Big Bang Challenge 2013
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The nursing home administrator assured him that his mother had died peacefully in her sleep. Red Geis – his real name was Eric, but everyone called him Red, because of his hair - listened with a cop's ear. He heard the lie in her voice, the nervous undertone that pleaded 'don't-sue-us-don't-sue-us-please-don't-sue-us'. He shrugged. It didn't matter. His mother had been a heavy smoker and drinker his whole life. She'd barely survived a stroke years earlier. In the past year she'd broken her hip, gotten pneumonia, then recovered just in time to catch the flu. He was honestly surprised she'd lasted as long as she had. So if the nursing home hadn't checked on her in the night, in time to call him to her bedside at the last minute, well, there wasn't anything to be done about it.
He'd visited his mother faithfully, three times a week, every week, for six years.
He nodded to the administrator. "I understand," he said honestly.
She nodded back, relieved, and left him alone.
Red continued slowly packing his mother's things. There wasn't much. A few nightgowns, some toiletries, an old Bible that he doubted she'd ever read. A brand-new rosary, still in the box; some visiting nun and brought it to her. There were a couple framed pictures of him. One showed him in his uniform the day he'd graduated from the academy. He'd had a lot more hair then, all of it shocking red. These days it was down to just a ring around the sides and back, with a chrome dome up above. His mother had teased him that always wearing a hat had deprived his hair of sunshine and that's why it had fallen out. There was another picture of him and his partner, both in dress uniforms, at his partner's wedding. And a third of Eric as a small boy, six years old, standing beside his mother on the porch of a house in New York. She had her arm around his shoulder. Her smile seemed forced. Her smiles had always seemed forced.
Geis looked at the picture a while longer. They looked like a happy pair, him and his mother. If you didn't know what to look for, he thought, you might believe that was true. But he'd been a cop too long to be fooled. It wasn't just his mother's smile. It was her posture, the way she leaned her hip away from the boy. He'd wanted to think she didn't know. But she'd known. She'd known all along.
He slid the frame apart and removed the picture carefully. He put it into his pocket, then put the frame itself into the little duffle bag with her other things.
Red looked around the little room. Through the window he could see the little back garden, still bare because spring hadn't quite taken hold, and then the river. It was a nice view. The room was clean, quiet. It had been the best he could afford. They had taken good care of her.
He zipped the bag closed and slung it over his shoulder.
In the hallway, a large family had gathered outside another room. They were all ages, from a babe in arms to several elderly women. There was a great deal of crying and prayer, and occasional wails of despair. They moved in and out of the room in waves.
The administrator left them and came to his side. She exhaled loudly, not quite a sigh.
"Someone else dying?" Geis guessed.
"Yes."
"Funny. I been coming here for six years and I've never seen a single visitor in that room."
The administrator did sigh then. "Yes," she said again.
Geis put his hand on her shoulder briefly. "Thank you for taking care of my mother. You and your staff did a good job."
She smiled at him briefly. She was about his age, not an unattractive woman, and she'd been divorced for three years. You learned things, when you visited regularly and listened to the chatter. On other circumstances, Geis thought, he might have asked her out. Now that his mother was dead, there was no conflict of interest.
But now that his mother was dead, he had other things to do.
"Thank you," she said sincerely. "We're going to miss you around here."
He'd helped them out a few times, with unruly family members and once with a man stalking one of the young aides. It was surprising how much cooperation a badge flash could invoke in a place like this. "Take care," he said.
He shifted the little duffle bag higher on his shoulder and walked out.
He'd parked around the side of the building, by the trash bin. When he got there, he simply threw the whole bag away.
There was nothing left of his mother that he needed to keep.
John Reese settled on an old barstool at the old bar. Zubec brought a cup of coffee for him and a bowl of water for Bear. They exchanged casual greetings. "She'll be right down," the big barista said. He wasn't much of a talker.
Christine Fitzgerald came down a minute later, gave him a kiss on the cheek and ruffled Bear's fur. "Kinda cold to be out walking," she said.
Reese shrugged. "We were bored. Harold was annoyed. And it's not raining or snowing or whatever it's trying to do yet."
"I have something for you."
"So you said."
Christine took his hand and dropped a thumb drive into it. On one side, in black marker, was printed, 'N. Donnelly'. John sighed heavily. "What is it?"
