The scream ripped through the dark silence.
Finch sat straight up at his desk. Pain stabbed violently at his neck. He froze, his mouth open, gasping for breath. He heard Bear’s nails scramble on the wood floor, and then the dog was at his knee.
A second scream sounded.
“Finch?” Reese said urgently.
“I’ve got her,” Christine answered swiftly. And then, “Lis! Lis, wake up! Come on, wake up. You’re okay. Wake up.”
Finch sat back slowly, adjusted his glasses, rubbed his neck. He listened while Christine comforted the teenager. The panic drained from his body; the pain in his neck lessened as he relaxed. He reached down and patted Bear’s head reassuringly.
“You’re alright,” Christine murmured on the com, over and over. “Come on. Come with me.”
Elisa Holland simply sobbed.
“Finch?” Reese said again, more quietly.
“I’m here,” Finch answered, to Reese and to Christine. “I’m here.”
There was running water, more comforting murmurs. The teenager’s sobs quieted. “I’m sorry,” she said, then hiccupped. “I’m sorry.”
“You had a nightmare,” Christine told her. “You’re okay now. Shh. Shh. Here. Blow your nose.”
The girl sniffed, then blew. “My mom used to do that. Wash my face with a cool washcloth when I had a nightmare.”
“It wakes you up all the way,” Christine answered. “Keeps the dream from coming back.”
Lis began to cry again. “I miss my mom. I miss my mom.”
“Then go home.”
“I can’t,” Lis wailed. “I can’t!”
There was more crying, more wordless murmurs of comfort. Finch stood up and walked around his desk slowly, stretching his legs and back. Bear watched him for a moment, then went back to his bed and relaxed. Harold continue to pace. He hated it when he fell asleep at his desk; he always woke up in agony. And he did it far too often. He moved slowly, easing the muscles, relaxing the old wounds as well as he could.
And listening to the child weep.
He knew John was there, too, somewhere in the darkness, listening with him.
Finally Christine spoke again. “Alright, Lis. Listen to me. Listen. Is someone at home hurting you?”
“What? No.”
“Then go home. You are not going to survive out there. Go home.”
“You don’t understand …”
“I do understand. I lived out here, and I almost died out there. You will not make it. If you want to live, you have to go home.”
“I can’t. I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because Eddie needs me!”
“Eddie’s not going to make it out there, either, Lis.”
“You don’t understand.”
Christine exhaled audibly. “Then explain it to me.”
“I … I can’t. But Eddie ” Cash needs me. If I go home he’ll be all alone again. He needs me. He loves me.”
“If he loved you, he would not put your life at risk.”
“He didn’t!”
“He did,” Christine answered, “and he did it more than once. If he loved you, he would have made you stay home where you were safe. And he’d be getting some kid of education and some kind of job, instead of robbing tourists and having you live under a bridge with him.”
“Haven’t you ever loved anybody?”
“Part of loving someone is taking care of them. Doing whatever you have to do to protect them. Giving up what you want to be sure they have what they need.”
“But I have to take care of Cash. Don’t you get it? He’s all alone.”
“Lis … “
“I love him,” the girl said stubbornly. ”And doesn’t that mean I should give up what I want to be sure he has what he needs?”
Finch stopped pacing, looked up. “The child actually makes a reasonable argument.”
“It would be a reasonable argument,” Christine countered, to both of them, “if you were twenty-six. If you had some idea where you were going and what you were giving up. But you’re sixteen. And from what I’ve seen you do not have a clue. You don’t. And neither does Clay.”
“He knows. He’s doing what he has to do.”
“If you stay out there, both of you, then whatever you were going to be, whatever you were going to do with your life, it’s gone. You are all you will ever be, right now, just like this. If you survive, you will be a young street rat and then you will be an old street rat, and there is nothing else in your future. But if you go home, if you go back to school, then all your futures come back to you. All your options open up again.”
“I can’t go home. Cash can’t go home.”
Christine hesitated. “Is someone at home hurting him?”
“No. I mean … no.”
“You don’t sound very sure of that.”
“On it,” Finch said. He sat down and pulled his keyboard to him.
“Cash and his dad … they don’t get along. They never have. But it’s not like he beats him or anything like that. It’s just fighting. Arguments, not fight fights.”
“You can’t take care of Cash, Lis, until you can take care of yourself. And you are nowhere near ready to do that.”
“I’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out together. But I have to stay with him. Otherwise he’s all alone. You don’t get him, that’s all. You don’t understand.”
There was a long pause. “You’re right,” Christine finally said. “I don’t understand.”
“I love him,” Lis stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And I’m going to stay with him and take care of him. Because he needs me. Because without me he’s all alone. And he shouldn’t have to be all alone while he’s trying to take care of … “
She stopped dead.
