Donnelly sat back as the detective's car left the range of the camera.

It was personal to him. Asena knew perfectly well that he was interested in Christine Fitzgerald's well-being. The computer also had a special interest in the woman, for reasons she would not explain to him. But he didn't understand why Asena had shown him the event while he was in the Den, rather than up in his room. That choice was probably a symptom of her worsening illness – if he thought of the AI as a person, he couldn't help but think of her virus as a sickness – and it might be a very bad sign.

It was bad enough that her capacity had clearly been diminished. If that diminishment also caused Donnelly to get caught, either as an imposter using a background furnished by a known criminal or as a potential threat who had unique access to the Machine …

There was a sharp rap on his door, and then it opened and the director stuck his head in. "You gettin' anywhere?"

Donnelly looked at him blankly. It took him a second to remember the arms shipment he'd been working on. "Baby steps," he answered. "Teeny tiny baby steps."

"Huh. Well, take a break from that, take a look at the 911 activity in New York. That's your old stomping ground, right?"

"I spent some time there, yeah." All in his cover story. He'd been using it so long it was reflex. Almost. "We get a Number from there?"

Poole shook his head. "No. Not yet. But take a look at the call spikes."

Donnelly keyed up the activity log; it was one of the things bookmarked on his desk top. One of the things the Den routinely kept an eye on.

There had been a huge spike in calls in the past sixty minutes. "That looks like…" he shook his head. They were the-Super-Bowl-just-ended numbers. Even a sudden heat wave wouldn't have caused the numbers to jump like this, all at once. This was a gang war or a major event – or an attack. "They're all over the city," he noticed. "All the boroughs." He squinted. "But no alert from the Source?"

"She's been slow lately," Poole said. All of the operators in the Den had noticed her increasingly erratic behavior. They'd talked about it. But since the Machine was a black box, as far as they knew, all they could do was talk and worry. Donnelly knew a little more, but he couldn't do any more than they could. "Dig in," the director continued, "see if there's a pattern or if it's just an anomaly."

"I will," Donnelly promised.

"Keep me posted." Poole shut the door.

Donnelly reached for his keyboard again. Then he paused and looked up at the surveillance camera. "Is there something going on in New York?"

One blink.

"Is what you showed me at Chaos a part of it?"

One blink.

"Can you tell me what it is?"

One blink. Then two very quick blinks. Then one blink. Then two again.

"You don't …" He stopped and rephrased the question. "Are you still trying to figure out what it is?"

One blink.

"How can I help?"

There was no response. Of course, he realized, she had no way to respond to that, short of opening a textchat, which she was thankfully reluctant to do while he was in the Den.

"I'm going to look at these emergency calls," he said. "See if there's a common thread. If you come up with something I needed to know, show me, okay?"

One blink.

"Thank you, Asena."

The light fluttered for three seconds, on and off like a tremor. Then it went on and stayed on. That was new, but Donnelly was pretty sure he knew what she meant.

Harold Finch waited in his car, parked outside Oasis, and eyed his phone impatiently. The little technological wonder quite stubbornly refused to ring. There had been occasions in the past, of course, when he'd been unable to reach Mr. Reese. That most often occurred when John's phone had been smashed or confiscated. It also happened when John wanted to be alone and shut his phone off entirely – when he was angry with Harold or when he was with Miss Morgan, for example.

But as far as Finch knew, none of those circumstances were likely tonight. They'd parted at the library before dinner on good terms; Reese had planned to go to the gym and then home. They didn't have a Number currently and hadn't for two days, so both of them tacitly anticipated a notification at any moment.

Finch could not imagine why John would have turned off his phone under these circumstances. A least, why he would have done so willingly …

Beside him, Bear whined quietly. Harold looked at his rearview mirror. A sedan pulled up behind his car. Finch's concern shifted sharply from one of his friends to another. He had listened to everything Christine had told the detective, and everything Fusco had said. On the face of it, the shooting seemed unavoidable. Logically Christine would see it that way. But in her heart … well, the heart was rarely logical.

Finch put his phone in his pocket, grabbed Bear's leash, and got out to greet the two women. He moved to hug Christine, but she pulled back sharply. "I need to shower," she explained quietly. "A lot."

