Chapter 2
"The one part is in." There was a girl behind the counter at Elmo's. Heavy makeup, mostly foundation. "I'll have to check but I think they're still waiting on the rest."
Reese's eyes were beyond her, into the garage. He looked back at her, shifted his attention.
"It's an older model." She looked apologetic. "Sometimes it can take a little longer to track down parts."
A door slammed, making her jump. Adam. She glanced at him, something washed over her face. Then gone.
"Hey babe," he said, stepping into her space behind the desk. His presence seemed to push her back physically. He looked at Reese. "Hey man. Did Dee tell you we're gonna need more cash?"
She hadn't, but Reese saw the look on her face. Apparently she was supposed to.
He saw the heavy foundation again, caked especially thick on the one cheek. The long sleeves, even in the hot office.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"She did," he murmured.
"Great."
"We're done here, Mr. Reese."
There was silence on the other end of the com. Finch could hear sirens in the distance, but nothing more. A breath, maybe.
"Mr. Reese."
Still no response. He heard a change in breathing, a rustle. Something clanked in the background.
"Mr. Reese. Get out of there."
Nothing.
"John."
A pause. "I hear you, Finch."
"Yes, but do you hear me?"
It wasn't truly a question. The tone behind it already had its answer.
"Har-"
"Do you hear me."
A pause. "Yes."
"The police are minutes away."
"I get that, Finch. Just..." There was another clanking sound, a faintly muttered curse. Then not so faint.
Finch started to disapprove and then stopped himself. Really, Harold? His language is what bothers you right now?
"Mr. Reese, get out of there. Time is of the essence."
No answer.
The line went dead.
When Finch wasn't in the library, Reese often was.
He would slowly trail the stacks. Sometimes, he picked locked doors, never finding much of interest.
He enjoyed the smell of the books, the dim lighting in the back recesses.
He felt safe. Calm.
Finch too, perused the stacks, he could tell. He could see the patterns in the dust. Oftentimes there would be a different set of books at the desk in the main room.
Finch's tastes seemed rather eclectic.
Sometimes Reese sat at that main desk, swiveling in the executive chair and staring at the computer console.
After picking every locked drawer at the ancient desk, he had turned his attention to the mix of screens. The blinking cursor, the tempting keyboard and mouse.
He reached for the mouse, then pulled his hand back. Not today.
Reese slid one of the books from the recent pile toward himself instead and swung his feet onto the top of the desk, shifting his weight back into the chair.
Foundations of the Metaphysics of Morals, Finch? He smirked, running his thumb down the spine.
It might have been minutes, it might have been an hour.
"Comfortable, Mr. Reese?"
Regardless the passage of time, hardly a few pages in. The book was slipped gently from his hands. In its place, a 5x10.
Reese looked down at the photo, frowning.
He glanced up at Finch, who had a similar frown at his feet still on the desk. Reese dropped his legs with a dull thud.
"Franklyn McGinley. Five years old."
"If you're worried, Finch, don't be."
The tone was annoyed. But Reese wasn't annoyed. Right now, he was restless.
Finch eyed the figure draped on the floor. Reese's back was heavy against the desk, legs sprawled in front of him as he cleaned his gun. Only his profile was visible.
"Must you do that in here?"
Reese glanced up at him. A half smile graced his lips. It wasn't the first time that conversation had played out.
Finch noted the dried blood on the edge of his hairline. He went back to typing.
He would have to get another chair in the room.
Reese rolled the metal in his hands. He shifted on the floor, rolled his left shoulder.
Finch watched him from the corner of his eye.
"I didn't kill him."
"I didn't ask, Mr. Reese."
His own apartment, a view of a brick wall.
Reese turned from the window, took a swig of his beer, rubbed a palm down his face.
Temporary living situations didn't provide him with too many upgrades.
He eyed his mattress on the floor. Between its own comfort level and the images that haunted his dreams, sleep wasn't the most attractive option.
Especially now that he was trading drunken slumbers for more productive mornings, most nights at least.
He paced the empty wall, took another swig. Adjusted the waistband of his sweatpants. He had put on weight quickly enough in the past few weeks, but the scale was starting to slide the other way again.
