1988
“Uncle Harold?” the boy said quietly.
“Yes, Will,” Harold said absently, without looking up from the blueprints on the worktable in front of him.
“Uncle Harold,” he said again, this time with a very small quaver in his voice, “I fell down.”
Harold looked up “ and held his breath. The boy stood in front of him with his hands to his sides. Fresh blood started at his hairline and covered the left side of his face, his left shoulder, and most of the left side of his shirt. Harold’s stomach lurched with sickness and he forced it down. “So you did,” he finally managed to say. He was surprised but pleased that there was no panic in his voice.
He looked around. Nathan had gone in search of a tape measure and tape; they were both having trouble envisioning the lay-out that was on the blueprint and he wanted to mark it out on the floor. He pulled out his handkerchief and knelt in front of the boy. He dabbed at his forehead, but the blood seemed endless and he couldn’t see exactly where it was coming from. Will backed away from his touch.
Harold took his arm gently. “Here, here,” he said. He sat down in the folding chair, drew the boy onto his lap. He cradled him against his shoulder, with Will’s back against his own chest, and placed the handkerchief on the child’s forehead, where his best guess said the wound was. Then he held it firmly.
Will trembled. At least Harold thought it was Will; it was hard to be sure. He could feel his own heart racing. It was an awful lot of blood. And he was not particularly good with blood, his own or someone else’s. But what the boy needed at that moment was a calm and reasonable adult, and Harold was determined not to fail him. “Shhh,” he soothed. “You’re alright, Will.”
“Is it bad?”
“I don’t know. We’ll see in a few minutes. Let’s just apply some pressure for now.”
“Will that hurt?”
Harold chuckled. “Applying pressure is what I’m doing right now.”
“Oh. That’s not so bad.”
“Try to slow your breathing down. Take big deep breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth. It will help.”
Will tried his best. His breath was shaky, still too shallow, but Harold was pretty sure that was caused more by emotion than blood loss.
Nathan came back, with tape. “Harold, where’s the … what the hell?” He dropped to his knees in front of his son. “Jesus, Will, what did you do?”
For the first time tears glittered in the child’s eyes. “I fell down.”
“Were you running?” he barked. “I told you not to run in here. These unfinished floors are slippery. They’re dangerous, Will.” He looked up at Harold. “How bad is it?”
“We’ll see in a few minutes,” Harold answered calmly. He could feel the boy’s ribs shaking. He was trying desperately not to cry. He wasn’t sure when that had started, Will’s complete unwillingness to cry in front of his father. A year ago, at least.
“We should never have brought him with us. I knew it was a bad idea …”
The boy quivered again. Harold interrupted his father. “Why don’t you go find him a soda?”
“A what? You know his mother doesn’t like …”
“Nathan,” Harold said, very firmly.
Ingram hesitated. He’d gotten the message loud and clear: He was just making it worse. “Your mother’s going to kill me, you know.”
Will sniffed. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“Oh, Will.” He reached out and ruffled the un-bloodied side of the boy’s hair. “I’m not mad at you. I’m just …” He stopped, looked at Harold again, then back to the boy. “A soda, huh?”
Harold nodded. “Let’s give this a few minutes,” he said, gesturing with his chin towards the forehead. “Then we’ll see what we’re up against.”
Nathan nodded. “I’ll be right back.” He hurried out.
“Do I have to get stitches?” the boy worried.
“I don’t know yet,” Harold answered honestly. “Head wounds tend to bleed way out of proportion to their size.”
“Pro … what?”
“Proportion? That means …” Harold searched for the right words. He understood the concept perfectly well, but expressing it in small words was unexpectedly difficult. “Do you know ratio?”
“No.”
“Okay. Let’s see. You like to make your own cinnamon toast for breakfast, I hear.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you use the same amount of sugar and cinnamon? Or do you use more sugar?”
“More sugar,” the boy answered.
“Maybe twice as much sugar as cinnamon?”
“I guess.”
