The safe house, like all of his safe houses, was discrete and secure. Finch parked the car in back and hurried to unlock the door for them. Reese was still dead white and shivering, but he gestured for them to wait and went in first, with Bear. The brothers followed, with Hart trying to warm his brother and cling to him at the same time.

John unclipped the dog's leash. When Bear trotted in happily, calmly, Finch could see his partner relax. "Finch," he said, gesturing to Dylan, "find him some dry clothes. Something loose, if possible."

"Right away." He hurried into the front bedroom. The dresser was stocked, of course. He opened the bottom drawer and brought out work-out clothes, a t-shirt and sweat pants. From the top drawer he took underwear and socks. They were Reese-sized, a bit big for Dylan, but that was alright. He went back to the hallway.

"Dylan, come with me," Reese said. He hustled the young man into the first bathroom. "Get your wet clothes off, take a towel, and get as dry as you can. Don't rub your fingers and toes, no matter how cold they are. Just dry." He took the clothes from Finch and put them on the counter. "Then get these on and come on out."

"Can't I shower?" The boy's voice trembled.

"Not right now. We need to get you warmed up first." He closed the door behind him.

Reese paused, breathing heavily.

"Same orders for you, Mr. Reese," Harold said. He took his arm and led him toward the bedroom. He could feel the cold of the skin beneath his hand even through the blanket he'd draped around him. "There's another bathroom in here," he said, gesturing.

Reese started to argue. His teeth chattered, ruining his delivery. "Hart …"

"I'll look after him. What clothes do you want?"

Reese looked past him to the closet. "Got a suit?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course. But I'm not sure you should go back out …"

"I'll be fine, Finch." Reese went into the bathroom and closed the door. Finch pulled a suit from the closet, a clean shirt and shoes, then got more underthings from the drawer. He laid them out on the bed. Then he went to the hidden compartment beside the dresser and retrieved a slightly worn-looking wallet that contained a complete replacement identity for his partner. He put it beside the jacket, left the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

Hart was sitting on the floor in the hallway just outside the bathroom door. Bear was right beside him, and the young man had his arm around the dog.

"You're safe here," Finch said clearly. "No one can get to you or your brother, and nothing can harm you. Understand, Hart?"

The young man wouldn't look at him.

For one moment, Hart reminded him very much of Christine. No, of DaisyB, years ago, hiding her eyes from him in an empty pizza shop. But this young man was not a drug addict in withdraw. And he had not hacked Finch's network. Still, there was something ….

"I think we could all use something hot to drink," Finch said. He moved slowly to the kitchen, so that he didn't alarm the boy, then rinsed out a kettle, filled it and put it on to boil. Cocoa would have been better, but there was no fresh milk in the house. He found some tea, set out cups. Then he moved back to the living room and started a fire in the gas fireplace.

Reese came out of the bedroom first. He was still pale, but he'd mostly stopped shivering and looked almost like himself in his suit again. He was carrying his shoes. His hair was still damp, and his ever-present cowlick rebelled against the rough combing it had received. He knocked on the bathroom door. "Dylan?"

"Almost done."

Hart huddled his knees against his chest, but did not move.

"Mr. Reese," Finch beckoned. It was an indicator of how cold his partner still was that he joined him without protest. Reese spread his fingers in the warmth of the fire. "I'm making tea," Harold said. He caught John's wrist and examined his fingertips.

"It's fine, Finch."

"Hmmm." Unconvinced, he studied Reese's nose and then the tips of his ears. "And your toes?"

"They'll warm up. At least I have dry shoes." He took a long deep breath, glanced toward Hart, then leaned closer, spoke softly. "The guy at the park was the same one who tried to rob Dylan at the park."

"So perhaps it would be instructive to learn who posted his bail," Finch answered.

"Yes."

Dylan came out of the bathroom. He was still very pale as well, still shaking. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Here, come sit here," Harold said quickly. He went into the bedroom and got a big fleecy robe out of the closet. When he returned, Dylan was sitting on the couch, his feet outstretched, and Reese was checking his extremities. Hart had moved into the doorway.

"I don't like the toes," Reese reported. "Can you get some cool water?"

"Right away." Finch handed him the robe, moved to the kitchen. He poured the now-boiling water to steep the tea, then found a basin under the sink and filled it with cool water. It was heavy, and he was very aware of how his limp made the water it slosh as he carried it back to the living room. But he did not spill it.

Reese took it from him, put it on the floor in front of Dylan. "Soak," he commanded.

