The Chaos Café was open, but nearly empty. Reese went in the front door with the dog at his heels. Zubek, the big barista, looked at the dog, started to protest, then just shrugged. Reese looked around, but he didn’t see Christine Fitzgerald. “Scottie home?” he asked. Nearly everyone who knew Christine called her Scottie, but Finch didn’t, so Reese didn’t.
“Upstairs.” Zubec gestured towards the elevator. “Maybe you can talk some sense into her. I’m getting too damn old for this shit.”
“Okay.” John had no idea what the man was talking about. But he hated to admit something like that, so he didn’t. Whatever the woman was up to, Reese could hear about it from her. He led the dog onto the little elevator and closed it. Bear sat politely at his feet and looked up at him hopefully. “Yeah, we’re here,” Reese told him. “Now behave yourself. I don’t even know if she likes dogs.”
He didn’t know a lot of things about Christine Fitzgerald, Reese reflected. He’s spent one afternoon with her, saving her life from porn dealers and CIA part-time assassins. You could learn important things about a person when their life was in danger, but not the more trivial details. He knew she was smart and brave and that she trusted Finch completely. But he didn’t know if she liked cats. Or dogs.
Finch knew her better. The genius had taken her to lunch at least four times since her Number had come up. Reese had followed them on two of those dates, listened to every word they said. But cats and dogs had not been discussed.
Still, Reese’s instinct said this was the right play.
On the top floor, he opened the elevator gate and stepped into the little lobby. The big steel security door opened before they got there. Christine waited just inside; she had two big towels over her arm. Reese was surprised, until he remembered that she’d probably been watching his approach for ten blocks on her various camera feeds. Like Finch, she was unusually fond of surveillance.
“Hey,” Christine said. She stepped back while he and Bear entered the apartment, then closed the door and turned, held one towel out to him.
Reese felt his breath catch. Fury rose through his body like a wave. “What the hell happened to you?” he demanded.
It wasn’t really a question. He could see perfectly well what had happened to her: Someone had hit her, hard. Her right cheek was bruised deep purple from her jaw to her cheekbone. It was red at the edges and still swollen toward the center; it was probably 24 hours old. It was low enough that her eye wasn’t injured, but the cartilage at the front of her ear was definitely swollen as well.
“It’s okay,” Christine attempted to assure him.
“No,” John answered sternly, “it’s not.” He brought his hand up carefully, feathered his fingertips along the bottom of her jaw, not quite touching the bruise. He tried to keep the rage out of his voice, and failed utterly. “Who hit you?”
At his feet, Bear bristled. Without looking down, Reese held his free hand out, palm down. The dog sat, but remained highly alert.
Christine brought her own hand came up and wrapped it lightly around his wrist. She didn’t try to restrain him, or even to take his hand away. She just wanted to comfort him. And though Reese could see that she knew he was livid, he could also see that she still wasn’t afraid of him. She never had been.
“Some guy at the airport.” She met his eyes squarely. “Didn’t Fusco tell you?”
He hadn’t, and Reese planned a very short and pointed talk with the detective about that. “Where do I find him?”
“The guy from the airport? He’s in jail.” She smiled, but it looked like it hurt to do it.
“Christine … “
She cocked her head. “Lionel really didn’t tell you, did he? He was blowin’ up my phone at the crack of dawn.”
“I haven’t had a chance to talk to him,” he answered curtly.
“Baggage pick-up at LaGuardia,” she explained swiftly, “there was a guy ‘disciplining’ his toddler. I asked him to stop. The child abuse laws in this country? They suck. Strike a child violently in front of fifty people and the court will go all mealy-mouthed about parental rights and discipline and crap. But back-fist a total stranger in the same setting and you’re on your way to jail.” The quirky painful smile returned. “And if you just got out of prison for dealing drugs and your parole officer in Ohio finds out you got popped in New York on a flight from Mexico, you’re going to jail until your kid’s big enough to hit you back.”