“That’s a proportion. Twice as much of one thing as another. And if you wrote that down as numbers, two colon “ that’s the two dots, on top of each other? “ one, that would be a ratio. Does that make sense?”
“I … guess.”
Harold smiled gently. “Let’s try another one. Let’s see … bubble bath. Do you use the same amount of bubbles and water?”
Will actually giggled. “No.”
“No, because that would just be a big tub of slime. So do you use twice as much water as bubbles? Is that the ratio?”
“No, I use like two capfuls.” The boy hesitated. “Sometimes three,” he admitted, “but Mom gets mad.”
“Right. So that ratio is more like one to a hundred, roughly? And the proportion is one part per hundred.”
Will nodded gently, against the pressure of his uncle’s hand. “I get it.”
“It’s important to try to keep the right proportions of things. For example, you want to eat four parts healthy food to one part dessert. Right? Or spend one part of your time on homework for every three parts you spend chasing girls.”
The boy made a face. “Ewwwwww!”
“You’ll get to that later,” Harold promised him. “Now, your head, and especially your face, have a lot of tiny blood vessels very close to the surface. So when you get a wound there it bleeds a lot. It frequently looks much more serious than it really is.” Harold glanced down at the sleeve of his jacket, now covered with the boy’s blood, too. But no new bleeding seemed to be happening under the handkerchief. “It’s like a capful of bubble bath makes a whole tub of bubbles. The amount of bleeding is out of proportion to the size of the wound. Understand?”
“I get it.” Will was relaxed in his arms now.
“Good.”
“I like it when you teach me stuff, Uncle Harold. It makes my head not hurt so much.”
Harold closed his eyes for a moment. There was something about this son of Nathan’s, something in his innocence and honestly, that sometimes sliced through all Harold’s carefully-constructed defenses and straight into his heart. It was unnerving, to be touched by someone’s words. It was wonderful. And it was rare. He sighed gently. “I’ve learned, Will, that learning something new is always a good way to reduce your pain. This kind, or the kind that’s in your heart. The human brain has a finite capacity for …”
“What?”
“Finite?” Harold asked. “Sorry. Finite means that something can be counted, that is has a limited size or capacity.”
“Uhhh …”
Nathan can back onto the empty floor, started across to them.
“The opposite of finite is infinite,” Harold continued. “There are an infinite number of fish in the sea. Too many to count. But only a finite number of those fish can fit in your boat, right? You could count them, or pretty nearly count them.”
“Ooooh.”
“Got that one, or do you need another example?”
“I got it,” the boy said happily. “But … it can change, right?”
“Hmmm?”
Nathan crouched in front of the boy, opened a can of Sprite and handed it to him. “Here.”
Will took it gingerly. “I like Coke better.”
“I know. But it’s too late in the day for you to have that much caffeine.”
“Caffeine?”
“It’s a chemical in soda and some other beverages,” Harold told him. “It keeps you awake.”
“Oh.” The boy sipped the soda. “The fish number. It can change, right? If they’re really big fish or really tiny fish?”
“Yes,” Harold said enthusiastically. “Very good, Will. Excellent thinking. But whether they’re big or small, they’re still countable. Still a finite number.”
Nathan looked at him again. “Infinity, Harold? He’s five years old.”
“Almost six!” Will protested swiftly.
“Your mind,” Harold told the boy, ignoring Nathan, “can only think about a few things at one time. It can only hold so many fish. So if you’re learning something new, it can’t concentrate on how much your head hurts. Or your heart, when you’re old enough to change your mind about girls.”
Will giggled again.
Nathan sighed. “Well, shall we?”
Cautiously, Harold lifted his hand and the handkerchief. Nathan leaned forward to study the wound. Harold tipped his head to look.
“Do I have to get stitches?” Will asked again, with fear back in his voice.
“I don’t know …” Nathan reached out finger out, stopped just short of touching the boy. “There? Is that it?”
“I think so,” Harold agreed uncertainly. The injury was just below the hairline, and no bigger than the very tip of Will’s smallest finger. He turned the handkerchief over and wiped away part of the drying blood. “I don’t see anything else.”