“Take care of who?” Christine prompted.
“I’m really tired,” Lis answered. “I’m gonna go back to bed.”
Finch shook his head. He brought up the link to Amelia’s video plea and shot it to the girl’s e-mail anonymously.
“Tell her to check her e-mail before she goes back to sleep,” he told Christine.
Christine did so. The teenager sniffed some thanks; the bedroom door closed quietly.
After a moment, Finch said, “Christine?”
“I’m here,” she answered. “I’m sorry. I should have figured out something else to say to her.”
“You did fine,” he assured her. “You did the best you could. She’s just not ready to listen yet.”
“Is there something about this boy that I’m not seeing? Or is she just really that dumb?”
“Some of both, perhaps.”
Christine went silent again. Across the space between them and the silence, Finch could feel how weary she was. “Are you alright? We could make other arrangements for the girl …”
“No, it’s okay. I think I might actually be making progress with her. Tiny, tiny increments of progress. Hang on.” After a moment she came back on the phone. “What was in her e-mail?”
“A video that her younger sister made. Is it working?”
“She’s in there crying her eyes out. I’d say it got through the fog of Clay.”
“Good.”
After another long pause, Christine said, “Fusco called before. Mrs. Antonucci died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. I guess. I don’t know. I’ll miss her.” She sighed. “You never said. Would you do it?”
Finch blinked. “Would I have killed him?” He thought about it for a very long moment. “I … think I would. But I would agonize over it, before and after.”
“Yeah.” Her voice sounded like a soft fond smile. “That was my guess.”
“Would you?”
“Absolutely,” she answered without hesitation. “But I would have killed myself, too.”
“Even if, as Detective Fusco says, suicides go to hell?”
“Me and the Catholic church parted company a long time ago. And I can’t reconcile an all-knowing, all-loving God who would punish her behind a thing like this.” She paused. “Of course, there’s an awful lot in the world that I can’t reconcile. But that’s a discussion for another day.”
“It sounds like a topic for an extremely long lunch,” Finch agreed.
“Are we ever going to do that again?” Her voice was ever so slightly wistful. Evidently she’d missed their lunches as much as he had. And he had missed them far more than he’d let himself realize.
“We are,” Harold assured her. “I promise.”
“Good.”
“You should get some sleep.”
“I’ll sit up with you, if you want.”
Finch smiled to himself. He could picture her there, working on her own computer on her own projects, but ready to swap occasional comments, banter, deep into the night. Just there, awake, with him. It was tempting. But he could hear the exhaustion in her voice.
And he had John for company in the night. Reese had gone silent after the second scream, but Finch could feel his presence still.
“You’ve had a busy day,” he said to Christine, “and you’re likely to have another one tomorrow. Go to bed. I’ll call you if I need you.”
“All right. Good night, Random.”
“Sleep well, sweet Deirdre.”
There was a short pause, then a surprised, delighted little giggle, and then she was silent. Harold muted their feed to her.
Reese did not ask who Deirdre was. Finch wondered if he’d actually gotten around to reading the Zelazny book he’d taken from the paperback section of the library, or if he was just letting them have their private little joke. Or both. “Mr. Reese?”
“Still here.”
“Can I bring you anything?”
“No, I’m good for the night. Thank you, though.”
Finch considered. “I haven’t asked. And of course you don’t have to answer.”
“Would I do it?” Reese asked. “Yes.”
“Just yes.”
“Just yes.”
Finch nodded to himself. He hadn’t really expected any other answer.
**
As the sun came up, Aldo Rossi’s men got out of their car one at a time and stepped around the corner of the building, presumably to take a leak. Then they gave up on their stake-out and drove away.
Their lack of speed convinced Reese that they still hadn’t located Clay yet.
He waited a while more, mostly because he didn’t have anywhere else to look. “Finch?”
“Good morning, Mr. Reese.”
“Got any new leads for me?”
“As to where Mr. Clay is at this moment? No.”
Reese rolled his neck first right, then left, and shrugged his shoulders up and down to loosen them up.
“I’ve worked through all the credit cards,” Finch continued. “There’s nothing there that belonged to Aldo Rossi or any member of his gang.”
“He’s after him for some reason. Maybe it’s a contract.”
“That’s possible.”
“Clay didn’t turn up here. I’ll check back at his other places. I don’t know where else to look.”
“I can’t believe he’s not trying to find the girl somehow.”
“He threw her at me so he could get away, Finch.”
