Close to Home by LindaO

Harold Finch’s Christmas of Small Conspiracies began in early December, prompted by a telephone call from Will Ingram.

He took the call in the library, but as far as Will knew he was in his posh insurance office. “Uncle Harold? Are you in the middle of something?”

“Of course I am, Will,” Harold answered, “but I’d much rather talk to you. How are you?”

“I’m good. I’m good.”

“And how’s Minnesota?”

“North Dakota now.”

“Oh.” Trading one snow-blasted Midwestern state for another didn’t sound like much of an improvement to Finch, but then his late partner’s son wasn’t looking to improve his own life. “And how is that?”

“Cold. How are you?”

“I’m fine.” There was a little breathless pause, and Finch smiled to himself, anticipating the young man’s next words. “And in answer your next question, no, I have not heard from Miss Carson.”

Will sighed. Six months earlier, he’d declared his love for Julie Carson, a State Department minder who’d been assigned to watch him while he traveled overseas. She’d promptly declared that what he called love was almost certainly actually transference. Then she’d been badly injured saving his life. Finch had brokered an arrangement between them: They would meet in six months, on Boxing Day, for dinner. No expectations, no promises, just dinner.

And in the interim, Will was to make no attempt to contact her.

Julie Carson was also, incidentally, the youngest daughter of the extremely wealthy Carson family. When she was injured, the Carson family had closed ranks around her. After years of living independently, the young lady was being smothered in the care of her relatives. Unless Finch had misread the signs badly, she was just about ready to break out. Which might be very good news for his partner’s son. Provided Will kept his end of the bargain for the last few weeks.

“I … guess that’s good,” the boy answered.

“Twenty-five days, Will. You can make it.”

“Yeah. If she even wants to see me then.”

“I know it’s very difficult.”

“If I just knew, you know? If she can’t wait to see me or if she’s trying to figure out how to get out of it? If I just knew what she was thinking.”

“Will, believe me, if you ever think you know what a woman is thinking, you’re wrong.”

“You’re a big help, Uncle Harold.”

Finch smiled to himself. “I’m sorry, Will. Was that why you were calling?”

“Not exactly. I mean, not only that. Do you remember Alicia Corwin?”

The smile died. Harold tightened his grip on the phone; his hands felt like ice and it threatened to slip away. “I … uh …”

“She was the woman Dad worked with? In the government? She told me about what happened to IFT.”

Finch made himself take a deep breath. “Oh, yes. The woman from Virginia. Or … West Virginia? The place with no cell phones.”

“That’s her. I just found out she was murdered.”

“That’s horrible, Will.”

“She was shot, last spring some time. There in New York.”

“Who shot her?”

“The police don’t know. They never solved the case.”

Harold closed his eyes. He could see Alicia’s frantic face, her frightened determination to make him shut down the Machine that terrified her. And then the too-loud noise and she was dead, right there in the car next to him … and Root had laughed. Laughed.

Please, Will. Please don’t touch this. Please let this be.

His lips felt numb. His whole body felt numb. But Finch forced himself to speak. “I don’t understand, Will. Do you think this has anything to do with your father’s company?”

“No, no. I mean, I don’t see how. I just … I don’t know. It’s just weird, you know? So I got to thinking, maybe I should take another look. I mean, if she was up to something that got her killed, something with the government, than maybe she wasn’t telling me the truth for some reason.” He hesitated. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

“I don’t … no, of course not, Will. I mean, if you still have questions, then by all means you should pursue the answers.”

The boy sighed. “I don’t know. I guess I just want to confirm what she told me. Or see if there’s more I should look at. I don’t even know what I’m looking for, exactly. But something doesn’t feel right.”

“Then come back to the city and take another look. If nothing else, it will give you something to do while you wait for Christmas.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. At least I could spend some time with you.”

“I’d like that.”

“And you can teach me everything you know about women.”

Harold forced a chuckle. “What I told you before? About knowing what a woman is thinking? That was the sum total of my knowledge, I’m afraid. When will you get here?”

“I told them clinic I’d work through the week, and they have a clinic scheduled Saturday, so I’ll probably fly in on Sunday.”

