Chapter Text
The tall black man in the puffy American parka visited the organic farm outside Vernon, B.C. twice. The first time was in winter, and he didn't stay long.
The second time, he brought two men with guns. It was spring time, and they all tramped through the wet grass thick with flowers to the crest of the hillside. The farm was visible, and a slice of blue water, and beyond it the folds of purple mountains.
He stood and looked down at the paler grass on the newest mound, then drew out his phone and took several photos of the headstone. The old woman in the red kerchief stepped back and bowed her head.
Then he knelt as the other two men stood about awkwardly. The knees of his khakis were wet and muddy when he rose.
As they watched, the old woman stepped forward, crossed herself, and pressed a kiss to her fingers, then reached over and touched the small gray slab carved simply with 'Elizabeth and Baby Son' above the date.
"They're at peace now," she said softly. "No one can ever hurt her again."
***
Raymond Reddington no longer talks only to Agent Keen. He talks to anyone at the FBI who will listen.
Dembe follows even the most tenuous of leads, but Elizabeth Keen has vanished.
British Columbia is such an unlikely place for his search to come to an end.
"Raymond."
Dembe has to drive down into Vernon to get cell service. The men in the front seat, hired muscle from Vancouver, listen to the radio without even bothering to eavesdrop.
"Yes, Dembe? Tell me some good news. I've had nothing but rain and dreary conversations with Donald for the past three days."
"I'm sorry, Raymond. The news is very bad."
Dembe would do anything not to make this call. Anything, except lie to his blood brother. He promised to stay in touch.
"Tell me."
"I'm so sorry." He pauses, trying to decide what to say before texting the photos.
"Was she?" Red asks into the silence.
"They are buried together."
Dembe hears just one, incredulous sob before the phone disconnects.
He texts the photos, closes the phone. If he were a drinking man, this would be the time.
***
"Tell me exactly what she said."
Red is sitting in the darkness, just the firelight playing over his still features, glinting from the crystal glass of scotch in his hand. Several empty bottles sit on the table in front of him, and dirty glasses litter every surface.
Dembe crosses the room and sits beside Red. Ignoring the heat and smell of the room.
"This woman, Margeta, she is the house mother. She claims that when I first arrived, the events were ... very recent. That they lied to protect the other women, in case they were blamed for what happened."
"Why wasn't she in hospital? Did they keep her out there, against her will?"
Dembe shakes his head.
"No, she refused to see a doctor. She never went back into town, not once after she arrived."
Red takes another sip of his scotch.
Dembe waits for the next question. They have been over this on the phone. More than once, on that long flight home.
"And she never gave him a name?"
Dembe shakes his head again.
"She did not survive to see him born."
He holds out his arms as Red collapses forward into them, sobbing drunkenly.
***
Margeta tucks a few stray wisps of white hair up under her red kerchief as she stirs the huge pot of chicken stew simmering on the back of the stove.
"Tell me exactly what he said," Liz asks, rapidly cutting out biscuits and setting them in lines on the waiting baking sheets.
"I believed that headstone was a foolish waste of money," the old woman says, shaking her head.
"You couldn't know," responds Liz. Dembe. Not the FBI. She can't help but feel touched.
"He said he found out that we lied to him. He searched the entire house, woke the whole nursery in the middle of nap time."
Liz carries the first two trays to the preheated oven, and waits until Margeta opens the door, then slides them in.
"I'm so sorry about the guns," she says.
Margeta shrugs.
"Wasn't the first time, won't be the last."
The big white farmhouse can hold sixteen women, two to a room, but there are only seven in residence at the moment, plus the babies, along with Liz, Margeta, and elderly Alaine who lives above the stables. The rest of the farmhands are day labor.
"It was just luck that I wasn't here," says Liz somberly. "We're going to need to move on again."
A tall, slim teenager with long blond braids wanders into the room, a plump, drooling baby on each hip.
"He's getting hungry again, Beth," she says, waiting for Liz to place the last two trays of biscuits in the oven before handing her son to her.
Liz settles him onto her lap and begins nursing him, stroking his fluffy copper curls back from his forehead.
"He's always hungry," she muses, smiling down at him, "Aren't you, my sweetheart, my darling, my Ray?"