point as this. He had made no mistake. Her arm retreated; her artless embrace broken on a moment's disgust. "You prevaricate like a terrorist. Who chose you, Zimi? God? The dead? It certainly wasn't the counsel. Or have you conveniently forgotten you volunteered for this?" "I was coerced." "Just as you intended. Or am I now a virgin to be seduced by your designs?" His chin sank to his chest, his head shaking, his eyes closed. They would dine once again on debate, no matter what he put before her. And this stew had looked so good. Arabic Translation: "Liar," she accused in a whisper from behind. "You shouldn't say things like that…" "What?" he responded, his head turning over his shoulder in surprise. Poetic Attributions (The Introductory Lines): Chapter 4 - from the poem "The Sentence", by the poet Anna Akhmatova. Chapter 5 - from the poem "Futility", by the poet Wilfred Owen. Chapter 6 - from the poem "Kaleidoscope", by the poet Maria Elena Cruz Varela.