Reese studied her cheek and then her eyes again. His fury began to wane. Far from feeling like a victim, Christine seemed to be downright pleased with herself. “You provoked him.”
“Damn right I did.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“I know where to pick my fights.”
She squeezed his wrist, then dropped her hand away. He lowered his. “You should keep ice on it,” John grumbled.
“Hour on, hour off, I know. I’m fine, John. Really. And I’m sorry you trudged all the way over here in the rain about this. You could have just called.”
Reese shook his head. Christine simply assumed that he ” or Finch, more likely ” had already known about the incident. And under normal circumstances she would have been right. Evidently Fusco had gotten flagged on the arrest report; normally Finch would have intercepted it. But nothing was normal with Finch right now. “That’s not actually why I’m here,” he admitted. “I need a favor.”
“Sure.” She studied him a little closer. He had the feeling she was reading way too much in his face. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Random’s okay?”
Random, he thought. She’d called Finch that from their first meeting at the café, and Reese had no idea why. “He’s fine.”
“Good.” Christine handed him the towel she’d offered before, then dropped to her knees beside Bear. “Hello, sweetie,” she said warmly. She draped the other towel over his back and began to dry his fur.
Reese watched closely, aware that the dog was still on edge. Bear wouldn’t act without a command, but he was definitely anxious. “He’s a trained attack dog.”
Christine glanced up at him. “Of course he is.” John amended his earlier guess. She knew dogs, and liked them well enough. She knelt in front of Bear, but slightly off to the side, not directly in his face, not forcing eye contact. Not challenging him. She moved briskly but not too fast, firm but not rough. She was calm, Reese thought, and unafraid. The dog visibly relaxed.
John unfolded his towel and dried his own hair. Then he slipped out of his jacket and hung it on a hook next to the door.
The woman moved her hands to the back of Bear’s neck and waited until the dog lowered his head, indicating his consent. Then she gently dried his muzzle and ears. The dog stood perfectly still; Reese could see from his posture that he was enjoying the rub-down. He could feel himself relaxing, too. The bruise on her cheek was vicious, but her manner convinced him that she wasn’t traumatized by the assault. Seeing it brought up all the old feelings, the old reactions. But watching her with Bear, he was able to let some of it go. The man who had hurt Christine wasn’t coming back.
She’d seen to that all on her own.
Christine moved to dry Bear’s legs. Instead of grabbing his foot, she tapped him gently behind the knee and he put his paw politely in her hand. When it was dry, they repeated the process with the other front paw, and then the back ones. When she reached under to dry his belly, Bear licked her bruised cheek, just once, very gently.
He acted as if he’d known her since he was a puppy.
Christine chuckled. “What’s your name, beautiful?”
“That’s Bear.” He draped the towel around his neck and toed out of his wet shoes without untying them.
“He’s gorgeous.”
“He knows.” Reese shook his head. “You’re embarrassing me,” he told the dog.
“He can’t help being a sweetheart. Look at that face.” Christine stood up. Bear immediately sat at her feet. “Okay. Whatcha need?”
Carefully, John reached into his pocket, cupped his little passenger in his hand, and held it out to her.
She regarded him with open suspicion for a long moment before she put her own hand out. He put the kitten gently in her palm. Christine squeaked, but he held on, steadied her until she looked closer and saw that it wasn’t a rodent. “Bear found him in a trash can.”
She stroked the kitten’s back lightly. It was still breathing, but it didn’t move. “He can’t be more than a couple days old. Were there others?”
“No.”
Christine lifted the kitten and stroked it against her unbruised cheek. Scent-marking, Reese thought, and wondered if she knew why she was doing it. Bear stood up and danced in a circle around her, then sat down again, watching, waiting. “We need to figure out some way to feed you, baby.”
“Medicine dropper?” John suggested.