The young man dipped his toes in. "It's cold," he complained.

"We'll warm it up," Finch promised. "Slowly."

The boy trembled violently again. He pulled up the legs of the sweat pants and put his feet in the basin. "Who are you?" he asked.

"I'm John," Reese said simply. "This is Harold."

"Yes, but …"

Hart came into the living room, sat down against the wall. Bear continued to stay at his side. Harold went past him into the bathroom again and brought out two more fresh towels. He put one down beside the basin for the young man's feet and draped the other one over his damp hair.

"Your life is in danger," Reese continued. "But we're going to protect you."

"You're safe here," Finch added. "And you'll remain here until we're determined the source of the threat and eliminated it."

"I … but … you were at the park."

"Yes. And I was in your apartment. You didn't see me, but Hart did."

Dylan looked at his brother, startled. "You … what?"

"We need you to think." Reese dropped onto the couch next to him. He leaned toward the fire, probably unconsciously. "Is there anyone who would have any reason to want you dead?"

"What?"

"An old co-worker. A neighbor with a grudge. Someone you owe money to. An ex-girlfriend."

The young man shook his head. "No. I mean … no. Nobody." He sighed. "I'm not that important to anybody. To want to kill me? I mean, how do you even know?"

"No one at all that you can think of?"

He paused to reflect, then shook his head. "I really don't know. Like I said, I can't think of anyone I matter that much to." He looked toward his brother. "It's alright, Hart."

Hart buried his face in Bear's fur. Dylan started to get up, but Reese put his hand on his shoulder. "He's fine."

Dylan sat back. "I can't believe this. I can't …"

Harold hurried to the kitchen, stirred much too much sugar in the young man's tea, and brought it back to him. "Drink this. It will help." He steadied the cup while Dylan took a few sips. "You and Hart are safe here. I'll stay here with you until we resolve this issue. No one is going to harm you."

"Hart won't … he won't sleep in a strange place."

"Bear will help," Reese answered. "And you'll be here with him."

Dylan sighed heavily. "I can't … I don't even …"

"You've had quite an eventful night," Finch said soothingly. "Drink your tea. Warm up. Then you can have a nice hot shower. You'll feel better soon, I promise."

The young man looked at him, frightened, beseeching. Then he seemed to accept the situation. He collapsed back against the couch.

Reese gestured with his head and Finch followed him into the kitchen again. He pressed a cup of tea, only lightly sweetened, into his partner's hands. "I'm fine," Reese protested.

"You're still half-frozen. Drink."

John sipped the tea. "I'll call Carter, find out who threw Bower's bail."

Finch nodded, reached into his pocket and gave him a cell phone. "I'm sure your other one didn't survive the swim."

"Probably not. I know my coat didn't."

"Front closet."

Reese grinned ruefully. "You always have a back-up, don't you, Finch?"

"I try to anticipate all contingencies, yes." He glanced toward the living room. "And speaking of back-up — I don't think I'll be able to get much research done while the two of them are awake."

"So we need back-up on the keyboard."

"Yes."

John nodded. "I'll round up our girl. I need to swing by the library anyhow and find a dry weapon. And then I'll go back to the apartment and see if anyone shows up there."

"You think they'll continue to pursue Dylan."

"I'm sure of it. The first time in the park, that might have been just to scare him. But this second time, they wanted him dead."

"And the young man has no idea why."

"Keep him awake for a couple hours," Reese instructed. "Make sure his core temp is normal before you let him take a shower. Then put him to bed. I'll bring some clean clothes by for him when I get a chance."

Finch nodded. "Are you sure you should go back out, Mr. Reese? I'm quite certain your own core temperature is not back to normal yet either."

"I'll be fine, Finch. But thanks for worrying about me."

"Worrying about you, Mr. Reese, seems to be a major part of my job description these days."

Reese stopped at the door and surveyed the bar with an operative's eye, assessing. It was a sports bar, with a TV hanging from the ceiling every ten feet. It was crowded and loud. But the patrons were mainly mid-thirties and up, and a decent percentage of them were either too old or too soft to give him much trouble.

He wasn't looking for trouble; he didn't really have time tonight, and his brief dip in the river had worn him out. His hands were still cold, and his feet were half numb.

There was a knot of men at the back of the bar, though, that were very fit. There were a dozen of them, all drinking beer, not a hard drink in sight. That meant they were more likely to be fighting sober. And they were solid, square. Muscular, but they could move. They could be a problem.

