Chapter Two (Things Are Not As They Seem...)
Harold Finch shook his head, a disgruntled sound escaping his throat. He had loosened his tie, the dark maroon one with a geometric design, which complimented his lighter cream vest.
The man had been working steadily for a while now, his hard work finally unveiling a few tidbits of his Person Of Interest's past.
"'Cordelia Fellows' indeed." he scoffed at such an archaic name, grimacing slightly as he read the text imprinted upon his computer screen. "How does one derive the pseudonym 'Amanda Collins' from such an obscure moniker?" he pondered the why of it all, coming up empty. "She could not think up a suitable anagram even?"
He chalked it up to unimaginative thought processes. "Well, no matter Ms. Fellows. 'A rose by any other name.' You still top our most wanted list tonight, do you not." he mused out loud, his fingers effortlessly gliding over the keyboard.
Harold swiveled his comfortable chair to another section of his desk, scooting to his right. "but you still refuse give up your secrets.." he studied the scant information provided from a clipping found in 'New Yorker' magazine dated October of last year. "Generic rhetoric is all you ever supply the media, I see. Which means you are either a very private individual, a very boring one..or you have something to hide."
The man switched back to his original screen. "Let us try our sterling judicial system." He worked his magic and within minutes a document appeared before his patient eyes. "..Sealed juvenile records." Harold's forehead wrinkled slightly as he stared at the data presented, reading rapidly. "Detective Carter will be useful in unveiling that part of your life at least..the proverbial 'joy ride in a stolen vehicle' no doubt. Such youthful shenanigans are to be expected, I am given to understand but still, one must pursue all avenues."
Harold sat back, sighing lightly. "You are rather an elusive prey. You seem lead an exemplary life. Especially for a supposedly noted, established literary figure." The man leaned on his desk, steepling his fingers, pursing his lips. "According to your bank statements, you eat takeout most nights. The monetary amounts suggest, it's always dinner for one. You appear particularly fond of the Number Seven from 'Won's Express'..49th and Parkway."
His hands dropped to his side for a beat. "Hummm." He activated his 'blue tooth'. "Mr. Reese. Have you reached your destination as yet?"
The silky whisper of a controlled, calm voice came back through the earpiece immediately. There was something both soothing yet singularly sinister to the low, melodic reply. "It appears..Mr. Finch." Reese had a way of needling the other man for Harold's overly proper use of correct titles, his tone a little censored but decidedly wistful on this occasion. "We arrived just in the nick of time."
"Is something amiss?" Harold sat up, his interest caught.
Keen, intelligent eyes watched the lone figure from Reese's advantage point just inside the stairwell of the Fourth floor apartment complex which was the home of Amanda Collins.
"We have an uninvited guest at Ms. Collins' door even as we speak." If that fact overly concerned the younger man, one would never have known it from his reaction.
Harold was more than alert and cautious however, enough for the two of them. "…Just the one?"
"So far." Was Reese's lazy reply, suggesting even if more were lurking about, it would be no real problem or threat.
Inside the dimly lit apartment, a totally unsuspecting woman sat, blissfully unaware of any danger, for the intruder was a professional who knew his job well, the locks on the door giving him little pause, his instruments of choice used silently, efficiently wielded in capable hands.
Amanda heard nothing except the steady drone of rain outside her windows, not even the soft click of the door handle as it was eased open.
But, Amanda was an avid fan of mystery novels and always erred on the side of caution. Three chains barred the intruder's path.
Reese witnessed the unmistakable anger transmitted within the curt snap of the other man's head. Something was not going as planned. He could make out the very uncivil words being mouthed by the guy.
The obstacle, whatever it was, would not stop such an obviously determined foe, however. The man's fury was transmitted to the gesture which followed.
The chains did not give easily, however, needing a second and third kick to dislodge before the door facing splintered. The noise must have been heard by the other tenants but none showed their faces.
Ah..New York. A nice place to visit, you just didn't want to live here, Reese ruminated thoughtfully before pushing himself to action.
Hours later, Amanda would relive the moments which followed over and over again, but still, she would have difficulty putting it all in order in her mind.
She shot up off the divan at the sounds of the unmistakable knowledge that someone was now inside her apartment, adrenalin shooting through her entire body. Instinctively, she reached for the phone sitting on the end table, even having time to dial the first two numbers before the large, menacing shape was upon her.