Nathan sat back on his heels. “Did you land on a bolt or something? The head of a screw?”
Will shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t see it.” And then, again, “Do I have to get stitches?”
“I don’t know.” Nathan looked at Harold again, uncertainly. “It’s not very big, but it’s deep. I suppose we should have someone look at it?”
“Or you could just put one of those dot bandages on it and call it a day,” Harold countered. “It’s already stopped bleeding. He’s current on his tetanus vaccine, isn’t he?”
“I’ll have to check.”
“I don’t want any shots,” Will protested.
Nathan sighed. “Will …” He stood up, put his hand out to the boy. “Let’s get you home and clean you up. Then we’ll see if we need to go see a doctor.”
Will slid to his feet and took his father’s hand, but he looked back anxiously. “You don’t,” Harold assured the boy. “You’re fine.” He leaned forward and looked at the wound one last time. “And you’re going to have a small but very interesting scar there.”
The boy almost grinned. “Like a pirate?”
“Like a pirate.”
Nathan shook his head. “Don’t encourage the boy, Harold.” But his chiding was light. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with either of you.”
They started out of the empty room. At the doorway, Will said, very quietly and with great almost-six-year-old gravity, “Well, you could buy us ice cream.”
Nathan looked at him, surprised. Then he looked at Harold, spread his free hand in bewildered supplication. Harold simply laughed, and after a minute Nathan laughed with him.
Will said, “Does laughing mean yes?”
_____________________________________________________________________________
2012
Reese sat behind the wheel of the unremarkable sedan and listened to Finch and his nephew as they left the airstrip. The boy was complaining when he got in the car and didn’t seem likely to stop soon. Finch’s side of the conversation was limited to sympathetic grunts and noncommittal murmurs. Reese knew that sound from him; it meant that his boss was only barely paying attention and had no intention of arguing. Evidently he’d taken Julie Essex’s advice to heart. Either that, or he’d decided there was no point in speaking until the young man had finished venting.
The boy’s complaints veered wildly between his newly-imposed travel restrictions and the deep betrayal he felt he’d been subjected to. The woman’s lies took on a bigger part of the rant as he went on. Reese nodded to himself. It was exactly the response the State Department had wanted, the response they had deliberately provoked. He would probably turn his attention to the passport issue sooner or later, but for the first few weeks, at least, his outrage would be personal. It would be all about the girl.
She’s broken cover to distract Will Ingram. And it had worked perfectly.
Reese watched as Finch’s car turned onto the access road and headed back toward the city. As far as he could tell, no one followed. That didn’t mean anything; he’d have chosen overhead surveillance, himself.
He turned the volume on their conversation down low and focused his attention on their target. He knew that Finch had set up a recording of the phone tap at the library so that he could review the conversation later if necessary, but he might catch actionable intelligence in real time.
Julie left the small hangar shortly after Finch and Ingram and walked to a car with her handler, Joe Kemp. “That went well,” the man said dryly.
“I knew it would,” Julie answered. She sounded tired.
“How’d you do with the uncle?”
“Good. He’s on board with us. I told you he would be. He’s Ingram’s voice of reason.”
“Maybe the voice of reason should speak up a little more often.”
“Mmmm. You got my other bag?”
“In the trunk.”
“Pop it.” Julie threw her gear into the trunk, and set the box of chocolates beside it. Reese glanced at his tablet and found he had a lovely close-up view of the car’s upholstery and a more distant one of a carry-on bag. Then both went dark as she slammed the trunk.
“How’s Melanie?” Julie asked as she got into the front seat.
“She’s good,” Kemp started the car. “She finished her last chemo two weeks ago. Her appetite’s coming back. A little.”
“Good to hear. It’s been a long haul for you guys.”
“Yeah, it has.”
“The kids?”
“They’re okay. Stressed out. Having my mom there helps.”
“Good.”
There was a pause in the conversation. Kemp steered the car toward Manhattan. Reese gave them a comfortable head start and pulled out after them.
