Son of the Morning

"There!" Kris announced in triumph, his hacker’s blood excited by what he had been doing. "We can’t kill the Foundation, but it’s going to be in the dark for a while. All their records are gone."

Conrad nodded, and for a moment there was a gleam in his dead eyes. "Good," he said, the word filled with satisfaction.

They hadn’t told Kris anything more about the situation, except that Parrish was dead, but what he knew was enough to make him willing to help out. Harmony, who still hadn’t Recovered from the shock of watching Grace vanish in an explosion of light the month before, was even more protective than normal;

Conrad stood, looking at the blank computer screen. "Are you certain an expert can’t retrieve the files from the hard disk?"

"I’m positive. Trust me. The hard disk is wiped clean. If you’re sure no floppies exist anywhere, or a hard copy, then there’s no way all that information can be compiled again."

Conrad grunted. The possibility of a floppy disk floating around out there worried him. He had personally searched Parrish’s house and found nothing, but such a valuable disk, if it existed, would likely be in a bank vault somewhere.

Grace had burned the papers she had worked on for so long, and ached as the flames destroyed her link to Niall. She would never again read about him, marvel at his exploits. The written accounts paled in comparison to the real man, anyway. But she didn’t want anyone else to find those papers, and use them to threaten the Treasure Niall had dedicated his life to protecting.

The four of them left together but separated when they reached the street. No one talked much; there wasn’t much left to say. Kris departed in his Chevelle. Conrad gave Grace an oddly old-fashioned bow, and walked off down the street. Harmony and Grace slowly walked to Grace’s truck.

"What now?" Harmony asked. "No more running, no more bad guys chasing you and trying to kill you. Well, the cops are still after you, but from what I see they can’t find their ass with both hands and a flashlight, so I guess you’re safe enough. I’d live somewhere else, though. Take up some boring stuff, like skydiving."

Grace managed a ghost of a smile. "I don’t have any plans after tomorrow," she said.

"So what’s on for tomorrow?" "I’m going to my husband’s grave."

***

The June morning was bright and sunny, the flowers in full bloom. Grace carried two bouquets of spring flowers, daisies and lilies and bright yellow primroses making a gay splash of color in her arms. Harmony walked silently beside her through the rows of grave markers.

Grace knew exactly where the graves were. Bryant was buried beside their parents, and Ford in the plot nearby that he and Grace had chosen. The day they had bought the plots she had looked at them and thought how many decades it would be before they were used. She had been wrong.

The two graves had markers on them. The life insurance policies would have paid for the markers, but she wondered who had ordered them. Friends, perhaps, or colleagues. It was possible Parrish had done it; he would have found the idea amusing. She didn’t mind. If he had, in this case, the end did justify the means. She was glad they had markers, that these two wonderful, precious men hadn’t lain for a year in unmarked graves.

Bryant’s marker was simply inscribed. "Bryant Joseph St. John. BornNov. 11, 1962 – DiedApril 27, 1996 ." That said so little. He had been thirty-three years old. Never married, but engaged once. Several serious girlfriends. Loved his work, doing crossword puzzles, an ice-cold beer and salty popcorn when he was watching a ball game. His second toes had been longer than his big toes, and he hadn’t liked anything starched. She couldn’t have asked for a better brother.

She placed one of the bouquets on the grave, and numbly walked on. She stumbled a little, and Harmony placed a strong supporting hand under her arm.

"Are you all right?" "No, not really," Grace whispered. "But I have to do this."

Bryant’s grave had been in partial shade; Ford’s was in full sun, and the grass that covered it was thick and lush. "William Ford Wessner," the marker read. "BornSept. 27, 1961 – DiedApril 27, 1996 ." One more line had been added: "Married with Love to Grace Elizabeth St. John."

Grace’s knees buckled and she sank slowly to the grass, despite Harmony’s alarmed efforts to keep her upright. She reached out a trembling hand and traced the engraved letters of his name, trying to reach the essence of the man. She missed him so much, ached to see his crooked smile, or the humor in his twinkling eyes. He had died for her, and done it willingly.

"I’ll always love you," she promised him, though she could no longer read his name in the stone; everything was blurred. He was a man worth loving, and that feeling for him would never die out of her heart, any more than her love for her parents had died.

The human heart had the capacity to love many people, and none of those loves diminished it for the others. Niall had been in her heart even before Ford died, a tiny burning kernel of interest and respect. Losing Ford hadn’t extinguished that spark. Instead it had grown during the long months when she was alone, giving her the strength to go on. At first she had loved him as a person, and later she had loved him as a man.It had been a banked fire when she had gone back to his time, and when he stirred the coals the fire had blazed into an inferno. How many women were so lucky as to have two such loves? They were nothing alike in personality. Ford had been cheerful, good-natured; she suspected Niall could be the very devil to live with, as accustomed to command as he was. Different times, different men-and theywere both men, in the best sense of the word.

Harmony knelt down beside her, disregarding the effects of grass on her white pants. "Would he have minded?" she asked softly, nodding at the grave. "Or would he have wanted you to love again?"