"His files. His real files."
The little thing felt like a burning shard in his hand. "Where'd you get it?"
"Theresa Ramos found it stuffed down in the arm of her couch. She thought he dropped it there accidently."
Theresa, Reese remembered, was the librarian Christine had sent Donnelly on a blind date with. The couple had hit it off, apparently, before Donnelly died: Theresa had braved Donnelly's ex-wife to help clean out his apartment. "You don't believe that."
"There's a summary file. Naturally."
"Naturally."
"It was encrypted. I'm sure Theresa didn't read it. Ellis thought that someone inside the government was subverting his investigation. He had a list of events that led him to believe that. He had also been approached by his superiors, counseled. They thought he was becoming obsessive and paranoid."
"Donnelly, obsessive. Who'd have thought it?" John said as lightly as he could. "So he kept a second set of files."
"His official files at the office, with all his real evidence, interviews, reports. Those are all copied on there. But he also kept an additional set, notes on theories, speculation, suspicions."
"And he left them in his girlfriend's couch. So even if they searched his apartment and his vehicle they couldn't find them."
Christine nodded. "I didn't see a copy in his apartment when we packed it up. But I wasn't looking, either. It might have been hidden. I didn't tear the couch apart."
"It probably would have surfaced before now. And Donnelly was too careful – too paranoid – to keep more than one copy."
"Hopefully. Because he has a really accurate profile of you in there."
"I'm sure that makes interesting reading." He turned it over in his hand. It was unremarkable. On the outside.
She shrugged. "I told Theresa I'd get it to the proper person."
"And you decided that was me?" John gave her a small smile.
"I think so."
"Thank you." He dropped it into his coat pocket. "I am sorry."
"Not your fault, sweetie."
Reese shrugged. Christine didn't blame him for Donnelly's death. But if he hadn't been obsessively chasing the Man in the suit, the FBI agent would still have been alive.
"John."
He sipped his coffee. "So how's the new apartment coming?"
Christine sighed. "Not your most graceful conversational pivot, but I suppose I'll allow it."
"You are very kind."
Harold Finch worked on the Decima virus steadily, but not exclusively. On the screen to his left, he was following an unrelated, and utterly personal, electronic trail.
There was no new number at the moment. Reese had been puttering around the library all day. He'd cleaned weapons, moved weapons, adjusted weapons. He'd played catch with Bear until Finch sent them outside. They were gone for over an hour and came back damp from the freezing rain. John had toweled off his own hair and dried the dog. Then, finally, he'd snagged a book off the desk – Dickens' Our Mutual Friend – sprawled on the couch with it, and had promptly, predictably, fallen asleep.
Finch didn't have the slightest illusion that he could leave his desk without his partner becoming fully alert, but it didn't matter. He could do everything from his keyboard, and that sound was so engrained in Reese's consciousness now that it would not wake him.
Bear stretched out on the floor beside the couch. There was, for a change, no sign of the cat.
In the morning, Harold had sent an email from the Sutton Gallery to the Visual Artists of New York City Club. The gallery was hosting a show featuring four photographers the next afternoon. An anonymous benefactor had donated three $500 gift cards to the neighboring art supply store to be raffled off at the show. To enter, guests simply needed to attend and place an entry form in the fish bowl by the door. There would also be refreshments.
At noon, the president of the club had forwarded the e-mail to the members, with her own note encouraging them to attend if possible. She had, Harold knew, been trying to place her own pieces with Sutton for some time and saw a good showing from her club as an incentive to the owner.
An hour after that, Harold sent a text from one of the members, who was conveniently out of town, to Melissa Keynes, suggesting that she get in touch with Grace and invite her. Hear they have open bar, the text added.
Five minutes later, Melissa Keynes forwarded the president's e-mail to Grace Hendricks with the note, You'll go with me, right?
There was no immediate response from Grace; she was out painting, wisely working on a series of interiors for the winter, and not checking her e-mail at the moment. But Harold knew her well enough to know that she'd be interested. And he knew Melissa well enough to know that she'd insist. The other woman would never pass up an open bar.
He smiled tightly to himself. Phase One complete. He'd watch it, nudge as necessary, but that part of the plan should take care of itself. Nothing left to do until the next day.