A tall bulk of a man towered over her, soft leather gloves slipping effortlessly about her throat. She gasped at the strength behind the deadly touch, iron fingers tightening, restricting her airway instantly, pain surging into the fragile tendons of her neck muscles.
Black spots danced before her eyes as a white haze beckoned her into it's quiet intensity.
She clawed at the immovable talons but sensed it was a losing battle even if she had no intention of giving up. All her good intentions seemed for naught, for her assailant was just as determined and a hell of a sight more skilled in the ways of such an art.
But just as rapidly as the assault began, the pressure was released and she was sent sprawling backward, off balanced and falling, gasping for air.
She landed with a sharp thud on the hardwood floor between the divan and coffee table, her entire right side taking the brunt of contact, the left side of her head cracking ominously against the edge of the opposite end table, sliding the heavy object a good three feet across the room, the fragile lamp it housed tipping over, crashing into a million pieces as the delicate globes hit the floor.
The blow stunned the woman. She struggled to maintain consciousness, vaguely aware of another more violent struggle taking place very close by.
She tried to sit, her head throbbing painfully, her vision blurred and unfocused, a sharp piercing ache permeating her entire being.
Two mammoth bulks weaved and swayed, shifting about in the darkened rooms. There was dim light but she could not phantom the source.
She instinctively shrank away from the sounds of fisticuffs, forcing herself erect, knowing she must somehow escape this heinous moment but she was wobbly, her steps uncertain and misdirected.
She staggered forward, bracing herself against the divan and coffee table as best she could. Her eyes fell on her notebook still laying where she had dropped it, on the cushion of the couch. She snatched it close, holding it to her bosom, lunging for the doorway, for the light from the hallway illuminated the arched entrance.
A garbled sound escaped her throat as a thick, muscular arm encircled her neckline yet again, the strangling pressure worse than before. She could feel hard muscles and smell the stench of sweat and alcohol on the fabric of the sleeve, gagging from the overpowering scents.
A mammoth hand cupped the side of her head, steely fingers bending it at an impossible angle, her hair pulled hurtfully, forcing stinging tears to her eyes.
A loud 'pop' exploded by her right ear and suddenly, she was free, gulping in copious amounts of life-giving breaths, coughing spasmodically, weeping freely, fear and shock traversing her entire system.
She clawed at her throat, attempting to help it ease air down it's painfully swollen passageway, her skin raw and raked with red, unsightly scrapes and marks from the buttons on her assailant's jacket sleeve.
"Don't force it." A velvet fog of a whisper soothed and calmed. "Take deep, slow breaths.." strong hands guided and supported her shaking form.
She tried desperately to follow the directions but her body craved oxygen and her throat seemed closed off permanently, the air she was getting in miniscule in nature, at best.
"Slow..deep..steady.."
He was leaning over her, his hands supporting her weight for she had sank down on the divan, her knees on the floor, her body rigid..more than tense.
"They know where you live." The man whispered his urgency. "You can't stay here."
Who 'they' were..or 'he' was..she had no clue but something in his tone alerted her to danger and she tried very hard to respond.
"Good girl." The compliment washed over her like honey on a hot bun and she flushed fully but did not understand the why of it. "Just lean on me." He was guiding her, his touch gentle, his pace, slow.
It wasn't so much the sound advice he offered but the matter-of-fact tone which halted any thought of refusal or denial on Amanda's part.
She found herself meekly following his lead, and in minutes she found herself in the second floor stairwell of her apartment building, concentrating on his footsteps that clicked smartly on the concrete of the stairs. She was barefoot, dressed only in the grey sweat pants and green sage tee with it's cryptic lettering which read: 'Nine Out Of Ten Voices In My Head Say…Shoot.'
She had the ensemble for years, the faded lettering and colors bemoaning the fact.
"Is..t-that man.." she was amazed at her ability to speak but already, her throat seemed determined to return to normal even if her nervous system could not. "a-alright?"
"..Depends on your definition of 'alright'." The gravelly, silken tones washed over her tired, frantic brain yet again. "He tried to snap your neck..you are aware of that fact, right?" Reese put his coat around the girl's shivering shoulders.
"..Who are you?" she stared at the noble profile, struck by how very handsome the stranger was. "I…don't know y-you."
"You're safe." She was informed by Mel Torme, that odd, hypnotic voice waylaying a goodly measure of her doubt and insecurity. "I'm here to help."