Even in the soft light of the streetlamp, he could see splotches of darkness on her hands and her neck. Bear strained to sniff at it, and Finch pulled him back. Dried blood, not her own. In her situation, he would not have been so composed.

He wished desperately that John was there.

"Of course," he said with forced calm. "Detective …"

Carter's phone rang. It had rung twice since she'd they'd left Chaos, and Finch had listened to her ignore it. This time she took it out, scowled, and clicked it off. She shook her head. "We should go inside."

They went in through the front entrance and past the interior doors for the mostly-completed offices of the Carson-Ingram Renewable Energy Initiative. The space was wide open, airy and comfortable, nothing at all like Harold would have built. It was a compilation of Will's and Julie's and Christine's style. It was their space.

They took the elevator to the top floor; Harold would normally have taken the stairs, reasoning that his hip needed all the exercise it could get, but Christine seemed too exhausted. And, too, he felt an unaccountable hurry to get her behind a locked door.

Before they got to her apartment, Carter's phone rang yet again. Again she silenced it. "This town is going crazy tonight," she said. "I'm going to have to answer that eventually."

Finch nodded. "I appreciate your assistance, Detective. Joss. If you need to go, of course I'll stay with Christine."

She looked around the front room. "Where's John?"

"I don't know." He snapped Bear's leash off. The dog, probably sensing their collective tension, went to his pillow in the corner and lay down. His head stayed up, his ears forward and alert.

Carter glanced at Christine. The woman had kicked off her shoes at the door, as always. Now she stood very still in the middle of the floor, staring at nothing. The detective looked back at Finch, raised an eyebrow. "Does he know?"

"I left a message that I needed to speak to him urgently. I sent a text as well. Several, in fact."

"So he's … missing?"

"I wouldn't put it that way," Finch answered, with his own significant glance toward Christine. "He's just out of contact for the moment. I'm sure we'll hear from him shortly."

"If you don't …" She stopped, touched Christine's arm. "You should go shower. You'll feel better."

The woman nodded blankly. "Yeah. Thank you." She didn't move.

"Look," Carter said, her voice warm and firm, "killing a man is a damn hard thing to live with. I can tell you you were right. You were. I can tell you you didn't have a choice. That you saved Fusco's life. Both true, too. But in the middle of the night, when you're all alone? It's still a damn hard thing. I wish I could take it away from you. I know Lionel does, too. And John. None of us can. It happened. You're stuck with it." She paused. "But you don't have to carry it alone. There are people who can help you. Harold's here. John will be. You can call me, or Lionel. There are groups, there's …"

Life sparked into Christine's eyes. "I'm not fourteen, Joss. I'm not going to get sideways behind this."

"Damn right you're not," Joss agreed. "Because you were all alone then, with nobody to keep you straight. You're not now. You've got people. You've just got to let them in."

Christine summoned what tried to be a wry smile. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Now go shower."

Rather to Finch's surprise, she went.

When the bathroom door closed behind her, Finch turned to the detective. "Thank you for that," he said. "That was, I think, precisely what she needed to hear."

"There's no point in dancing around the truth," Carter answered. "She already knows what we're all thinking."

"How can I best help her?"

"Just keep an eye on her. Get her to eat if you can, at least a snack. Give her something to do, if you can come up with something." She hesitated. "Keep her away from Chaos, at least for tonight."

"Obviously."

She took his hand and gave it a squeeze. "Whatever your heart tells you is right, it'll be right, okay? She's tough. She'll pull through this. Just don't let her think she's alone."

"Thank you."

Carter walked to the door. "Oh, and Harold? Thanks for the tuxedo. You really shouldn't have."

It was nice to change the subject, even for a moment. "How did it fit?"

"Perfectly."

"I doubt that. The measurements at the rental place," he had to pause; the word tasted wrong, "left a great deal to be desired. I'll look at further refinements after tonight's event."

Joss shook her head. "I guarantee it fits him better than any other boy's at the prom, anyhow."

"Good. Good." He nodded. "If you're going to be called into work, if there's anything I can do about transportation arrangements for the young people …"

"No, they have a limo for the night," She gestured toward the bathroom door. "Courtesy of his other fairy godparent."