“You okay?” Kemp finally said.
“Yeah. Just tired.”
“Well, let’s get your paperwork done and I’ll drop you off at the hotel.”
Julie groaned out loud. “I already sent you the preliminary. Can’t I do the rest tomorrow? Please?”
“Just get it over with, kid.”
“No, seriously, Joe. I’m exhausted, I’m starving, and I’m covered with the ichor of Agency smugness.”
Kemp chortled. “That bad, huh?”
“Oh, my God. Couldn’t you have sent the Marines or the Rangers or the SEALs or the damn Cub Scouts? I hate those CIA jerks.”
“What’s the difference?”
Reese shook his head. He’d been on both sides; he knew there was a huge difference.
“When a Marine’s done shooting, he’s still a Marine. When an Agency guy is done shooting, he turns into a condescending asshole.”
Kemp laughed. “And they say such nice things about you.”
“Uh-huh. Things like, ‘she stays out of the way when we tell her to’ and ‘she’s got a nice ass’.”
“Well … yeah, pretty much.”
Reese nodded to himself. He hated to admit it, but she had it exactly right.
The girl muttered something about pretentious overgrown frat boys and fell silent.
After a time, Kemp said, “This isn’t about the CIA. What’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
“You upset about the boy? “
“No.”
“Jules. You lied to him. He’s pissed off. He’ll get over it.”
“I know.”
“He’s an ungrateful little snot, just like every other rich kid. So what?”
“It’s not Will,” Julie answered. “I told you, I’m just tired. Been a hell of a week. And now I appear to be in freaking New Jersey. Why the hell am I in New Jersey, Joe?”
“You’re changing the subject. You always fall in love with them.”
She snorted. “Shut up.”
“I keep tellin’ you, kid …”
“Yeah, yeah. Shut up.”
“You do look like hell. Listen, after you finish the paperwork “ tomorrow, fine “ you should take some down time. Maybe go see your folks, kick back in the lap of luxury.”
There was a long pause. “What?”
“Go home. Get a massage and a mani-pedi or whatever you girls do. Go ride a horse or go sailing or swimming or whatever. Relax.”
The second pause was even longer. “What?” Julie said again.
Joe sighed loudly. “Julie, you haven’t seen your parents in over a year. You should go home for a while.”
“They got to you,” she said slowly. “My parents got to you.”
“They didn’t get to me …”
“They got to you,” she repeated. “What the hell, Joe? How much did they pay you? What did it cost to lure you into their corner?”
“They’re your parents and they miss you,” Kemp repeated. “All I did was agree to encourage you to go for a visit. It’s not a big deal. But they’re right. You should go.”
“How much, Joe?” Julie insisted. She didn’t sound precisely angry to Reese, but under her bantering tone there was a level of steel. She wasn’t happy about it.
“They, uh, they sent me a cooler full of prime rib.”
“You sold me out for a box of meat. Nice.”
“Hey,” Kemp protested, “it’s not meat, it’s prime rib. Do you have any idea how much that costs these days?”
“No, actually. There wasn’t a lot of steak in Mali.”
“Well trust me, it costs an arm and a leg. And besides, it wasn’t one box. They send a cooler every week.”
“So you sold me out for a box of meat and a heart condition. That makes it much better.”
“I haven’t had prime rib since before Melanie got sick. So yeah, I took a bribe and I told them I’d send you home. You want to turn me in for that, go ahead. Jesus.”
There was a long, uneasy silence. Reese noted that the handler drove a little faster; he accelerated to keep up. “Don’t talk to my parents anymore,” Julie said.
“Fine. I don’t know what you …”
She interrupted, excited. “Did you see that guy?”
“What guy?”
“In that cab. Right there. Catch up with him.”
“What?”
“Just catch up with him,” she insisted urgently. “Do you have a camera?”
”What? No.”
“Joe, catch up with him.”
He gunned the engine as directed, and Reese sped up again to stay with him. He saw the girl moving in the passenger seat; she climbed over the seat and landed in the back.