He stretched, pushing a flat palm against the wall. He really needed to figure himself out.
Reese glanced at the clock. At least another six hours before he could even show up at the Library and expect to find Finch.
He rolled his neck.
At least it felt like a team, working with Finch.
Working with Kara, she had exposed his every weakness. Feasted on it.
He hadn't had much, if any, say in their actions then, working with her, under Snow. If anything, he learned his every weakness, knew which ones Kara hated, which ones would make her punish him later.
Not that he wasn't good at what he did. He may not have liked killing people, but he was very good at it.
Even if he didn't know what some of them had done to deserve it.
Finch on the other hand. Finch was a hard read.
One thing for sure, he was pretty certain he had mastered the art of pissing him off, at least lately.
And Finch didn't seem to like killing people.
Sirens suddenly filled the quiet as Reese took a final drink from the bottle of beer.
He then tried push-ups, until his arms were breaking.
He then tried sit-ups, until he lost interest.
He then tried sitting cross-legged on the floor and staring at the wall.
A television turned on somewhere behind the paper thin walls and he fell back on the sagging mattress, chest rising and falling deeply as it echoed in his head.
He closed his eyes. Opened them. Looked at the clock.
He sighed.
Whiskey night it was.
"She wasn't the number, Mr. Reese."
"She will be."
"That's not for us to predict," Finch said bluntly. Reese was pacing, a caged animal.
"Is it fun for you? Playing God? Picking and choosing-"
"Picking and choosing?"
"Deciding who gets hurt, who doesn't-"
There were times lately, too many times, that the moral backbone lining Reese's words reminded him oh so much of Nathan.
But he had been down that path himself. Haunted by it. Finch closed his eyes.
"It doesn't end at the number," Finch allowed. "Be that as it may-"
"It's not enough, Finch."
He hadn't heard so many words from Reese at once, ever.
Finch wasn't even listening now, he was growing exasperated at the sudden barrage.
"Will you stop?"
Eyes shot at him.
"Take a walk, Mr. Reese."
Reese stared at him, quieted. "What?"
"Take a walk," Finch repeated. He turned his body back to the screen.
"Are you kicking me out, Finch?" Reese didn't know what he was looking for from his employer. A fight, a lecture, some type of rebuttal. An answer.
"I'm telling you to take a walk, John." Finch's voice was tired. "Go do whatever it is you do when you're not...here."
I follow you, Reese wanted to say. I come here, when you're not around.
"Is that an order, Finch?" His words were sarcastic, defiant.
Finch turned his body now, raising a single eyebrow. "Does it have to be?"
But Reese was already gone.
Nathan, too, had struggled with the opacity of the machine.
How could they ignore the information being handed to them, how could they not save the life of a person in imminent danger.
But where did it end?
Finch swiveled in his chair, glanced at the empty doorway, back to his screen.
The new algorithm he was developing stared at him. He looked to the half-eaten carton of Chinese next to his keyboard and sighed, leaning back into his chair.
He knew he wasn't making any progress tonight. The lines of code mocked him.
Finch picked up the Kant book he had found Reese reading, or pretending to read- he couldn't tell with him. He flipped open to the first few pages.
Reese was becoming more and more reckless. Finch was beginning to fear that the man's newly found notion of self-preservation was teetering. He hid his injuries well, alarmingly so, but Finch wasn't an idiot.
At first he questioned how an ex-CIA operative, an ex-killer really, could become so sensitive to even the smallest hurts in the world.
But as cases went on, Finch was realizing that it wasn't that at all. No, John Reese had always been humane.
Now, contrary to his previous work, each mission presented him a choice. No set written order to be carried out, no ultimatums. Just the one charge to do the right thing, whatever that might be.
Therein lay the moral imperative.
There was no standard operating procedure for the Machine's use. Siphoning the irrelevant numbers, making them relevant.
Deciding when to come home.
It was something Finch was still trying to figure out himself.
Reese stopped at the address Finch had given him, taking in the grand looking hotel. Just one more address to check out tonight, Finch had said.
Moving past the bellhop and through the lobby, Reese hit the button to the elevator.