As he clicked off the screen, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection. His face was simply expressionless. Not happy, not sad. Not doubtful. He'd decided. It was time. Past time, if he was honest.
It was his third attempt. The first two had failed, fluttering gently into nothingness. He had more confidence about this one. And the third time was supposed to be the charm.
"I know that look, Harold," Reese said very quietly.
Finch turned his upper body to look over at him. The ex-op was still sprawled on the couch. He hadn't moved at all, except to open his eyes. And from that distance he surely couldn't read what had been on the screen, even if his angle had been better. "What look?"
"The one that says you're up to something."
"When am I not up to something, Mr. Reese?"
Reese sat up and swung his feet to the floor. "The look that says you're up to something you know I won't like."
"What I'm up to," Harold replied carefully, "doesn't concern or involve you."
"Can I see what it is, then?"
"Of course not."
John looked away for a moment, then back at him. "Is it Root?"
"If it were Root, that would concern you, would it not?"
"It would concern me very much."
"I told you I wouldn't lie to you, Mr. Reese. I also told you that I'm a really private person."
Reese ran his hand over his face. "Does it put you in danger in any way?" he finally asked.
"No," Harold answered immediately. "Nor you, nor our endeavors. It is a personal matter."
The op's face went expressionless, a mirror of Harold's in the monitor reflection. In that flatness Finch read his reply: John didn't like it, but he would respect his wishes. For the moment.
The somber moment was unexpectedly brief. There was a small scrambling sound from the stairs, a single 'meow' and then quick light feet ran toward them. Bear jumped up and headed down the hall. Smokey ran past him. The dog cornered clumsily, skittering on the hardwood floor and chased her.
The cat, Finch realized as she raced under his desk, was chasing something else.
With some effort he lifted both feet off the floor. By that time the mouse had sped out and turned again, ran at Reese and darted under the couch. Smokey pursued it easily. Bear, being much bigger, had to go around. But his delay proved advantageous: When the mouse reversed course again, it ran right into the dog's jaws.
Bear snapped his mouth shut and froze. Smokey stopped and looked at him. Then she stretched elegantly, unconcerned, and sauntered off.
The dog looked at Reese. His mouth was still closed. His eyes seemed to be surprised and imploring.
Reese sat up, took out his handkerchief and covered his hand. He patted his leg and the dog came to him. "Los," he said.
The dog seemed relieved to drop the mouse into his hand.
John examined it quickly, then wrapped it in the handkerchief. "Well. She is doing her job."
"I wonder if she couldn't do it a little less dramatically," Finch answered.
As if he'd invited her, Smokey jumped onto his desk, strolled elegantly across the keyboard, and climbed into her shoe box for a nap.
As the sun went down, the rain began to turn to ice on the road. Will Ingram slowed his car down. Other cars around him slowed down, too. He was tired and hungry, and he'd pulled a muscle in his right shoulder helping to transfer a patient. But it had been a good day.
Beside him, Julie Carson hung up her cell phone and put it away. "Okay, Bucko. We're on for the weekend."
He smiled encouragingly. "It'll be fine, Jules."
"You don't know them, Will."
"That's the point of us going, so I get to know them."
She put her head against the side window of the car.
"You worry too much," he assured her. "Your family will be fine. It went okay with my mother, didn't it?"
Julie nodded. "I know. But she's sane. My mother's not."
Will reached across the seat and touched her hand. Julie's introduction to his mother had gone much better than he'd hoped. Julie was a natural diplomat, great at making easy but not trivial conversation. Olivia had, he knew, been relieved that the young woman didn't have facial piercings or visible tattoos. But after those first polite minutes, they'd genuinely seemed to hit it off.
On the second day of their visit, the women had gone jogging together. Olivia was just starting, with a new-found interest in fitness. Julie was just re-starting after breaking her leg (and many other bones) the year before. They'd only been gone an hour, and most of that time, Will gathered, had been dedicated to stretching and walking. But it was something that they'd bonded over, something that they had in common besides him. They'd talked on the phone a dozen times since then, comparing notes and tips as they continued to train separately.
When he'd taken his mother aside just before they left her house for a very important, very quiet conversation, she'd been more than happy with what he'd told her.
Will grinned to himself. He'd been a lot more worried about Olivia than he was about Julie's family. "I'll be charming," he promised. "They won't be able to resist me."