“For starters, anyhow.” She went into the backroom, threw the dog’s towel into the tub, and grabbed a clean washcloth. She put the cloth and then the kitten into Reese’s hand and rummaged through the drawers. “No, wait, I’ve got something better.” She moved back past him, into the living room, and opened the drawers under her computer set-up. She came up with a small sterile package. Then she moved to the kitchen.
Reese followed her. He was pleased to see that there actually was an ice pack in the sink. He bent to examine the package. It was a plastic syringe with a curved tip, without a needle. Christine turned from the refrigerator with a small carton of cream in her hand. “It’s for glue,” she said.
“I never doubted you,” Reese assured her. The girl had been a heroin addict, and he knew Finch held a perpetual low-grade concern that she’d relapse. But it had been more than ten years ago; John didn’t worry. Much.
She poured some cream into a cup, then diluted it with warm tap water. “I’m sure the Goggle will have better ideas about feeding, but this will do for now.” She opened the syringe, then took the bundled kitten out of his hand. “Do you want some dry clothes?”
“I doubt you have anything in my size.”
Christine raised one eyebrow.
“Or maybe you do,” he conceded.
She gestured with her head toward her bedroom. “Remote in the bedside table. Press aux -8-1-5-aux-aux- cable- enter. Watch your toes.”
Curious, Reese went into the bedroom. The last time he’d been there, she’d had a standard queen-sized bed on a battered four-poster wooden frame with legs. The frame had been replaced now by a more modern one with a boxed-in wooden bottom. He found the remote and entered the code. There was a distinct ‘snap’ and then the entire side of the apparently solid wooden frame slid out about three inches. He crouched and pulled it out the rest of the way to reveal a large concealed drawer. It was pristinely organized and well-stocked with new items, all of them undoubtedly in his size.
There were dress shoes and sturdy boots. Three each v-neck white t-shirts, boxer briefs, black socks. A pair of sleep pants, a pair of gym shorts, and two solid-colored T’s. Jeans, casual cotton slacks, and dress slacks. A polo shirt, a long-sleeved jersey, and white dress shirt. A black tie. A windbreaker. A cheap cell phone, new in the package. An envelope that held, at a glance, roughly five thousand dollars in small bills.
No guns, he noted, and no ID.
If the stash was discovered, by Agent Donnelly or anyone else, all it proved was that Christine Fitzgerald kept men’s clothes hidden under her bed.
He wondered if there was a drawer on the other side full of Finch-sized apparel. It seemed likely.
Reese sighed. When Finch disappeared, he’d tried to call Christine and gotten no answer. He’d called Chaos, and Zubec had told him the woman was in Argentina. The barista said she’d be checking her e-mail, but Reese had let it go. It hadn’t seemed likely that she knew enough about their operation to be of much assistance. The fact that Finch had a stash here told John that evaluation was wrong.
Or maybe it didn’t. This woman has a special and deep-rooted loyalty to Finch; if he’d asked her to hide some clothes for him, she would have agreed with no questions asked.
After all this time, John thought, he still didn’t know much about how Finch operated, much less how he thought.
He took the casual slacks and the polo shirt, some dry socks and the shoes. He also grabbed the jacket for later. Then he pushed the drawer shut and went into the bathroom to change. He rolled his wet clothes neatly in the towel and set the bundle at the side of the sink. Fitzgerald was compulsively neat “ probably diagnosable, clinically compulsive “ and he consciously followed her example. It just seemed like good manners.
When he went back out, Christine was sitting on the couch, hunched over the kitten in her lap, and Bear was sitting at her feet, watching anxiously.
“Finch has been here,” he said.
Christine held the kitten on his back and prodded its tiny mouth with the tip of the syringe. The cream mixture rolled down his nuzzle, but none of it seemed to go in. “I went to Atlantic City for three days with a sailor, and that was there when I got back.”
Reese sat down on the couch next to her, stroked the kitten’s belly with his fingertip. “That’s disturbing.”