"He's a fine young man, Joss. He deserves a few luxuries."

"As long as you keep it to a few, okay?" Her phone buzzed yet again. "Call me if you need me. I'll try to actually answer your calls."

"I appreciate that."

She smiled tightly and answered her phone as she walked out. "Carter."

Harold closed the door quietly behind her. He heard the shower start in the bathroom. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes, he decided, and then he'd check on her. That seemed like a reasonable time. Even with Christine's long hair and her quite understandable desire to scrub thoroughly, ten minutes should be adequate.

Of course, if she'd already slit her wrists, the right way, she could easily be dead in ten minutes …

He shook his head firmly. Christine was not that person any more. Carter had to be right about that. She'd been through an ordeal tonight, an injury. It would take time to heal, just as the gunshot wound she'd suffered had. But Christine would come through it. She had her friends to help her. She would be okay.

Harold looked around for something, anything, to do. His eyes came to rest on her shoes, on the little mat next to the door. Battered leather loafers, brown, very much like the shoes Will wore. The heels were very worn, and the uppers were scuffed. There were distinct dark red-brown spots on them, and one long fading streak on the left one. Harold tightened his mouth and carried them to the kitchen. Bear rose and padded after him.

He had, to be honest, quite a bit of experience removing blood and other matter from shoes. Mr. Reese had a knack for acquiring unsavory messes on his footwear. But Reese's shoes were good leather and they were polished regularly, which meant that they were largely resistant to water and other fluids. Christine's loafers were worn to the point of being nearly raw leather. He got a damp paper towel and dabbed at the stains. A bit of the red lifted onto the towel, but there was no significant improvement on the shoe.

Finch opened cupboards until he found a bottle of white vinegar. Again he used a paper towel to dab at the spots. This worked somewhat better at removing the blood, but it left a distinctly lighter mark behind, where the leather was bleached. That was an improvement, Harold decided. He considered, then put the tea kettle on the heat. He wiped away the rest of the stains while he waited, then put two tea bags in a cup and half-filled it with boiling water. The resulting brew was very dark.

Spotted onto the leather shoes, it created stains that almost perfectly blended the faded marks.

Harold had finished with one shoe and was nearly done with the other when he heard the shower stop. He glanced at his watch. Thirteen minutes. He was pleased he hadn't knocked on the door; he could pretend he hadn't been overly concerned. He finished quickly and replaced the loafers by the front door, disposed of his meager cleaning tools, and brewed two cups c of real tea, black for Christine and green for himself.

John Reese turned his head and threw up.

The pool of vomit was very close to his head, and the smell made him even more nauseous. That was his first indication that he was laying on the ground. He squinted. It was dark. It smelled bad even over his own puke. There was a distant light, yellowish, to his left. There was a small breeze. He was outside. Somewhere. On the ground.

He tried to push himself up with one arm. His elbow buckled and he fell back to the ground. He landed in the fresh puddle. Warm vomit over cool concrete. He could not lift his head again. He closed his eyes and sank into darkness.

Drunk and disorderly conduct. Overdoses in progress. Erratic behavior. Assaults.

It was clear to Donnelly that whatever was happening in New York City was nothing organized or coordinated. This was not a gang war. Most of the calls did not involve weapons. They were from people reporting that their family member was acting strangely, or had fallen down, or was disoriented. From someone saying that a stranger in the street was shouting and attacking people. From a bus driver complaining that two of his passengers wouldn't stop singing at the top of their lungs. From a cashier in a diner who said there was a woman in the front booth sobbing inconsolably. From a neighbor who said the people downstairs sounded like they were killing each other. From a security guard who reported that three teenagers had smashed the front window of a store, then laughed and skipped away.

Skipped away.

A typical Saturday night in the city, times two or three.

Or ten.

The NYPD had called in extra officers. Their response time was reaching two hours. The emergency rooms were filling rapidly, and the rescue squads were idling with patients onboard, waiting for space.

"Director?" Donnelly moved into the open center of the Den and turned on the overhead monitors. "We may be looking at some kind of mass drug overdose."

Poole came to look. Maxwell was with him. "What drug?"

