Obsession And Redemption by callih

Chapter One (It's All In How You Look At It....)

A startling crack of lightening lit up the surrounding skyline.

John Reese instinctively shielded his eyes from the blinding light. In the split second before the effect faded, a distinct imprint of the rain soaked streets below his fifth story loft, was etched upon his mind's eye.

A low, ominous roll of thunder echoed about the taller buildings in the area.

He could remember a time when a good rainstorm meant a decent night's sleep. He glanced over to the ruffled covers of his queen sized bed. To be warm and toasty inside comfortable sheets while the elements raged outside was a luxury he could no longer afford.

The truth of the matter was, Reese could not recall the last time he had a good night's rest...unless you counted that little incident on top of that roof downtown a couple months back.

Being wounded by a high-powered weapon often called for a little more pain relief than over the counter medicines supplied. The stuff that doctor had given him had taken the decision out of his hands.

They told him he had slept for two days. He didn't remember the days which followed too well, only awakening in a clean, sterile hotel room with one hell of a headache and the feeling that half his gut was missing and the half that was left was on fire and hurting like hell.

At least a real Doctor had been present that time, offering good drugs to counteract the pain and the room was spacious and lit with soft rays of sunlight in the early afternoons that kinda cheered him somewhat.
A more welcoming awakening, than some other 'iffy' moments in his past life.

Nights like this brought it all back.

Reese looked out on the silent streets, staring at the night through world-weary eyes.

Still, he mused, it wasn't as bad as it used to be.
He had a place. He glanced around the darkness behind him absently. It was a nice place. He hadn't really made it 'home' as yet, granted. Finch must have paid a pretty penny for a loft in this section of Chinatown. It had even come furnished. The guy had good taste, Reese had to give him that.

Yeah, he had a place...he had even been given a purpose, one he felt good about again. Which was more important to him, than he wanted to admit.

He even had friends...well, people he could count on. People that had his back. People he trusted...for the most part. Good people. Decent people. People that had no hidden agendas.

He had forgotten people like that existed.

He closed the blinds, the ones he had come home to one day. Finch must have thought he needed a little privacy. Or maybe someone complained about him walking around at night in the raw. Who knew?

He headed for the john. He needed to piss. His bladder was crying out for a little relief. Scotch went straight through him these days.

He needed to catch a few more winks. He had a hard taskmaster these days, one who expected a clear head and keen wits about a guy at all times.

A difficult mission to accomplish, on a couple hours sleep and a fourth bottle of hooch.

The good news? That fourth bottle used to constitute two or three whole ones.

Things were looking up.

A vivid flash of light lit the entire area outside Harold Finch’s massive windows. The mammoth abandoned library building the man used as a temporary headquarters, shook with the power of the sizzling strike of electricity.

Finch did not even note the lightening flash or the subsequent thunder boom which followed, too engrossed in the data flitting across his computer screens.

A minute part of his infamous brain did register a slight annoyance, for the decibels of the storm filtered through, disturbing his absolute concentration somewhat.

Anything or anyone accomplishing such a goal always got under his skin just a tad.

Not much managed break the usual façade of determined ‘cool’ the man exuded however.

Harold Finch was the ultimate multi-tasker, able to balance any number of mind boggling tasks at once.
To say he was ‘focused’ was a gross understatement.

His rapid eye-hand movement ceased for a moment, his capable hands hovering over the keyboard. Harold stared blankly at the information loading on his screens. He read rapidly.

Without hesitation or forethought, he reached for his cell, pushing the second digit, waiting patiently for the now familiar voice to pick up on the receiving end of the call.

He did not have long to wait.

“Mr. Reese…we have a new number...two actually.”
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Across town, in a less descriptive part of the city, in a decidedly less expensive apartment complex, a young woman hunkered down into a soft, fuzzy coverlet, her pretty enough features scrunched into a determined concentration.
Her blonde, unruly curls were twisted haphazardly about a black velvet tie, setting precariously askew the top of her head, long tendrils escaping, framing a small, heart-shaped face with soft abandonment.

She sat on a well-used but still functional divan of light crushed faux leather material, her petite figure all but enveloped by the oversized jungle-print 'throw' she had snuggled into.

