November 2013

A payphone rang, and a man in a suit moved to answer it.

It was a rainy New York Wednesday, and he bobbed through a sea of umbrellas. As usual, he had forgotten his; and as usual, the cold rain was more refreshing than irritating. His coat kept off the worst of it, and he could always dry off later.

The phone rang again. One or two passersby stared, but made no move to answer. John Reese smiled a bit. New Yorkers.

He answered the phone as it completed its third ring. Three voices responded.

First, a man's voice: "World."

Then a woman's: "Wide."

And then another woman's: "Web."

John drew a pen and notebook from an interior pocket of his coat. Raindrops splattered the paper, and he wished for the first time that day he had brought an umbrella. He propped the phone against his shoulder and did his best to shield the paper from the rain.

The Machine gave the web address in its usual garbled, disembodied way. John scribbled the address, and then back the notebook went into his pocket. Before he returned the phone to its hook, the Machine spoke again.

Man's voice: "Move."

Child's: "Quickly."

Woman's: "Call."

Man's: "Finch."

John did as he was told.

"Well, Mr. Reese, had I not created the Machine, I might think it was malfunctioning. It seems the address it gave you is for a site that attracts conspiracy theorists. This page in particular…" His words slowed a bit, as they always did when he was distracted by a number. "The page you sent me to is devoted to a man called The Doctor."

"Doctor who?" The rain had tapered into a drizzle, and John quickened his pace. Walking in a drizzle could be as enjoyable as walking in the rain, but his apartment was still a block away. The Machine wanted them to move quickly, and John wanted to be ready.

"That's what these forum members seem devoted to finding out. But they don't seem to be having much luck. The most they have been able to muster up is a few photographs—"

"All of which make him resemble Bigfoot, I'm sure."

"—and a handful of anecdotes from secondhand sources—friends of friends who thought they saw him in downtown London, third cousins who spoke with him, that sort of thing."

"So which one of them do you think is our number?"

John heard a few muted clicks at the other end of the line. "I'm not sure. Perhaps none of them."

"What do you mean?"

"When we get a number, the Machine sends a number. This is the first time it has sent us a website, isn't it?"

"That doesn't mean none of those people are in danger, Finch." He pushed through the front door of his apartment building, and was greeted by a welcome blast of warm air. His feet left puddles on the pristine tile floor.

"I still don't think you're getting the point, Mr. Reese."

"Which is…?" He raised his hand in greeting to the front desk clerk. She rolled her eyes and raised an umbrella, pointing to it in an exaggerated way and mouthing, Buy one!

"That our number isn't a number. I think it's a name."

John sighed as he stepped into the stairwell. No sense in soaking the elevator's carpet. "You're not telling me this Doctor character is our number?"

"I can't think of any other logical explanation."

"So we're going after a guy who is so far off the grid, he doesn't even have a real name."

"Precisely."

"I sure hope you're wrong, Finch."

"This wouldn't be the first time."

"If you're right, this is going to be a hell of a lot more trouble than it's worth."

It was only ten in the morning, and Detective Jocelyn Carter already had a headache.

It wasn't the incessant ringing of telephones that caused it. Anyone who worked for the NYPD longer than twenty minutes had already filed it away as background music. Nor was it the detective standing in before her desk with a stack of manila folders tucked under her arm, or the six-inch pile of paperwork that needed completing.

"Listen, Morgan. You know I'm more than willing to ignore all of my work to help you with a couple of cases that aren't even my department. But if you expect a homicide detective to help you with a missing persons case, you had better have a damn good reason for wanting it."

"Look, I wouldn't ask you if I didn't think I was out of options."

"Ask your partner."

"He's just as stumped as I am." Detective Charlotte Morgan was no rookie. Her first five years in the Department had drawn deep lines around her eyes and mouth. The next five had set her hair on the path to an early grey, which she never bothered to hide. Carter didn't blame her. Had she spent seven years finding people who were more often than not bound for the city morgue, she might have seen a few silver hairs as a badge of honor. Not that homicide was any better.

Carter sighed and reached for the files tucked under Morgan's arm. "All right. I'll take a look."

"You will?"

"That's what I just said. Get me some coffee."

Morgan handed over the stack and hurried off for the coffee, and Carter opened the first file. Jessica Bailey, age twenty-four, last seen near Central Park, was reported missing two nights ago. An examination of the area where she was seen revealed no sign of struggle. The sole eyewitness, a homeless man named Franklin Delano Roosevelt (or so he claimed) reported nothing. No vans, no strangers in the area, nothing.

By the time Morgan returned, Styrofoam cup in hand, Carter had skimmed the first three files. "Well? What do you think?"

"I think this guy is definitely a professional. No eyewitnesses, 'cept for the homeless guy, and he's certifiable."

"You think it's all one guy, too?"

"Gotta be, least with the first couple. Same MO, same crime scene—"

"Or lack of it."