“It should be.” Christine shrugged. “But somehow it doesn’t bother me that he rearranged the furniture.”
“Not that. Atlantic City. What’s a nice Army brat like you doing chasing sailors?”
She glanced at him, smiled briefly. “I’m a sucker for good posture, shiny shoes and three-day passes.”
“Good to remember.”
Christine shifted the angle of the syringe tip. The kitten turned its head away. “We should see a vet in the morning, get her checked out.”
There was a very good chance, John realized, that if they couldn’t get him to eat, or at least hydrate, the kitten would be dead by morning. For the first time he considered that bringing it to Christine wasn’t a good idea at all.
Bear whined, very softly.
If this kitten dies, Reese thought, I’m going to have two broken hearts on my hands. “Let’s try this,” he murmured. He turned the kitten over, so that its belly rested on Christine’s palm. She tried the syringe again, from slightly above, and this time it seemed like a little of the cream actually went in.
After several more attempts and several very long minutes, the kitten’s tongue came out and lapped at the drops of cream.
“There we go,” Christine breathed.
Once he got the idea, the kitten drank steadily. Cream still dripped down his tiny muzzle, but some of it definitely went into his mouth. “He’s getting the hang of it,” Reese said.
She glanced up, smiled again. Though his words had been casual, he could tell she knew he’d been deeply concerned about the silly little thing. “I think he might be a she.”
“I didn’t really check.” Reese sat back, ridiculously relieved as the feeding continued. He blew out a long breath. ”How was Argentina?”
Her smiled brightened. “It was fantastic. I found our boy, stalked him for most of two weeks. He seems happy. Safe, anyhow.” She gestured with her head to her computer center. “There are pictures, if you want to see them.”
John rolled to his feet and walked over to the giant drop-down screens the Fitzgerald worked on. There were fifteen different things running, but he didn’t see the pictures.
“Zelda,” Christine called, “show Mr. Reese the file ‘Argentina Boy’.”
“You got it,” the computer answered, in her completely human-sounding British accent. The first picture popped up on the screen in front of him.
Bear glanced over when the computer spoke, but nothing more. John wondered if the dog even registered the voice as words, or if it was simply some computer noise to him. He knew dogs could recognize a human voice over the telephone or television, but Zelda’s voice had never been human. There had probably been studies about it. He could ask Finch.
But he wouldn’t. Because Finch would give him that look.
He turned his attention back to the pictures, tapped the screen and let them scroll slowly. They had first seen the boy tortured and crying in a child pornography video on a hidden web. He was older in Christine’s pictures, and he was smiling. He was playing on a beach with a dog of his own. Kicking a soccer ball. Sitting at a lunch table with friends. He seemed fit, healthy. Most importantly, as she’d said, he was safe.
The Machine hadn’t saved this particular boy, not directly. He’d already been rescued in an Interpol raid long before Finch and Reese got involved. But his image had remained, floating around the eternal internet, and his face had been the one that got Christine’s attention and put her life in danger. Because of that, the whole kiddie porn ring had been exposed and perhaps five hundred other abused, terrified children had been saved.
That had not, Reese thought with great satisfaction, been a bad day’s work. He let the feeling wash over him. It was easy to forget, sometimes, how good it felt when they won big.
He closed the pictures, glanced around the screen. There was a live feed from the café below. A dozen kids were there now, mostly young teens, some actually studying, most just socializing. The Chaos after-school homework program.
He glanced toward the couch. Christine was still feeding the kitten, and Bear remained steadfast at her feet. The bruise troubled him. She could have been badly hurt. You don’t protect a child with your own body …
He glanced at his wrist. There would always be a scar there. He’d torn it to shreds trying to get out of the handcuffs to save Leila.
But Christine wasn’t him, and she shouldn’t take chances like that.