There were half a dozen women with them. And naturally, Christine Fitzgerald was one of them.

Instead of Donnelly's sweatshirt, she was wearing an oversized hockey jersey. A Bruins jersey, oddly enough. It was covered with autographs. Reese wasn't sure that was an improvement.

She was leaning against a man, and he was leaning against the wall, with his hands around her waist and his face against her neck. He started at her ear and nibbled downward toward her collarbone. She squirmed, but she didn't try to escape. Then she turned her head and caught his lips to hers.

He knew he shouldn't waste the time, but Reese brought out his phone and dialed it anyhow. "What?" Fusco barked.

"The next time I ask you to take Christine out," John answered darkly, "you'd better not end the night by putting her into bed with a third-string hockey player."

There was a moment of confused silence on the other end of the call. "What?" And then, "Look, you asked me to take her out, I took her out. And I took her back home. If Chrissy decided to go back out and be a puck bunny tonight, it's none of my business. And frankly, it's none of yours."

"Lionel …" Reese began warningly.

"Uh-uh," Fusco snapped. "You said she was acting strange. But she seems fine to me. You ask me, you're the one who's acting strange. And I get it. The whole prison thing, the bomb vest, I get it. But Chrissy's got nothing to do with that. So unless you're looking to stake a claim on her, you need to back off and leave her alone."

John Reese opened his mouth and then closed it. He moved the phone away from his head so he could glare at it. But no words would come out of his rage. He tried one more time, then snapped the phone shut as hard as he could.

He looked at the group again, then took a deep breath and summoned his best fake front. He buttoned his overcoat all the way to the top, mussed his hair, consciously slouched. It was the best he could do on the fly. He waded timidly, uncertainly through the crowd to Christine and her new boyfriend.

"Hey, Scotty?" he said, his head lowered, his voice pitched intentionally high and softened with a vague southern drawl. "Hey, Scotty, honey?"

She opened her eyes and looked at him, not happily.

The man lifted his lips and glared. "You mind, pal? We're busy here."

"I'm sorry." Reese kept his eyes soft and sincere. "I'm really sorry. I know it's your night out, honey, and I'm not supposed to get in the way, but I just can't get the baby to sleep."

"Baby?" the man repeated. He straightened a little, putting a handbreadth of space between himself and Christine.

Reese kept his face down, remorseful. "I put the gin in his bottle just like you told me, but I can't get him to sleep no matter what."

"Gin?" Christine sighed heavily. "I told you to give him vodka. Gin gives him gas. You'll never get him to sleep that way."

"You give your baby gin?" the man asked. He shifted again; now there were six inches of space between them and his hands dropped off her waist.

Reese was mostly glad it worked. The guy was younger than him, not bigger but probably harder. And his friends were paying close attention. Most nights he would have welcomed the fight. A big part of him would have welcomed it tonight. But his body had had enough abuse, and he might need it for something more important later, like protecting the Roth brothers. He looked down, shamefaced, trying to fight the grin. "I'm sorry. I thought gin would work."

Christine shook her head. "You drank all the vodka, didn't you?" She turned to the man she'd been kissing. "I got to go get my brat to bed. I could come back in a while, if you'll be here."

John brightened. "Or you could come with us, if you want. We got a big bed, California king …"

The man backed away. "Yeah, no. Listen, you're, um … yeah. Good night." He turned and strode to the men's room.

Reese took the woman's arm and led her toward the front door. None of the men's friends tried to stop them. "This better be good," she grumbled darkly. "You smell like the river."

"I went for a swim," he snarled back. "I thought you only chased men in uniform."

"Hockey players wear uniforms. And did you see the thighs on that guy?"

Reese held the front door open for her. "I did, actually. They were terrifying."

"I thought they were magnificent."

"You would."

"What the hell do you want?"

He handed her an ear piece, opened the passenger side door of the car for her. "We regret the necessity of interrupting your … date," Finch said, as soon as she had the earpiece in. "But we required your assistance at the library."

"Fine," she snapped.

Reese started the car and turned the heater up full-blast again. "See? I wasn't breaking up your date just for the fun of it."

"Not that you wouldn't, though."

John didn't bother to deny it. They'd both know he was lying.

Half-way back to the library she sniffed the hot air of the car and asked, "Did you really fall in the river?"

Reese glanced over at her. She wasn't done being mad at him. But he knew she'd turn her attitude on a dime if he needed her to. He didn't need her to. "I jumped."

"Are you alright?"