Reese took a moment to allow her regroup. He knew the signs well. The white palor of shock, the haunted, vacant eyes which watched him so trustingly. "Your head is bleeding." He produced a handkerchief from within the confides of his leather jacket, dabbing at the swollen, red gash at her right temple.
Her cold hand covered his warm fingers, taking the folded cloth, as she stared at the evidence of his proclamation.
"Finch.." Reese made mention. "What was that doctor's name? The one who stitched me up last month? We may need him to take a look at her."
" I think you mean..Dr. Farooq Madan." Finch stated. "She may be more comfortable with Dr. Tillman, however. I'll look into it."
The emerald eyes lifted, bewildered. "We..should call the police." Her words seemed hollow..forced. "Shouldn't we?"
"The police can only help after the fact." Reese knew how the system worked. "They are good at investigating a crime after it has occurred. I don't think you want to be a statistic, do you Ms. Collins?"
"Three out of four.." the woman was trying very hard to hold it together, he knew but she was losing the battle. "m-murders..are never solved."
"Mr. Reese.." Finch was losing patience. "Get out of there. Discussion time can wait."
"Take it easy, Finch." Reese could see the visible signs of a possible breakdown, whereas his employer could not. "Give her some time."
"..He's your boss." The woman motioned to his concealed earpiece. "We should go." She resumed her steps, her hands shaking, fumbling occasionally on the bannister as she went. She still clutched the notebook, her knuckles white from the exertion, Reese noted. "..This..doesn't happen to me a lot. I guess I'm not handling it as well as I should."
Reese's mouth quirked, his eyes softening a tad.
"There is no reason on Earth I should blithely leave this building with a man I just met. One who.." she refused to finish the sentence even in her own mind. "but, logic dictates..I must." She halted just inside the side entrance to the building. "Will you give me your word ..not to hurt me?"
Reese was amazed at such naiveté but also..intrigued by such sincerity. "would you take it?" he was curious.
Finch's brow furrowed quizzically for such a stupid exchange.
The question seemed rhetorical for Amanda pushed the heavy door open, handkerchief to her forehead. She looked up at the rain as it pelted her face and shoulders.
Reese glanced at her bare feet. "The car is over there." He pointed. "Should I carry you?"
"Certainly not." The girl balked, taking off determinedly across the puddled street. She was shivering by the time he helped her into the passenger side.
Once inside, Reese could sense she was rethinking her former bravado. He drove mechanically, visually alert to any would be tag-a-longs, but the streets were almost deserted.
He could feel her stare although, admittedly, mostly she just jotted down rapidly something in that damned book she held so close to the small light of the glove compartment.
"Taking down the street names?" he queried. "Should I find a service station? You could write it all on the bathroom mirror."
"Most serial killers are very charming."
Finch held his smile for the off-handed remark.
"Not that you are one..probably not, at least." Amanda stopped writing long enough to ponder the statement. "You've had numerous chances to..well..you know." She pushed her hair, which had fallen from it's confides long since, damp and curly, falling lushly down her back and over her shoulders.
Reese had kicked the heat on in the vehicle. She had stopped shivering at least.
"So, I am assuming one of two things." The small voice continued and Finch thought, perhaps she talked to ward off her fear..or to stop thinking about what might have happened..or what might..still. "that you are taking me to a more private place in which to..do the bad things or,hopefully.. you are simply what you appear to be."
"Which is?"
"Very competent." She returned to her writing. "Professional." She glanced over at him for a beat. "Reluctantly..kind."
Finch didn't think that description applied to his counterpart what-so-ever..well, the last part, certainly.
"You realize, Mr. Reese..that she is simply transferring her gratitude for you having saved her life into a rather Freudian need to reach out to you..sexually."
"I have a headache." Reese quipped. "And I have to wash my hair. Not necessarily in that order."
"Oh, no." the woman shook her head. "I'm not attracted to you. OHH..not that you aren't..attractive. You ARE.." she stammered, flushing slightly. "Really. It's just that. I like..older men. In that way, I mean. But, you truly are a handsome man. And, I feel like I know you from somewhere, not that that is a pick-up line or anything. You just look so familiar. You really do."
Reese shifted a sideways glance, nothing more.
"I wrote a book about a serial killer once, that's all, you see and he was a lot like you in that..he was really handsome and he had kind eyes." She prattled on and Finch found himself sighing heavily, wishing she would just shut up now. "I thought that was important..you know,..the eyes? Life isn't like novels at all ..is it." She fell silent, her thoughts forced to recall the night's experiences.