His eyes surveyed the lobby, nearly empty. It was past midnight, few up at that hour here. A massive chandelier sparkled from the ceiling's expanse.
Ninth floor.
The elevator dinged and he stepped out, moving down the carpeted hall. Room 918. He checked the hallway and started working the lock.
The door opened. Reese pulled his gun from his waistband before slowly stepping through.
The room looked untouched, freshly made up in fact. He stepped forward, noting the set of keys on the desk. Fresh towels.
He peeked in the bathroom. Marble. Spotless.
He lowered his weapon.
"Finch?" Reese surveyed the room again, trying to figure it out. The window overlooked Central Park. "What am I doing here?"
"Sleeping."
Reese frowned.
Finch seemed to sense his hesitation. "It's okay. I know the owner."
A pause. "Are you the owner?"
"Good night, Mr. Reese."
"New car?"
"Just borrowing."
Fusco eyed the green Audi suspiciously. "I don't even wanna know."
"Good." Reese smiled at him agreeably and pulled a bag from the passenger seat. He tossed it to Fusco. "I need a favor, Detective."
Fusco opened it cautiously. Looked up with a glare. "What the hell?"
"I made a little... bust."
"You don't say." Fusco shook the bag, groaning. Pounds and pounds. "Falls a little outside your job description, don't ya think?"
"Well if you did your job-"
"Oh really, funny guy."
"I've got a guy for you too, nice and simple. You'll be a hero today."
"A guy," Fusco repeated dryly. The glare wasn't letting up. "You mean the guy?"
"C'mon, Lionel. You're the detective here."
"Something tells me Glasses didn't put you up to this."
Reese gave him a tired look.
Fusco just stared at him, incredulous. "You're serious."
Reese said nothing, held his stare. He was serious.
"And if I say no?"
A corner of Reese's mouth tugged up. "I'll be in touch, Lionel."
Fusco shook his head as the man in the suit walked away. Son of a bitch.
He swore under his breath. "And the guy?"
Reese didn't even turn around.
"He's in the trunk."
Reese's cell buzzed in his pocket. He glanced down, raised the phone to his ear.
"Are you simply going to lurk back there, Mr. Reese?"
Reese eyed the back of his employer's head from his shadowed vantage point. He smiled slightly, impressed.
Well played, Finch. An arranged meeting, under the Brooklyn Bridge, without him even knowing.
Minutes passed. Reese sank down next to him on the bench, his eyes staring ahead to the East River.
"Mr. Reese, I understand your frustration with the Machine's... lack of clarity."
"Finch."
"Just listen." Gentle but firm. "Bad things happen to people every day. We can stop that. To a point."
Reese shifted in his seat, rocking one knee side to side.
A minute passed.
"The numbers keep coming," Finch continued softly. A flock of pigeons, cooing and fluttering. He felt a stiffening next to him. "We can dig down the lineage of each and every individual we encounter, trying to fix each singular peril in their lives..."
Reese said nothing, even when he felt eyes on him. He kept his gaze forward, scanning the expanse.
"Or..." Finch trailed off, still watching him. At the end of the day, he wanted to say, some of this must be left to fate.
Reese broke his silence. "Or we just trust in the Machine."
"In a sense."
Reese met his eye. He didn't trust the Machine, not yet.
But he was starting to trust its creator.
A minute passed.
Then, "Do you like Italian, Finch?"
Finch frowned.
Reese looked back at him, expression serious. "Do you eat at Luca's a lot?"
Finch gave him a pointed look. "I told you Mr. Reese-"
"Yes, yes, you're a very private person, Harold. We know."
Finch shifted sideways, eyeing him suspiciously.
Reese raised his eyebrows, as if still waiting for the answer.
Finch sighed, making a decision.
Giving in.
Shifting his weight forward, he got to his feet stiffly and turned to face the younger man. "Well?"
Reese, still seated, gave him a questioning look. "Well?"
"Chop, chop, Mr. Reese." Finch's voice was impatient. "You'll never get a table after eight." He turned and started to walk away, not waiting for an answer.
Reese didn't bother to hide his grin.