Julie looked over at him. "I'm not worried about them liking you. Believe me, you'll be more than acceptable to my parents."
Because, Will knew, he was wealthy, and according to Julie that was all that would really matter to them. He shrugged. "Then what's the problem?"
"I'm just afraid you'll …" She stopped, squeezed his hand. "Never mind."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Jules, what? You're afraid I'll take one look at them and run for the hills?"
"You would if you were smart."
He chuckled. "Maybe so. But if I do, I'll make sure you're right beside me, okay?"
"Oh." She smiled a little, relieved. "Well, okay, then."
"It'll be - shit!"
Brakes lights flashed and tires squealed. Will grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, then turned sharply at the same time he mashed his foot down on the brakes. The car shuddered hard, chattering as the anti-lock brakes pulsed. The car turned sideways across the lanes and slid toward the stopped cars ahead of them.
Will heard crunching sounds, but didn't feel any contact. To his right he saw red lights move upward and then vanish. It took his brain a second to interpret that it was the back of a car flipping over its own hood. His own car came to a stop. To his left there were headlights and he braced himself, but that car managed to stop, too.
"You okay?" he asked Julie.
"Yeah. You?"
"Uh-huh." He opened his door and got out. "Stay here."
"I don't think so."
"Call 9-1-1 first."
"On it."
The ground was slick under his feet. Ingram smelled gasoline. Someone's car alarm was clamoring. He glanced over his shoulder. The other cars on the freeway seemed to be stopping without further collisions. He moved toward the flipped car.
A woman screamed, "My baby!"
He dropped onto the pavement beside the car to look through the driver's side window. There was a young woman crumpled against the roof of the car. She was covered with white powder; the deflated air bag sagged from the steering wheel. She was still tangled in her shoulder belt. Will reached in far enough to hit the buckle and release her. "Be still," he said. "It's okay, you're okay."
"My baby!" the woman shrieked.
Will squirmed further under car. There was no doubt in his mind that the woman's arm was broken. And also, once he got a clear view, that she was very, very pregnant. "Try to stay calm," he said. "We're going to get you out of here."
"My baby!" The woman tried to twist around.
He felt a hand on his back and knew immediately that it was Julie. "There's a toddler in the back seat," she said.
"We'll get your baby," he told the driver. "Be still if you can, okay? I'll be right here, and there's more help coming. Just stay still." He scooted out of the car and looked into the back seat with Julie.
The toddler was still buckled in her car seat, held upside down from the back seat. Her eyes were open, but she was silent, staring fixedly straight ahead. Will couldn't see any bleeding, no open wounds. Her face was very red. The roof of the car had crumpled so that the child's head was only an inch from the roof.
He stretched, but he couldn't get to the seatbelt that secured the car seat.
There was no way in hell the back doors were going to open.
It was still raining. The smell of gasoline grew stronger every moment. He heard more squealing tires as oncoming traffic caught up with the crash. No sirens yet.
Damn it.
Two big guys in black overcoats stood close by. "Dr. Ingram …" one of them began.
"Not now, Thomas," he snapped. "How many other injuries?"
"Six cars," the bodyguard answered immediately. "Not sure how many vics."
"Go check. Let me know what's critical."
The bodyguards looked at him. Then they exchanged a look. Thomas – Will wasn't certain if that was his first name or his last – moved off to check the other vehicles. Tonaro – definitely his last name – moved off just a little and stood watch.
Will shook his head. There was no point in arguing. For himself, he could have tried. But Julie was there, too. Julie was …
He turned. Julie was on her back, squirming through the back window of the car, trying to get to the toddler.
"Jules, get out of there," he said. "You can't …"
"I'm smaller than you. I can reach her."
She was already in up to her waist.
"Jules …"
"I can't … damn it. Will, knife!"
"Hang on, I'll get my bag."
"On my ankle."
"What?"
"On my ankle. There's a knife on my ankle."
Will twisted and pushed up her jeans leg. There was a small knife in a sheath strapped to her lower calf. "What the hell, Jules."
"Just give it."
He slipped back under the car far enough to hand it to her. "Don't drop her on her head."
"Gee, thanks, Doc."
"My baby!" the woman in the front seat wailed again.
Will scooted around to her again. "We're getting her. What's her name?"
"Bella."