"Fine."

"Good." She cracked her window open and leaned sideways to get some fresh air.

Finch added a little warm water to the basin where Dylan's feet soaked. The young man was motionless, drowsing, but his color was better. Harold brought a cup of tea for Hart and left it on the coffee table. He also set out a plate of Girl Scout cookies he'd taken from the freezer. He got the remote from the side drawer and turned on the TV over the fire place, with the volume low. Then he got his own tea, retreated to the far side of the room and opened his laptop.

It took several minutes, but Hart finally moved from the floor and sat on the couch next to his brother. He picked up the remote and changed the channel to cartoons. Bear moved over with him, lay down at his feet.

"It's okay, Hart," Dylan murmured. "I'm right here. I think we're okay."

Hart sat close to his brother, but Finch noted that the boy was watching him. Any time he looked up, Hart looked away, but from the corner of his eye he could see the boy studying him.

"What are you looking for?" Dylan asked.

"Information about the man or men who tried to hurt you," Finch answered.

The young man sighed. "I wish I could help. I really can't think of anybody."

Hart shifted, whispered to him.

"What's the dog's name?" Dylan relayed for him.

"Bear."

More whispering. "Hart likes him a lot."

Finch nodded. "Bear is very intuitive. He knows good people when he meets them."

It seemed like Hart almost smiled, but he ducked his face away. Bear stood up and pushed his head between the boy's hands, demanding to be petted.

"I always wanted a dog," Dylan said. "When I was a kid. But my parents said it was too much trouble. That I wouldn't be responsible."

It was an off-hand comment, but it grew the in silence that followed. He couldn't have a dog, Finch surmised, because his parents had been overwhelmed by the needs of the autistic — if that's what he was — son. And now Dylan, who they didn't think would take responsibility for a dog, was responsible for his brother.

"I don't know what would happen to him …" Dylan began. His voice cracked and he stopped. He shivered again, though Finch didn't think it was from cold this time.

He stood up, went to the kitchen, and brought the tea kettle back to splash a little more warm water over the young man's feet. "Feeling better?" he asked. "Have a cookie."

Dylan did. "Thank you," he said. "I don't know why you're doing all of this, but … thank you. I don't know …" He looked toward Hart again. "If something happens to me, will you …"

"Nothing's going to happen to you," Finch said firmly. He sat down across from them. "You were studying accounting," he said, changing the subject. "Why did you stop?"

"After the fire, I couldn't …" Dylan glanced at his brother. "I couldn't work full time and go to school, too. I'll go back, some day."

"Is that where your interest truly lies?" Finch pursued. "Do you have a passion for numbers, or was that simply an expedient way to gain employment?"

The young man frowned at him, as if no one had ever asked that question before. "I like it," he said. "I like sorting things out. Finding where the mistakes were."

"Forensic accounting, then?"

Dylan smiled. "Yeah. I like the mystery."

"I know a forensic accountant," Finch said, "although I don't think he's a very good representative of the profession. How close are you to your degree?"

"Two semesters. Well, maybe three. I kinda flunked out, I think. After the fire I just sorta quit and didn't go back. So I'd probably have to re-take those courses."

"And what sort of company would you like to work with?"

Dylan Roth started talking, hesitantly at first, and then suddenly he opened up. He told Finch about his idea job, about his goals, about what he'd planned for his life before the fire. Once he began talking it was as if he couldn't stop. He'd had no one to talk to, Finch realized, for literally years. No one who was interested in his dreams, even enough to just listen. His life had been consumed with caring for his brother. He acted like a man who hadn't even thought about his own life, beyond the next paycheck, the next rent payment, for a very long time.

He was a young man very much starved for socialization and attention. And though part of Finch itched to be back at him computer, searching through data to locate the threat to the young man's life, it seemed to him that this was important, too. The young man had almost lost his life, twice. He deserved to have someone to talk to.

Finch knew he wasn't good at most human interaction. Certainly he was terrible at sharing anything about himself. But he prompted the boy just often enough, with a question or a comment, and the words tumbled out of him like a waterfall.

Hart did not speak. Harold hadn't expected him to. But he noted that the young man kept looking toward his laptop. It seemed like curiosity at first, and then like desire. Finch wondered what he'd do if he granted him permission to play with it. But that particular laptop was well-loaded with his programs. If his suspicions about Hart were true, turning him loose on that computer could be a grave error.

Still, he was curious. When he went to the kitchen to refill their tea cups, he placed a quick call to Reese.