Don't tell me what you believe, Reese thought. Show me what you do and I will tell you what you believe. All around him was evidence of what Christine Fitzgerald believed. Programs for school kids. Free networks for libraries and health care clinics. Assistance for bewildered veterans trying to navigate the VA’s arcane benefits system. Help for anyone who asked for it, and for anyone who needed it and couldn’t ask. Whatever she could do, wherever she saw a chance, to make someone’s life a little easier.
She could not have turned her back on the crying child in the airport, any more than she could ignore the screaming boy on a fragment of a film on a computer. She wore her bruise like a badge of honor, and as much as John hated to admit it, she was right.
She had turned out so well, when she so easily could have become …
John turned quickly, pretended to look at the other screen so that he could turn his back to Christine. Then he closed his eyes, tried to catch his breath. He was usually good at understanding his own motivations, but this one caught him off guard.
He knew why he was here.
He would have come here whether Bear had found the kitten or not. He’d been headed here from the minute he left the library. He would have let her think he was just showing off his new dog. Or that Fusco had told him about the incident at the airport and he was checking up on her. He would have said anything to explain his presence. But he’d absolutely needed to see Christine Fitzgerald. He’d needed it desperately. And he knew exactly why.
… when she so easily could have become just like Root.
Their backgrounds were eerily similar. They could have been some demented psychology experiment. Both had been born into dysfunctional families. Both were highly intelligent and gifted with an almost super-human talent with computers. Both had witnessed an intensely personal tragedy when they were fourteen years old.
Both were secretive and paranoid. Both frequently used their computer skills in illegal ways. Both had had multiple identities.
Both were devoted fans of Harold Finch and his work.
But when Root’s friend disappeared, Root had set out to punish the man responsible. When Christine’s father had been killed, she’d set out to punish herself. And when Harold had managed to halt Christine’s rush to self-destruction, she had turned her abilities to fixing the world, or at least her tiny corner of it. Root, on the other hand, had set her sights on ruling the world ” Reese assumed that’s what she wanted, anyhow ” and was willing to steal, kidnap, torture and kill to achieve that goal.
Samantha Groves had deceived and betrayed them. It was not the first time Reese and Finch had been fooled by a Number. But what Root had done had nearly cost Reese his only friend. He should have been smarter. He should have known. Somehow, he should have detected her deception before it put Finch’s life in danger.
He was deeply troubled by his failure. And worse, deeply frightened.
If he was going to continue to function, if he was going to get back on top of his game, he needed to put those feelings aside. He needed to learn whatever lessons the episode offered, and then he needed to move on. But it was easier said than done, when it had nearly cost Finch so much.
Though she did not know it, Christine Fitzgerald was his living antidote. She was the anti-Root, the other side of the mirror. The light to Root’s darkness.
She didn’t need to know that. And Reese didn’t need her to say or do anything in particular. He just needed her to be, exactly as she was and who she was.
Finch needs her, too, he thought. He needs to see her, to spend time with her. He needs to remember that he saved her. Twice. To remember that hundreds of children are safe today because he once helped a talented young junkie instead of turning his back on her. He needs to be reminded that while some of the consequences of his actions have been terrible, some have been very, very good. He needs to know what I know. It will help him get through this.
John took a deep breath, swallowed hard. He glanced over his shoulder. Christine was still intent on the kitten; she apparently hadn’t noticed his mental absence. He looked around at the other processes Zelda was running, hoping for a distraction. The largest was a map of Manhattan, with multiple overlays. “You looking for real estate?” He was surprised that his voice sounded convincingly casual.
“Starting to,” she answered. And then, “Don’t push it.”
Reese nodded. He and Finch and Fusco had all taken a shot at getting her to move out of this apartment “ the one over the bar where her father had been shot dead years before. He hadn’t thought it would be this easy. “Wouldn’t dream of it. But I know this guy who knows every inch of the city. He’s kind of a hermit, but I can hook you up, if you want.”
“You think he knows the tunnel systems?”