"Or lack of it," Carter agreed. She let the file fall to her desk with a quiet slap. "Other than that, I can't tell you a thing. Guy's too slick."

"I was afraid of that." Morgan nodded to the remaining files. "How long'll you be with those?"

"Come back in ten minutes."

Carter skimmed the remaining files, but the only conclusion she drew was that the same guy was involved. Or girl. Or ghost, for all they knew. As Morgan and her partner had already arrived at that conclusion, Carter's input would be redundant at best.

"I won't be much help on this one," she muttered, taking another sip of the station's over-boiled coffee. She nudged the files into a neat stack. Men, women and children, mothers, fathers, sons and daughters, all gone—and their UNSUB hadn't the decency to leave a footprint or a tire track. Carter was already preparing for the inevitable day, weeks or maybe months down the road, when those same files would return to her desk. The only difference would be a few gruesome photographs of dead bodies and an autopsy report for each, making them her responsibility.

Carter sighed and eyed the stack of paperwork that still needed completing. She took a page from the top of the stack and filled out the first few blanks on autopilot. Her mind was still on those missing persons files.

The moment John was showered, dried, and clothed, he plugged in his Bluetooth and called Finch. Music played in the background of the call, and it took him a moment to pick out a few instruments—electric guitars, drums, and a distinctly operatic wail.

"Never would have pegged you for a Swedish metal fan, Finch."

"Honestly, Mr. Reese, I would have thought you of all people would know the difference between Swedish metal and Finnish operatic rock."

"Oh? Why do you say that?"

"Don't expect me to tell you."

John smiled. "Why you said it, or why you were listening to Finnish rock?"

The music ceased. "'Phantom of the Opera' is a marvelous song in all its iterations. My grandmother was rather fond of it."

"Was she now?"

"A man does not lie about his own grandmother, Mr. Reese."

"Does this grandmother have a name?"

"She did, yes. Though I must say, this was not your best attempt at getting me to divulge personal information. Perhaps you should try harder next time."

John opened his blinds and smiled at the New York skyline, still blanketed in pewter-colored clouds. "Anything new on this Doctor?"

"Numerous theories, but precious few facts. Evidently there was a group several years ago who made strides toward determining his identity, but for one reason or another the group is now defunct."

"Did this group have a name?"

"Yes. They were called LINDA."

John chuckled. "And we wonder why they disbanded."

"A great mystery, I'm sure." There was a brief clatter of computer keys at the other end of the line. "Since you called, the Machine has emailed me several more links to various websites. I've been going through them one by one."

"All of them devoted to conspiracy theories, I'm sure."

"Don't rule out conspiracy theories entirely, Mr. Reese. How do you think I found you?"

Now this was new. "There were conspiracy theories about me back then?"

"More than you would imagine."

"Or would care to." With some effort, he resisted plunging headfirst into memories of his time on the streets. "What do the conspiracy theorists say?"

"Standard urban legend fare, most of it. He appears to weave in and out of history at random—we have one rumored sighting in Victorian London, another in Shakespearian London, a few in Scotland. Most of these reported Doctor sightings appear to be modern, but they're always very brief and inconclusive."

"According to you or the theorists?"

"Me. I read the theories and draw my own conclusions."

"Of course." John was grateful the Machine had sent those links to Finch. He would not have lasted more than a few minutes slogging through page after page of theories piled on top of theories, each more ridiculous than the last. "How many of those theorists claim he's actually the Pope?"

"Just one. And that theorist doesn't seem to be very popular….from his post onward the thread devolves into name-calling and finger-pointing….oh, that's not a very nice thing to say….but that is rather clever…."

"Finch."

He cleared his throat and John heard a few more clicks. "From what I can gather, the Doctor seems to stay in or near the London area."

Visions of a long plane ride and hours in an airport danced through John's head. "So I'm going to London."

"You….might….be….but I don't believe that will be necessary. There have been a handful of New York sightings—infrequent, yes, but confirmed by several sources."

"Which sources?" If he was going to London, he wanted to get the preparations underway so he could get the trip over with.

"DoctrWuzHeer1930 and INosSumthingsUP19879 offer the most information." He must have heard John's sigh, because he plunged ahead. "As I said before, those sightings are rather infrequent, but they do exist."

"All right. I'll let you get back to your reading. Call me if I need to book a flight." That Finch would insist on first class was small comfort. He resigned himself to hours of sore joints and stiff muscles.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Reese. He's here."

John straightened. "Where?"

"The Machine just sent me a surveillance video from an organic bakery in Lower Manhattan."

"Are you sure it's him?"

"He matches the pictures, so far as I can tell. He has a different woman with him…but everything else matches the pictures online."

"How old is the video?"

"The stills were taken fifteen minutes ago. The video….seems to be a live feed."

John had already grabbed a dry coat from the closet. "I'm on my way."