She scribbled frantically, jotting down a bold faced print, her hands moving quickly over the off-white sheets of the notebook she held close to her face, pen to paper. She was nearsighted and without her glasses at the moment.

The one dim light of the small room offered little luminosity for the task she had assigned herself.
The blinding streak of lightening startled her from her reverie, a tiny feminine gasp escaping her suddenly stiff form.

Wide set emerald eyes blinked anxiously at the following thunder clap and for a brief moment, she watched the heavy rain sheet down the skylight above her head, unto the north pitch of the roof.

Inclement weather was summarily dismissed in the next instance however. It was late and she had a deadline to meet.

She had already sent her synopsis to David, her publisher. Something she always regretted but such was the nature of her beast. She wasn’t going to waste time writing something no one had an interest in reading.

But, once a project caught her attention, her imagination was fired, adrenalin fueled her creativity.
From then on, it was a veritable race to see which gave out first...her nervous system or her over-active brain.

The entire time it took to complete the project, she lived on strong coffee, fast food, white frosted donuts and nervous energy.

It was an exciting time, a good time, and except for the evitable ‘crash’ which always followed, the best time ever!

After weeks of suffering from ‘writer’s block’, things were looking up.

“..Harold, it’s four- twenty in the morning.” Reese rubbed his bleary eyes, rolling over in his new Tempur Pedic bed, struggling to a sitting position on the side of the mattress, stifling a yawn.

The statement momentarily waylaid the other man. “…Your point?”

Reese drew in a breath, shaking his head slightly, a quick grin coming and going on the ridiculously handsome face.

“Time is of the essence, Mr. Reese. I have dispatched Detective Fusco to a ..” the man checked his ‘source’, glancing at his screen absently. “Ms. Taylor Davidivitch’s home address. She is employed by Harper and Cain Publishers. So far, nothing is showing up in her financial records. But her life is pretty much an open book. I reference of course, her ‘Facebook’ page. To say the woman is ‘open and frank’ concerning her… well, almost every aspect of her personal life right down to her last fiasco of a date with a line dancer from the Off-Broadway musical, ‘The King and I’.” Finch was astounded. “I didn’t even have to hack her account… she ‘friended’ me.”

Reese frowned slightly, pulling on the jeans he had grabbed from the back of the high back chair beside his bed. He had actually picked that one out himself just last week. He hadn’t sat in it for any extended period of time but he had liked it in the show room. “I don’t like musicals.”

“The fact women put such personal details out there for any and all to peruse is a little more than frightening to me.”

“Yeah, they really should be more circumvent. Never know who is lurking out there on the Internet these days.” Reese could not resist a slight ‘dig’ to his employer, his smile reaching his eyes only.

“I’m sending you the other woman’s address.” Finch punched the correct buttons, choosing to ignore the veiled insult sent his way. “Amanda Collins.”

Reeses’ mood faded as he checked his phone, reading the street numbers, memorizing them instantly. He finished buttoning the light gray shirt, putting his cell into the inside pocket of his jacket, the one hanging on the back of the kitchen table. “The author?”

“I wouldn’t refer to her as such. She has published a few rather tawdry novels over the past seven years.” Finch had read as much from his computer data. “What passes for literature these days not only troubles me, Mr. Reese...it rather appalls. I long for the days where a writer used his intelligence and wit.”

“She was on the New York Times best seller list a few times.” Reese had actually tried to read one of the novels a few years back. He preferred skimming the ‘good parts’ “Page 146 held some promise...I believe the title of the book was something along the lines of ..” The man mused, automatically setting his security system before opening the door to his apartment, exiting into the long corridor which would lead to the elevator to the left. “Scottish Lord’s Mistress …or was it, Highland Slut.”

“Laird.” Finch corrected. “You made those titles up. None of which was listed on her ‘homepage.’”

“A publisher...an author.” Reese road patiently down in the empty elevator, his thoughts flowing freely. “Must be connected.”

“Undoubtedly but as of now..” Finch concurred. “I can only find the obvious. Nothing in either individual’s past or present even remotely suggests a reason to target them.”

“As you once said...no one said it would be easy.” Reese had come to accept that fact. “I’m on our Ms. Collins, contact you when I know more.”