“I’ll make a reservation for you. The usual place?”

“Yeah.” The young man paused. “You sure you don’t think I’m crazy?”

“I think you’re curious, Will. If you think the answers are here, then you should look for them here.”

“Thank you, Uncle Harold.”

“I’ll see you soon, Will.”

Finch put down his phone and sat back slowly. Sensing his mood, Bear came over and sat beside him. “Well,” Harold said, “this is going to be a problem, Bear.”

The dog bobbed his head, just once, but it looked like he nodded.

“We’re going to need some help. Some very particular help.”

Bear looked up happily and gave a small whine.

“How do you know who I’m thinking about?”

The dog danced in a happy circle.

“You are much too smart for your own good.” Finch rubbed the dog’s ears fondly. “You’re a lot like Will that way, aren’t you?”

Finch stood up. “I need to think this through. Let’s go for a walk.”

Bear scrambled happily for his leash.

***

Fusco looked at the laptop nervously. “It’s great. But, uh, what do I owe you?”

Christine slid a mug of coffee across the bar. “Sixty-five.”

He blinked. “Are you kidding?”

“That’s all I’ve got in it. I got it at the police auction. It just needed some clean-up, a few parts. And getting the cocaine out of the keyboard.”

“How’d you do that?”

“I rolled up a dollar bill into a little straw … I’m messing with you, Lionel. I replaced it.”

He scowled. “And what about the labor?”

“You don’t pay for labor here, sweetie. Your partner with you?”

“She got a phone call, she’ll be in.” He shook his head.

“I can’t take this. It’s gotta be worth ten times that much.”

“Twenty,” she answered, “if you bought it retail. At least. But you didn’t, so shut up. If your son wants a gaming computer, he’s gonna love it.”

“Yeah.” Fusco closed the laptop gently, ran his hand across the case. “Yeah, he is.” Then he shook his head again. “I dunno. You think I’m crazy, turning a kid loose on the Web?”

“Yes.”

He groaned.

“But this day and age, it can’t be helped. He can learn it at home or he can learn it on the streets like we did.”

“You’re not helping.”

“I can load up some parental controls,” Christine offered. “He’ll find a way around them, eventually. Or one of his friends will. Or I can have Zelda keep an eye on him, which is much more effective.”

Fusco frowned at her. “Who’s Zelda?”

“My system. She’s upstairs.” She gestured around the café. “Everything that goes on here, she watches. If it’s legit, she ignores it. Somebody gets too far off the trail, she lets me know.”

“That’s kinda creepy.”

Christine shrugged. “There’s no expectation of privacy here. And after the first time the Secret Service kicked down the door, I got more aggressive about policing the traffic.”

“Yeah, I guess I can see that.”

“So give him the laptop, and tell him that you’ve got a friend tracking him. He’ll test it once, and one of his smart-ass friends will test it once. I’ll slap their hands twice, and that will be the end of it. Until he’s about fifteen. Then it’s a whole new ballgame.”

“Seems like I’m putting you to a lot of trouble.”

Christine shook her head. “It’s all automated. I only do anything when it alerts me. And like I said, I’m already watching a bunch of places. One more won’t make any difference.”

“I dunno …”

“Fusco. How long you been lookin’ out for me? Let me do this.”

He thought about it, finally nodded. “I really appreciate this.” He tapped the laptop again. “He’s gonna love it.”

Carter came across the bar. She did not look happy.

“Leave it here, if you want, and I’ll get the Christmas monkeys to wrap it for you.”

“The what now?” He glanced at his partner while Christine poured her a cup of coffee. “What’s up, Carter?”

She shook her head. “That was Taylor’s English teacher. He’s flunking.” She thumped her phone down on the bar top. “How in the world can that kid be flunking English?”

“Literature?” Christine asked.

“Yeah. British literature.”

“Beowulf. Gag me. I could flunk it.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Sorry.”

“Can you get him a tutor or something?” Fusco asked, trying to be more helpful.

“I don’t know.” Carter shook her head. “The main problem is that he doesn’t turn in his assignments. I don’t know what I’m going to do with him. I already took away his computer and his video games. If I take his phone he can’t call me. And now they’re coming up on winter break, he’s going to be home all day, laying around … “

“Bring him here,” Christine answered. “I’ll put him to work.”