He managed not to groan out loud. "We're getting Bella out right now. We'll take care of her, I promise. And you, too. When's your baby due?"
"Five weeks from tomorrow."
"Good." He took her hand, careful not to move it, and checked her pulse. It was fast, but steady. And finally, finally there were sirens. "Jules?"
"Got her!" she announced. And then, "Oh, shit."
"Julie …"
"There's glass everywhere. I need a blanket or something."
Will backed out of the front seat, took off his coat, and slid it to her. "Watch her head," he said again.
"Uh-huh."
Belatedly, Will realized that the liquid on the pavement he was sitting in – that was soaking through his clothes, Julie's clothes, everybody's clothes – was not rain. At least not entirely. They were all soaked in gas. "Shit," he murmured. "Tonaro!" he shouted.
The bodyguard moved closer. "Right here."
"There's gas everywhere," Will said. "No flares, okay? No cigarettes."
"Could be a problem." The man gestured toward the other cars.
He saw flickering orange light.
"Oh, fuck," Ingram said. "Jules!"
"Take her," she called.
He grabbed the ends of his coat and pulled it toward him. The toddler was on her back in the center of it. She was still motionless. He bent over her as Julie scrambled out. "Bella? Bella?"
The girl's eyes rolled toward him. She took a deep breath. And then she screamed.
"My baby," the mother sobbed.
"She's okay," Will called back. She was, apparently. With the scream, she'd begun to kick and to move her arms. She was terrified, but she had full range of motion. That was huge.
The first rule of emergency medicine was carved in stone: Don't move 'em unless you'll lose 'em. Under normal circumstances, he would have waited for a backboard and collar for mother and child both. But in a pool of gasoline, with open fire less than twenty yards away, he couldn't wait. He swept the toddler up in his arms and held her out to his bodyguard. "Take her," he barked.
To his credit, the big man barely hesitated. He'd probably already done the calculation, that being in the pool of gas was a bigger threat to his clients than the risk of a random assassin. And that they weren't leaving the area without the victims. He took the screaming child. For a moment he held her at arm's length as if she were an explosive device. Then he shook himself and pulled her in close.
From the expression on his face, he might have been happier if she actually were an explosive device.
Will moved his coat over to the front door. "Ma'am? What's your name?"
"Louisa."
"Louisa. We're going to get you out of the car now. Your arm is broken and it's going to hurt. If you hurt anywhere else, let me know right away, okay?"
"My baby …"
"She's over there," Julie said. She didn't bother to point; the woman couldn't see her. "She's safe. You hear her screaming? That means she's okay. Nice and strong and mad as hell. Right?"
"Uh-huh."
They maneuvered her onto the coat as gently as they could. Louisa gasped when they had to move her arm, but when they paused she was able to tell them that she didn't hurt anywhere else.
There were flashing lights, other voices. Finally.
Will backed away from the wreck, checked on Julie's position. Then they slid the coat and the woman out from under the car.
"Hey!" a voice of authority barked. "You can't move her …"
Tonaro stepped closer, still with the screaming toddler in his arms, and spoke quietly. The man, a police officer in uniform, came over to them and spoke in an entirely different tone. "How can I help?"
"There's gas everywhere," Julie said. "No flares."
"Got it." He got on his radio.
They dragged the woman a good ten feet from the car before they stopped, but with the wet pavement it was impossible to tell where the contamination ended. They were all soaked in gas anyhow. "First squad needs to take her," Will said to the officer. "She's thirty-five weeks gestation." He pointed. "That's my car. Get my bag out of the trunk, will you?"
The cop turned and hurried to the car.
Julie went and took the toddler from the relieved bodyguard. Bella began to quiet down. Tonaro resumed his watchful pose.
Thomas returned while Will was assessing the woman. "Eight vics," he said efficiently. "Looks like one leg broke and one other arm. The rest are bumps and bruises, except one. No seat belt, no air bag."
Will glanced up. "Steering wheel or windshield?"
"Steering wheel to the face." He gestured to his own face. "Nose, mostly."
"Arms and legs?"
"Huh?"
Ingram stood up, gestured the cop over. He took his bag, pointed to Louisa. "Stay with her until the squad gets here. Hold her hand. Keep her talking."
"Okay."