"I don't know. Coke maybe, PCP. Meth. Something." He gestured to the board. "Someone messed up, put out a batch that's too strong. At least that's what it looks like. But … it's not right."

"Put the locations on a grid map of the city, please," Maxwell said. The list converted into a map, covered with red dots. They were spread across the city, some individual events, some in small pockets.

"Too wide-spread," Poole said. "People buy from their local dealer."

"Maybe all the local dealers were supplied by a single source," Donnelly countered. "But then the times would be spread out as the product reached the street. These have all occurred within the past hour or two."

"Unless this is just the beginning, and there's a lot more to come." Poole took a deep breath. "In which case the city is screwed." He frowned. "Are there special events going on? Festivals or something?"

Donnelly shook his head. "No new club openings or big-ticket shows, no sporting events – the Mets had a day game, it's been over for hours. No big concerts. Nothing that I can see that would attract bigger-than-usual crowds. The only thing notable is that half a dozen high schools are having their proms tonight. But so far only a handful of these calls are for teenagers or for those locations." He hesitated, but it was too urgent to hold back his next comment. "I'm wondering if this could be deliberate."

"An attack?" Poole asked.

"Another test of the defenses," Maxwell said. "It could be."

"We need to find out what these people are on," Poole said. "Start pulling names and police records. Find the common denominator."

"I'm on it," Donnelly said. He sat down at one of the keyboards and started typing.

Maxwell dropped into the chair next to him. "I'll start on page three."

"I'll call in the others," Poole said tersely.

Fusco parked his sedan illegally in front of a fire hydrant directly in front of Rhonda's front door. "I'll walk you in," he said, "and then I'll find a better spot." He got out, walked around the car, and opened her door for her.

"I think," Rhonda answered quietly, "I'd really just like to have a hot shower and a sleeping pill and go to bed."

Lionel felt the heaviness in his heart grow just a little heavier. He couldn't blame her. "Sure," he said softly. "I can see that. Sounds like a good idea." He took her hand and walked her up the steps to her door. "I'm really sorry about tonight, Rhonda. I never expected anything like that to happen."

"I'm so glad you're safe." She moved suddenly and put her arms around him, then squeezed so tight it almost hurt. Fusco hugged her back, not nearly so tightly. He was glad he'd had a clean shirt with him, so she didn't get any blood stains on her blouse. "I feel sorry for that man, but if somebody had to die, I'm glad it wasn't you."

"Thanks," he murmured. She smelled good. She was warm. He was probably never going to see her again. So he didn't make any attempt to end the embrace.

Eventually, Rhonda pulled back a little. "Do you think Scotty will be okay?"

He nodded, though he wasn't at all sure. "She's with friends. She'll be okay."

"Maybe you could talk her into talking to someone. A therapist, I mean. Just to, you know …"

"Put things in perspective," Fusco agreed. "I'll ask her. That's a good idea."

She smiled crookedly. "Maybe I should go talk to somebody, too."

She was half-kidding, but Fusco wasn't. "Not a bad idea. It's hard, the first time you see somebody die like that. Not just the first time. Every time. I can get a name from the department for you, if you want. Like you said, just a couple visits, just to talk it out."

"Are you going to be okay?"

"Me? Sure. I'll be fine."

Rhonda cocked her head. "Just because I don't want you to stay tonight, Lionel …"

"Hey, I get it," he interrupted quickly. "I don't blame you a bit. You got family, you say you know what it's like to live with a cop, and I believe you. But what happened tonight, watching that right up close – Rhonda, you are the nicest lady I've met in a really long time and I am crazy about you. But you not wanting a life like that, having to imagine stuff like that happening all the time – I get it. I really do."

She nodded solemnly. "I need some time to think about it. I don't know if I'm ever going to stop imagining … that it was you there on the floor, bleeding, dead … I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you, Lionel. Like you said, it's one thing to hear about it, but to see it …" She stopped, then nodded again. "Yes. Get me that name. I need to talk to somebody. If I'm going to be in … if I'm going to be with you, I need to get my head right. Otherwise I'm going to drive both of us crazy every time you walk out the door, aren't I?"

Lionel felt a wave of relief well up from his toes and splash across his heart. "So you don't want to break it off then?"