Carter raised one eyebrow. “I don’t think making coffee will help his English grade.”

“No. I’ll make him wrap presents. And deliver them.” She reached down the bar and grabbed a flyer. “This.”

“The Chaos Christmas Crush,” Carter read. “What’s that?”

“I hire a bunch of kids for two weeks, mostly college kids. People drop off presents and they wrap them, even pick up and deliver in the neighborhood. The people make a donation to the charity of their choice for the service. We’re pimping Staten Strong and Dr. Atlas this year, but any charity will do. So he’d be here all day, working his butt off, and hanging out with college kids.”

“Ahhh,” Carter said. “A little positive role modeling.”

“I don’t know about that. They’ll mostly tell him about the awesome parties. But anything that motivates him to work toward getting there is good, right?”

“I’ll talk to him. I might take you up on that.”

“That’s nice, that you do that,” Fusco said.

Christine shrugged. “I enjoy watching frantic people.”

He slid the laptop back to her. “Yeah, go ahead and wrap it for me. And put the tracking whatever on it.”

“You got it.”

Carter picked up her coffee and drank deeply. “Flunking English. Good Lord, give me patience.”

***

Her control was admirable, almost super-human, but finally, two blocks from their destination, she cracked.
“Random, where are we going?”

Finch smiled. “You’ll see. We’re almost there.”

She gripped his elbow a little tighter. The sidewalk was spotted with ice; he wasn’t sure if she was holding onto him for support or ready to help if he slipped himself. Probably some of both. In any case, he liked having her on his arm. A rare delight bubbled up in him as they walked.

“You do like being mysterious, don’t you?”

“I do,” he admitted.

She was quiet then until they reached the back door. It was utterly plain, just a steel entrance door with no signs of any kind, but Christine, of course, recognized the building. “This is a library branch,” she said.

“It used to be.”

“Why are we breaking into a library?”

“We’re not breaking in,” Finch pointed out. “I have a key.”

He pushed the door open, gestured for her to go in ahead of him.

“Why do you have a key?”

She stopped just inside. Finch closed the door, took her elbow and led her down the access hallway.

“Random?” They reached the doorway to the lobby. “Why do you have a key?” she repeated. And then she got it. “You own a library.”

“I control a company that holds the …” He stopped; it was unnecessary. “Yes. For all practical purposes, I own a library.”

“You own a library.”

Finch smiled, delighted. If he’d shown her a luxury yacht the size of the Titanic, she would have been less impressed than she was by this. She was probably the only person in the city who understood the thrill of that phrase quite the way he did. “I own a library.”

“You own a …” She stopped dead in the doorway, looking out over the sea of books scattered on the floor of the main entrance. The delight died out of her voice; it was suddenly full of despair. “There are books on the floor.”

He’d walked over them so often that he scarcely noticed them anymore. “It’s necessary to disguise our use of the building.”

“But there are books. On the floor.”

Finch shook his head. He hadn’t anticipated that this would be an issue. He should have. “They’re only mass-market paperbacks.” He tugged at her arm gently, but she didn’t move.

“But … books. On the floor.”

“It’s okay. Come upstairs.” Finch released her arm and walked out onto the books.

He paused halfway across the lobby and looked back. She was still frozen in the doorway. “Christine?”

“I can’t.”

“Upstairs are my first editions. And my computers.”

“But … books.”

“Come up when you’re ready,” he said gently. He turned and went up the stairs without her.

He was nearly to the top before he heard her footsteps scrambling up behind him. When she caught up, he was only a little surprised to find that she was in her stocking feet, carrying her shoes in her hand. A reasonable compromise, he supposed.

He unlocked the gate and pushed it back. Bear danced out to greet them; he was especially attentive to Christine, and Finch guessed that the dog had picked up on her lingering anxiety.

She paused again at the gateway and just looked around. Her shoes dropped out of her fingers; she didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes were wide as a child’s on Christmas morning. Though, Finch reflected sadly, she’d probably never had a Christmas morning that made her eyes wide. Neither had he, to be honest. But his Christmases with Grace, those had been joyful beyond words, and sweeter because he had thought such joy was impossible for him.