“Who is he?” Kemp insisted. “Who the hell am I chasing?”
“I don’t know,” Julie answered. She had moved to the driver’s side and from the sound of the wind, rolled down the window. “But I’ve seen him a couple times now. Come on, Joe, get me closer.”
“Jesus,” he muttered again. “Seen him where?”
“I don’t know. But I recognize him.”
“He’s probably some TV star or something. ‘Dancing with the Stars’ or one of those things.”
“Joe,” the woman said firmly, “I have watched no American television for more than a year. Skinny one on the right. Go go go.”
He accelerated again and drew even with the cab. Reese heard the click of a cell phone taking pictures. He was driving too fast himself to look at his phone, but he knew he’d captured whatever she was clicking on.
The cab swerved in front of them, then to the far lane, and took the next exit ramp off the freeway.
Kemp slowed his vehicle to within shouting distance of the speed limit, and Reese dropped his own car back again. The girl vanished in the back seat. A minute later she stuck her feet out the side window. Her sneakers waved in the rushing wind.
“You get it?” Kemp asked.
“Ahhh … crappy picture,” Julie answered. “I’ll send it to you. Can you run it for me?”
“What the hell am I running? Some picture of a guy you think you might have seen before somewhere?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not even on an assignment,” he reminded her.
“I know. But run it anyhow. Please.”
“Get your feet back in the car before I get pulled over.”
The feet disappeared. A moment later the girl clambered over the seat back and dropped into the passenger seat again.
“You’re jumping at shadows,” Kemp said.
“Maybe.”
“You been in the field too long. You need some downtime.”
“You may be right.”
“Go see your folks.”
“Joe. Shut up about my parents.”
“Fine.”
Another long silence. Finally, Julie said, “Where’d you book me?”
“Courtyard. Same as always.”
“No. Take me to the Mandarin.”
“What?”
“I want to stay at the Mandarin.”
“Your per diem won’t begin to touch that place.”
“I don’t care,” she answered. “As you’ve so helpfully reminded me, I have money of my own. And they have the best lap pool in the city.”
“Whatever you say.” After a pause, he asked, “That’s not where Ingram’s staying, is it?”
“No.”
“Look, Julie, I know you. You fall in love with all of them. The ambassadors, the grannies, the kids … especially this guy. You need to stay away from him.”
“You think I don’t know that, Joe?” Julie snapped. “I know how I am about my cases. I know I get way too involved, and I know I work better that way. And I know how to get myself out of it. I don’t need your advice on that. And I don’t need your advice about my home life.”
“Fine. Fine. Maybe all you rich kids are alike after all.”
“Maybe we are, Joe. Maybe all of us resent being betrayed by people we should be able to trust.”
“I didn’t betray you. I talked to your parents. God, stop being such a little drama queen.”
They were silent for the rest of the drive into the city. Reese checked in on Finch and Ingram; their car had gone silent, too. When the silence finally broke, Finch’s was the first voice Reese was able to hear. “Do you want me to come in with you?”
“No,” Will Ingram grumbled. “I just want to shower and sleep.”
“I’ll come pick you up at dinner time, then.”
The young man sighed. “Uncle Harold …”
“No argument, Will. Get some rest. I’ll see you this evening.”
“Fine,” he answered without enthusiasm.
There were doors opening and closing. Reese turned them down, listened to the other car. There, finally, Joe Kemp was the first one to speak. “I’m sorry, Julie. I didn’t realize it would be a big deal.”
“Just don’t talk to them anymore. And for the love of God, don’t tell them I’m here.”
“Fine. Paperwork. Eight-thirty tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Run that picture for me.”
More car doors; a trunk opened. The candy cam jiggled. “Hey, Jules?”
“Yeah?”
“This guy in the picture. I don’t think it’s anything. But keep your head up, okay?”
“Now who’s jumping at shadows?”
“Just looking out for you, kid.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
The trunk slammed, and the girl went into the hotel.
_____________________________________________________________________________
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