“This relationship does seem to be a bit one-sided,” Finch concurred. “I looked at his family a bit more, after Miss Holland’s comments last night. There are no reports of child abuse, no police reports of domestic disturbances or anything of the sort. But Edward’s father, David, was badly injured in an industrial accident three years ago. He should be eligible for disability, but the case has been buried in the usual red tape of disputes and appeals. Their credit card bills are staggering, and it looks like they’re barely holding on to the house.”
“Can’t be a happy household.”
“I’m sure it’s not. And perhaps Edward thought he was helping by leaving. One less mouth to feed.”
Reese sighed heavily. “The girl didn’t take the internet bait?”
“No. She read her e-mails, but didn’t respond to any of them. Looked at her favorite social sites but didn’t post to them.”
“All right. I’ll go check the places we know again. Keep me posted.”
“I always do.”
***
Christine checked in with Finch fairly early. It was two more hours before Lis woke up.
From what Finch could hear, the girl was subdued. Evidently she wasn’t much of a morning person anyhow, and the emotions of the night had drained her. She ate the breakfast Christine gave her without protest, almost without comment. She genuinely didn’t have an eating disorder, Finch concluded: She had a boyfriend disorder.
She logged onto her e-mail again, checked the messages, but didn’t answer any.
Christine said, “Have you looked at any art schools?”
“Huh?”
“You want to be a photojournalist. Have you looked at any schools?”
“Oh. No. Not really.”
Christine sighed, and Finch could hear the way her breath hissed between her clenched teeth. Of course the girl hadn’t looked at art schools, or even thought about them. Her plans had aimed no further than being with Clay.
“Have you heard of NYSVA?”
“School of Visual Arts? Sure. They have killer connections. I mean, anybody who’s anybody came out of there.”
“They have a gallery open house for student works, third Thursday of every month. Which would be today. You want to go, have a look around?”
“Yeah!” Lis answered with great enthusiasm. And then, “But … no. I mean, there’s really no point.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t afford to go there. Even if I finished high school.”
“I’m sure they have a scholarship program.”
“Yeah, but it’s merit-based. I’m not the good.”
“Are you sure?”
“And besides, I don’t have anything to wear. I can’t go like this. My clothes … stink.”
“Do you know what this is?” Christine asked.
“It’s a credit card.”
“It’s a magic credit card. With no limit and disappearing bills.”
“They don’t actually disappear,” Finch reminded her gently.
She ignored him. “So you and me are going shopping, and then to lunch, and then to the gallery. Get your shoes.”
Finch listened closely. He thought the teenager might balk. He should have known better. The girls dropped off the kitten with Zubec, and then they, and his credit card, were out the door.
***
John Reese felt like he was chasing his tail.
He’d circled back to all of the places Edward Clay had been known to frequent. The dive hotels. The homeless camps. The butcher shop, which was closed without any explanation posted. He stopped by and talked to William Robinson again. He crossed paths with Aldo Rossi’s guys twice, but stayed out of their sight.
The boy would need money, Reese reasoned. He cruised through the most obvious tourist attractions, but there were a hundred more the boy might go to. The odds of being at the right one at the right time to catch Clay were impossibly small.
It was very, very easy to get lost in the homeless population of a major city. It was the most anonymous lifestyle there was. Reese had known that; that’s why it was his choice when he decided to drop off the face of the earth. To find one boy, who had no connections to anything, was almost impossible.
He was chasing his tail, and he was sick of it.
He sat down on a bench on the middle of Time Square and called Finch.
“Where are the girls?” he asked.
“Shopping,” Finch answered. In those two succinct syllables, the billionaire managed to convey a sense of despair and dread.
“With your credit card?”
“Yes.”
“Ahh.” That actually cheered Reese more than anything had all morning. “Any chance that Lis has tried to connect with Clay?”
“No. She said she didn’t know how to.”
“I’m hoping she lied.” Reese surveyed the crowd around him. “We’ve got no way of finding this kid, Finch.”
“I suppose the good news is that Rossi can’t find him, either.”
“No, but they’re still looking, and there are more of them than there are of me.”
“Do you want to change that ratio?” Finch suggested. “We could ask one of our friends to issue a BOLO on him.”
Reese considered. Edward Clay actually had committed crimes; it wouldn’t even be a stretch to issue a warrant for him. If he was in police custody, Rossi and his guys couldn’t get to him. Except, John reflected, that they could, and easily. Aldo Rossi was small-time, but he probably had connections, maybe all the way up to Elias, who was certainly running the prison system from the inside. Still, he might be better off in jail than on the street.
“Let’s hold off on that,” he finally said. “If he doesn’t turn up by tonight we can give it another look.”
“Very well. What are you going to do now?”
John shook his head. “I guess I’ll go chase my tail some more.”
***
q95;
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