“Come in,” he invited. “Welcome to the … Bat Cave.” He took her shoulder bag and her coat and hung them on the coat tree, then added his own.

Finch went to his desk and sat down, logged into his system and pretended to ignore her. After a moment she moved quietly past the gate and looked at the first shelf of books. Finch watched her out of the corner of his eye. She started slowly, reading every title. And then she got distracted by the next shelf. One thing led to the next, and then she was moving, scanning titles, taking in everything.

Bear followed her for a few minutes, then retreated to his bed and flopped down happily. Evidently the dog thought her anxiety had faded sufficiently.

Even as he basked in the warmth of her excited approval, Finch reset his passwords. It wasn’t necessary, logically. But he couldn’t override his own small anxieties, and he didn’t try. If she’d known what he was doing, she wouldn’t have minded. Nor been surprised.

“What’s this?”

Finch looked up. She was standing in front of one of the boards. The one that was full. He exhaled very slowly. He should have hidden it away before he let her up here. “Those are the people that we couldn’t save. The ones before we began our … project.” He pursed his lips. “The lost chances.”

Christine nodded solemnly. She understood that she was standing in front of a memorial. “Where’s the other one?”

“The other one?”

“The board of the ones you did save.”

Finch stared at her until she turned around and met his eyes. “I don’t have one.” He shrugged. “We shred them. For security reasons. Once a case is closed, once they’re out of danger …”

“It never even crossed your mind, did it?”

“No.”

“Or John’s.”

“Not that he ever mentioned.”

Christine shook her head. “You need to reconsider your architecture. There’s some wicked asymmetry going on.”

Finch nodded. She was absolutely right, of course. The fact that they kept the lost ones in front of them and destroyed all evidence of the saved ones did represent an unbalanced mindset. Wicked asymmetry, indeed. They won, they celebrated quietly, they cleaned up, sometimes healed up in Reese’s case, and they moved on to the next Number. But the failures remained, a constant reminder
As if he could forget.

As if John could.

He couldn’t imagine taking the lost ones down. But maybe a second board was in order. Not pictures, not numbers. Nothing traceable. But something. “Ten minutes in the library,” he said quietly, “and already you’re redecorating.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re right.”

She gestured past him. “What’s that?”

Finch didn’t have to turn to know what she was pointing at. “The best of my collection. Go see.”

Christine moved past him to the decorative gilt doors that secured the shelves of his most precious books. He heard the soft creak of the hinges as she touched the doors, but the expected click of the latch didn’t follow. He waited, then finally turned. She was motionless, her hands flat against the ornate gates. Just looking. Emotion welled up in him again; no one, no one, understood this the way she did. That they were not merely books beyond the gate, but relics. That they weren’t just valuable, but treasured. That they were not objects, but friends. Books had been his first friends, his oldest friends. At points in his life his books had been his only light. His only reason to live.

At the depth of her addiction, the week before she should have died, Christine had still had library books in her backpack.

If I had raised her as my daughter …

Finch smiled wryly, sadly. She would not have turned out like this.

He stood and walked up behind her. Slowly, he reached past her and twisted the knob. She backed up and he swung the door open. “They’re just books,” he said gently.

“No, they’re not.” She met his eyes then, and she was smiling and trying not to cry. She put her hands over his and gently pushed the doors shut again. Finch understood that she was too overwhelmed to touch them. Yet. “Thank you,” she said, in a whisper.

Behind them, his computer beeped a quiet alert, Christine looked toward it. “Can I see?” she asked, shaking off her reverence.

“Ahhh.” She’d circled the room and looked at the shelves, but barely glanced at his computer desk. Finch realized that she thought she shouldn’t, that that was off-limits.

“Christine, I wouldn’t have brought you up here if I didn’t want you to see it.” He gestured to the desk. “Come, sit.”

She still hesitated, studying him. Looking for any trace of reluctance. For reservations. He smiled encouragingly. Then he took her hand and led her to the desk.