“Tunnels. Probably.” Reese studied the map in a new light. Old subway lines, and new ones, overlaid with new construction sites. Now that he knew what she was looking for, it made more sense. “You still think you need tunnels?”
“To feel safe? Yes.” From her tone, there was no negotiating that point.
Still, it was progress. Reese returned to the couch. The kitten’s feeding had slowed down. She finally turned her head away entirely. Christine put the syringe down and put the kitten on her knee. Bear stood up and moved closer. He wagged his tail and danced, eager but hesitant.
“Bear,” Reese said, “settle down.”
The dog looked at him, then back at the woman. Then he moved forward, slowly, carefully, as if he expected to be told no. Instead, Christine moved her hands back. Bear leaned and very gingerly took the kitten in his mouth. He looked up at her again. She sat still, silent. He carried the kitten a few feet away, lay her gently on the rug, and proceeded to lick her all over. The kitten’s mouth opened in protest, but no sound came out.
Reese looked at Christine. She watched them with amusement, but without concern. She knew perfectly well that Bear could snap the kitten in half, but she seemed absolutely confident that he wouldn’t.
She had been that way with Reese, the first time they’d met. Perfectly aware that he could hurt or kill her without much effort, and perfectly confident that he would do no such thing. Christine Fitzgerald was a confident judge of character, and apparently that extended to dogs as well as people.
Reese knew that abused children, particularly those with alcoholic parents, learned very early how to assess people and situations at a glance. Sometimes their lives depended on that ability. That Christine’s talent was so finely honed and deeply ingrained was, frankly, sad.
But as he would have told Finch, he reminded himself, she was here and safe and no one was hurting her any more. Not even the idiot at the airport.
The bruise still made him cringe. He would much rather have had it on his own face.
When Bear was satisfied that his little charge was clean, he lay down with his front paws on each side of the kitten. Then he scooted forward until the tiny cat was snuggled against his chest. He put his head down on his left paw, so that the kitten was covered but not crushed.
The dog sighed, apparently content.
“Your attack dog,” Christine said, “thinks he’s a big pussy cat.”
“I’m embarrassed,” Reese repeated, without meaning it.
“I won’t tell anyone.”
He sighed. “I could go get your some, I don’t know, cat litter? Whatever else you need.”
She glanced towards the window. The rain still poured down, though the thunder was quieter. “She can sleep on a towel tonight, and we’ll forage tomorrow.” Christine considered the dog and cat for a moment. “I suppose you want to see the tunnels here.”
It hadn’t actually occurred to Reese. He knew there were tunnels under the bar-turned-cyber-cafe; Christine and Finch had used them to escape earlier in the year. He had wanted to see them, for possible future use. That hadn’t been his goal today. Still, it seemed like a more respectable excuse for his visit than just bringing a tiny kitten. “I hadn’t planned on this, though,” he answered, gesturing to the furry duo. “I suppose they’ll be alright.”
“Looks like.” Christine stood up, carried the last of the cream and the syringe to the kitchen and rinsed them out. Then she went over to the computer desk and retrieved her tablet. She set it on the coffee table, adjusted it so that it was aimed at the sleeping pair. “And we can keep an eye on them, most of the time.” She put on her shoes, then retrieved a flashlight and a key from a mug on the top shelf of the cupboard. “This is for you, anyhow.”
Reese turned the key in his hand. It was small, common. The keychain had a small flower painted on it, a daisy. DaisyB had been Christine’s name, in her distant hacker past. “Thank you. You have one for Harold?”
She raised one eyebrow, and he realized it had been a stupid question. Finch had probably had one for weeks.
He felt just a little bit jealous.
He rubbed Bear’s ears and told him to stay. The dog did not even lift his head; he sighed happily and snuggled closer to his kitten. Definitely a bit embarrassing, and also endearing. So the vicious beast had a tender side. So did his owner. So what?
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