"Show me," Will said to Thomas. The bodyguard led him past other wrecked cars to the first one in the pile-up, a red sedan that looked like it had been battered before it went into the overpass piling. The front end of the car was crumpled all the way to the windshield.
The driver was standing beside the car, leaning against the wreckage. His face below his nose was covered with blood; his nose was obviously broken. "Hey," Will said, putting a hand on the man's shoulder, "you need to sit down and let me check you out, okay?"
The man turned and squinted at him. Ingram immediately thought 'head injury' and tightened his grip on his arm. Then he smelled his breath. "Are you drunk?" he demanded.
"I, uh, I gotta go." The man tried to walk away. He staggered badly and nearly fell.
Will eased him down onto the pavement. He crouched in front of him. He might still have a head injury. There was no way to tell for sure, here on the scene. And honestly, Will had a hard time caring. Bella and her mother and her unborn sibling were all at risk, Julie was at risk, and this idiot …
He bit back his rage and flashed his penlight into the man's eyes. The man closed them tightly and turned away. "Let me see," Will said. The man shook his head.
Ingram checked his pulse. It was stronger and more even than Louisa's had been.
There were suddenly a lot of people there, cops and fireman and paramedics. Someone put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, you the doctor?"
"Yeah," he said. "This guy's nose is broke. He won't let me get vitals. And you need to get a blood alcohol."
The paramedic scowled. "Figures."
"Yeah." Will stood and walked back to the expectant mother. She had her own pair of paramedics working on her by then. Evidently the cops had relayed Will's status as a not-bystander. "What've you got?" he asked.
"Broken arm and collar bone," the first one reported. "Vitals are good. Got a fetal heartbeat, and fetal movement, I think."
"Good."
"You moved her."
"Gas," he answered.
He helped them use his coat to roll her and load her onto a backboard. It was mostly a precaution; she didn't seem to have any c-spine injuries. But it couldn't hurt. She grabbed at Will's hand. "My baby," she said quietly.
"Your baby's fine," he told her. "We'll check him out when we get to the hospital, but he seems fine."
Tears welled up in her eyes. "My Bella. Why isn't she crying anymore?"
"Bella's right over there. Julie has her. She'll stay with her. I promise. Until you can be with her again. We're not going to let anything happen to her. She's okay."
"My baby," the woman said again. She tried to touch her rounded belly, but they already had her arms strapped down.
"Here," Will said. "You've heard the heartbeat in your doctor's appointments, right?"
"Uh-huh."
He snagged a stethoscope out of his bag and used it to find the baby's heartbeat again. "This won't sound quite the same because it's different equipment, but you can listen, okay?" He held the sensor in place, awkwardly slipped the earpieces into the mother's ears. "Can you hear him? Her?"
Louisa blinked back tears again. "Yes," she said. Then she began to cry in earnest. "Oh, yes."
He let her listen for a moment more. His eyes scanned up to locate Julie. She wasn't far away. She was sitting down, holding Bella on her lap while the paramedic checked her out. The toddler had stopped crying. She didn't look happy, but she wasn't terrified as long as she had Julie. He'd seen that before. Children of all ages trusted her immediately.
Evidently the car seat had done its job; Bella didn't seem to be hurt at all.
The adrenaline was starting to wear off. Will was cold; his coat was underneath Louisa on the backboard. He was soaked to the skin, with icy rain and with gasoline. The ER could do better assessments, but it didn't look like anyone was seriously hurt. They'd been lucky as hell.
The drunk …
He shook his head.
They got people assessed, loaded into ambulances. Julie went with Bella. "I'm her aunt," she said. The paramedic looked at her sideways – she hadn't been able to provide even token information about the child – but since Bella clung to her, he nodded and played along. Will rode in with Louisa, though there really wasn't any need.
They were all the way to the hospital before he thought about Thomas and Tonaro. Or his car. He shrugged. They'd deal with it. They always did.
Now that he was reconciled to having them, he tried not to abuse his bodyguards. But once in a while it just happened. He'd make it up to them, he decided. He had no idea how. Julie would probably have an idea. She was smart like that.
Not smart enough to know that he wasn't going to be scared off by her family, though. He shook his head. He'd lost Julie Carson once, before he ever knew her real name. He wasn't letting her go again for anything.
And it occurred to him that he probably ought to tell her that.
Again.
Tonight.