She dropped into the chair. Finch watched her scan from one monitor to the next. Her hands reached out to the nearest keyboard. She rested her fingertips on the home keys, then stopped and looked at him again. Her hesitation, her delicacy, calmed his own rising anxiety. It was hard to share, but easier to share with her, in part because she knew it was hard. “Go ahead,” he said.

Her fingers moved, slowly for ten keystrokes and then fast. She understood some things, stopped to study others. “Could you have just a few more programs open?” she asked under her breath.

“Of course I could,” he teased gently. “This is restricted access. I thought we’d start out easy.”

Christine grinned. “How do you do all of this with keyboards? It’s maddening.”

“Yes, dear.” He moved away, pretended to be busy with some files and then with books. Gave her room to explore without hovering over her shoulder.

Despite her complaints, her fingertips moved with certainty. She opened programs, studied them, moved them aside. Most of his structure she understood intuitively; they were arranged in the most logical way, with what he used most often in the center, less critical screens on the sides. Some screens made her stop and study them. Every so often she hesitated and looked from screen to screen, searching. Finch could tell she was beginning to identify the programs that were not open to her, the pieces that were missing. She didn’t complain; she just smiled, pleased to be able to identify what was absent. As with the book shelves, she was skimming, skipping. Trying to see everything at once.

Trying to see everything before he took it away from her.

Finch pushed the other desk chair, the one Reese sometimes sat in, over to the desk and sat down beside her. The young woman glanced at him anxiously, and from the look in her eyes he was able to confirm his suspicion. He reached into his vest pocket and brought out a plain key. “This opens the back door,” he said, “and the gate. I’ll send the alarm codes to your phone each time they’re updated. Unless it’s compromised, you’ll be able to access the library any time you want to.”

Christine stared at him. “Why?”

“I can access your home and your system with my thumbprint.”

“That’s different.”

Finch nodded. “It is. There may be times when I’ll need you to be here. When I can’t be. To assist us.”

“I’ll need passwords, then.”

“I can log you in remotely.”

A little smile danced around her eyes. “Restricted access, naturally.”

“Naturally.” The idea tweaked his paranoia a bit, but not nearly as hard as it would have earlier in their relationship. He trusted her, as much as he trusted anyone. And certainly more than he trusted someone like Leon Tao.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Then I’m in.”

Finch put the key down and sat back. “As for the books, you’ll take better care of them than I do. Borrow whatever you like.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

She squealed in a way that made Bear jump to his feet. Then she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on both cheeks. “Thank you. Thank you.”

Harold grinned, delighted with her response, but then he caught her hands and pushed her away gently. “All right, all right. You’re scaring the dog.”

She looked down. Bear was on the floor between them, but he wasn’t scared. He was watching eagerly; he wanted to play, too. She leaned down and gave him a hug. Then she sat up and looked around again. He could see her calculating how long it would take her to read all of those books. She liked the answer she came up with. So did he.

“Now,” he said briskly, “if I can get your attention focused for a moment, I need a favor.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

“I need you to do something for me. It should be easy enough, with your talents, but it will probably take some time. Perhaps a great deal of time.”

The dog should have tipped him off. Bear dropped to the floor, suddenly tense with focused attention.

“What?” Christine repeated.

Finch frowned at her. They were still sitting very close, but even from a mile away he would have picked up the change in her. The joy had died utterly from her eyes. And there was something else there. Something he’d seen before.

When he’d gone to her at Chaos, when she thought that the kiddie porn ring that she’d found on Sam Campanella’s computer network belonged to him, she’d had that same look. Hurt. Wounded. Disappointed. And furious.

He hadn’t liked it the first time he’d seen it. He didn’t like it now. “Christine … “

She pushed back away from him, stood up. Hurried to grab her coat and her bag.

He stood up. “Christine?”

“This favor,” she said, without looking at him. Her voice was dead flat. “When do you need it?”

“I … Sunday. Maybe Monday.”

“How much prep time?” She had stopped at the gate and put her shoes on.

“A few hours …”

“Fine. Call me Friday and we’ll go over it. I should be done being pissed off by then.”

