Smith grunted.
"She wasn't right, was she?"
"Who?"
"Darcy Devoe. She said you were two of a kind. Are you?"
Remo slept.
"Are you?" he asked the following evening.
"Yes, I suppose I am."
"Did you love her?"
"I'm a married man," Smith said.
"Oh, come on."
Smith sat up. The tube was out of his arm. "No. No, I didn't."
"But you could have."
"We could all do a lot of things. We don't," Smith said tersely. "She's dead, you know."
"Yeah, I figured. I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
"I wanted to stop killing once. It can't be done."
"I understand," Smith said.
"No, you don't. I don't. But that's just the way it is. Some people have to die."
"I suppose so," Smith said. He cleared his throat.
It was light. Remo opened his eyes. The bandages had been removed. Smith sat in bed, a breakfast tray covered with papers on his lap.
"Hey, I can see."
Smith looked over, annoyed at being interrupted. "Er... That's fine."
"Did you do it? Get Thompson out?"
"I'm trying to work." Smith turned back to his papers.
"Well?"
"Yes, I did," Smith said irritably. "Although I'll never understand why. I must not have been myself."
Remo smiled. "Thanks," he said.
Smith rustled his papers and pretended to read.
the end