"Dumb ass." She put her hand behind his neck and pulled him in for a hard, deep kiss. "I don't want to lose you. And I'm really scared that could happen. And I don't want being scared to make me push you away. I've seen that happen before. So have you."

"Yeah." His ex and her fears. That was part of it.

"So give me a little time, let me see if I can find a way to be okay with it." She kissed him again, more lightly. "My brother's mother-in-law, she's been married to a cop forty years. Maybe she's who I should talk to."

"Wouldn't be a bad place to start," Fusco agreed. He pulled her tight against him again. "It means a lot to me, you know. That you're willing to try to sort it out like this, willing to work at it."

"Hey. I'll work at it as long as it takes."

He almost told her he loved her right then. But it felt like cheating. "I really want us to be together, Rhonda. But if you can't get right with this, if you talk to people, talk to a therapist or whatever and it still makes you crazy – I'd rather be without you then see you unhappy, okay? I mean, I'll work with you, whatever we can do, but if you need to walk away from this, I am not going to blame you one bit. You get that?"

Rhonda leaned back and smiled up at him. "I love you too, Lionel."

He smiled himself. "Yeah. That."

"So, you're going to have some days off, right?"

Fusco shook his head. "Desk duty." Since his gun hadn't fired, he wasn't suspended with pay, just off the streets until the paperwork all got filed and reviewed. He would rather have had the days off, but he couldn't complain. He had a ton of paperwork of his own to catch up on qnyhow. "But I'm scheduled off tomorrow."

"Good. Go get some sleep. Check on Scotty and then come and let me make you dinner."

"Okay."

"Okay."

He started to pull away. She grabbed him again, hard, and kissed him. "I am so damn glad you're not dead, Lionel."

The second time John woke up, there was puke drying on his cheek. He pushed himself up and managed to sit with his back against the wall. His head swam. His muscles felt loose and watery.

It was dark. He was outside. In an alley. He was alone. It was loud, but just the way the city always was. There were a lot of sirens. He knew he should be worried about the sirens, but he didn't know why. They didn't get much closer.

He wiped his cheek. Some of the vomit flaked off. Some was still damp. He wiped his hand on his pants.

Something smelled funny, even over the vomit. Not smelled, exactly. More like tasted. Taste-smelled? In the back of his throat. His neck hurt, too. He reached up. There were a couple bumps the size of his fingertip that hurt like hell when he touched them. Fresh burns.

Someone had burned him. With a cigarette? He didn't remember that. It seemed like he should remember something like that.

There was another tiny spot that hurt less on the side of his neck, over the vein.

He should know what those little wounds meant. He knew he should know. He just couldn't put them together.

Something vibrated in his pocket. John fumbled for it. A phone. His phone. He clicked it. A scratchy, hurried voice said, "John, where are you? There's been an … an incident. At Chaos. Christine isn't hurt, but she needs you. Us. Please call me right away."

John knew that voice. He heard that voice all the time. On his phone and … in his head? In his ear. There were names that went with that voice. One true, one false. He couldn't remember either of them. But he knew that voice. Knew he trusted it.

He pulled his knees up so his feet were flat on the ground. Then he pushed upward, sliding his back upward against the wall. He got very dizzy. He made it to his feet, but then he had to lean against the wall and stand completely still. He was cold, and his vision was clouded. He wanted to vomit again. Might not be a bad idea. Clear the decks.

The feeling passed. He was suddenly warm. Too warm. He pulled at his jacket, but he couldn't figure out how to take it off. No matter. He had to go somewhere. Had to … had to …

John closed his eyes. Someone needed him. He had to go … somewhere. Chaos. Where the hell was Chaos? He couldn't remember, but it seemed like he must know where that was. He pushed away from the wall, stood on his own two feet. It wasn't good. He stumbled like he was drunk.

Was he drunk? That would explain a lot. But he didn't remember drinking. And the vomit residue in his mouth didn't taste like alcohol.

It didn't matter. He was on his feet and he had to go. Chaos. Someone needed him. The Voice with Two Names said so. The Voice on his Phone. The Voice in his Ear.

John closed his eyes again until words stopped sounding like they all had capital letters in his mind.

When he opened them, he was steadier on his feet. Good. That was good.

He had to get to Chaos.