Finch raised his hands, palms up, helpless. “Christine, what are you angry about? I haven’t … “

“Friday,” she said firmly. She hurried back down the hallway. By the time she hit the stairs she was running.

“Christine!” Finch called after her. He hurried to the top of the steps. He had some vague hope that the books on the floor would stop her, or at least slow her down. But she was too furious to even notice them.

John Reese was just coming into the lobby. He was surprised to see the woman, but not unduly so. “Hey, Christine.”

“John,” she snarled.

“Whoa.” He grabbed her arm. “What’s up?”

She glanced over her shoulder, up at Finch. “Boys are dumb,” she said flatly. “Even the really smart ones.” She shook herself loose and hurried out of the library.

Reese watched her go, then turned back to look up at Finch. “What did you do?”

“I don’t know.” Finch was genuinely bewildered. “I brought her to the library. I thought she’d like it.” He hesitated, thinking. “She did like it. She was delighted. She was … and then she was so angry.”

Reese climbed the stairs two at a time. “Why is she so angry?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Finch held his hands out again. “You understand women, Mr. Reese. Far better than I ever will. Why is she so angry?”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. At least, nothing out of the ordinary.” He walked back to the main room. “I let her look around, I told her she could borrow any books that she wanted. I gave her a key.” He paused at the desk. The key was still there. His fingers shook as he picked it up and tucked it back into his pocket. He’d been so sure. “She was happy to be here. And then I told her I needed a favor and before I could even explain what it was she was …” He gestured in the direction she’d fled. “She was furious at me.”

“Wait,” Reese said. “You brought her to the library, and then you asked her to do something for you.”

“Yes. But it’s nothing dangerous, or even unpleasant …”

“Finch, you’re missing the point.”

“Obviously I’m missing the point.” Finch looked at his partner hopefully. Reese was much better at human interaction than he could ever hope to be, and he sounded like he knew what had set Christine off. “Please, Mr. Reese.”

“Christine would do anything for you.”

“I know …”

“Anything, Finch. All you have to do is ask. You don’t have to pay her or explain your reasons to her. You just have to ask.”

Finch nodded. They both remembered that they’d dumped a screaming teenager in Christine’s living room and she’d barely blinked. “I know that.”

“You don’t have to bribe her,” Reese concluded.

“I didn’t bribe her.” Finch protested.

John gestured to the room around them. “You brought her here, Finch. You knew that was something she really wanted. You gave her a key, you let her see your system, you gave her the run of the stacks.”

About half-way through his sentence, Finch got it. The knowledge settled on him with a sick thud. “And then I told her I needed something from her, and she thought this was …” He rubbed his forehead. Then he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Christine’s rage made perfect sense now. Her cooperation, her assistance, was his for the asking. But it could not be bought. “She’s right. Boys are dumb.” He put his glasses back on. “But I never meant it that way. I just wanted her to see the library.”

Reese nodded. “Sure. But you can see how she read it.”

“This is bad,” Finch said. “This is very bad.”

“It’s not like you to be this ham-fisted, Harold.”

“No, it’s not. If I had asked her for the favor first …”

“She’d still be here.”

Finch shook himself. He had screwed up, badly. He’d insulted his friend. And though he hated it, there was only one way to fix it. “Flowers or chocolate?” he asked Reese. “Or both?”

The ex-operative considered. “This may rise to the level of a jewelry offense. But nothing too expensive. Go over the top and you’ll just make it worse.”

Harold moved to the wooden filing cabinet and opened the second drawer. He brought out a small box, weighed it in his hand, then took it back to his partner and opened it. Nestled within, on the signature Tiffany blue bed, was a largish pendant on a silver chain, a dove, studded with stones.

Reese shook his head. “Yeah, if those are real, that’s over the top.”

“It’s what I have at hand.” Finch closed the box and tucked it into his jacket. He moved to get his overcoat.

Bear bounced to his feet and brought his leash.

“If I were you,” Reese said, “I’d give her some time to cool off first.”

“Sound advice, I’m sure,” Finch answered. He took the leash from Bear and snapped it onto his collar. Then he hurried out of the library.

“Good luck!” Reese called after him.

Finch nodded to himself on his way down the stairs. He was going to need it.