Chapter 10: Enough; Losing Ground; Long Way To New York
Manhattan, November, 2014
"I think it would be a wonderful idea. Thank you." Grace was sitting on the couch in the living room with Harper and Fusco, who had asked her if she wanted to take a short tour of her old apartment. As it turned out, no one was living there now, and they had special permission from the owner to offer the tour to Grace, since she had been a prior owner herself.
The three stood up and put on coats and scarves. The wind had picked up today, blustery, with swirling purple clouds that looked like the promise of snowflakes. Manhattan was buzzing with talk of snow. It was tough when it snowed a lot in Manhattan. Miles and miles of narrow streets full of traffic and parked cars, pedestrians, buses, cabs. It was a mess.
Once the crews had plowed down the middle of the street, the snow was pressed even higher on the street-side of the cars. They were entombed in snow, which had to be hand-brushed and scraped from the cars and from the spaces around them before movement was possible. And, if the crews could get in to clear the streets of snow, where would it all go, the snow? Caravans of dump trucks would carry it to the water's edge, and leave it to drown in cold saltwater.
Owning a car in Manhattan was expensive. Parking it was a nightmare, especially in snow.
Winston was on his way to drive them. Grace smiled. She enjoyed him so much. He was kind, and he had stories of his travels all over the world that kept her laughing. He was a natural storyteller, and she enjoyed how his gestures and his sound-effects enhanced the stories. He was a delight, and so generous with his time. He seemed to make himself available as soon as they requested him.
It would be good to go outside today, even in the harsher weather. Grace was getting a little antsy again in the apartment. In Italy she had friends; she had a quiet life that she adored. She traveled and went sightseeing, and she worked with children who had had such terrible things happen to them. It gave her comfort to know that she could help, in her small way, to give some peace and relief to them.
It seemed that this part of her memory was still intact. She remembered the school, the faces of the children, her colleagues. But so much was still lost to her. It was like a patchwork quilt, with some blocks vibrant with color, and others dull and blank. Every once in a while, a block that had been turned off would begin to flicker, blink on weakly, and over time, would come alive again. Her memories were gradually filling in, but there was the sense of one area in her memory that was different from the rest, so densely blackened. It was as if it had been purged permanently. She could feel it, like a dark spot in the sky that blotted out the stars behind it. You could only know of its presence by the absence of light.
In the car, Winston was talking with Fusco in the front seat, and Harper was chatting with her about the holidays coming soon. The blustery weather made it more real, Thanksgiving, and the rest. It was a blur as Thanksgiving approached. Christmas music was already playing in some stores, and on the TV commercials. Grace was dismayed. She loved Thanksgiving, even more than Christmas. The food, friends dropping by, her trip to the grave sites of her Aunt Cora and Uncle Max. Ah, she had almost forgotten that. She must make plans to go there.
She liked to sit there with them for a little while, and tell them what was happening in her life lately. Oh, well, maybe not this time. She didn't need to share all of this drama with them. She would just tell them the updates on the kids she was working with in Italy. It was getting to be time for her to go back there. She felt like things were winding down here, and the Detectives from the NYPD must be close to being done with her by now. There wasn't much else she could think of to tell them. And she could always get back in touch with them if she remembered anything else of value.
Ah, they were there, at her old apartment. Winston pulled over to the curb while they got out onto the sidewalk. They walked together to the steps, and she looked up at the door and the windows she had looked through to see the world going by, when she was young. She was suddenly a little shaky inside. It had been some time ago that she left for Italy, after something had happened – what was it, now?
Detective Fusco opened the door for them, and they walked inside. She smiled and almost burst out in tears – it looked so much like she remembered it. Her paintings were still there, on the walls, where she had hung them. And the old chair where Uncle Max liked to sit, near the good lamp, when he would read at night. And, in the next room, she could see the old sewing machine Aunt Cora had kept, in the dining room, where the light came in at that tall window. They folded it down when company came, and used the wood top like a buffet.
Grace walked through room after room, while Harper and Fusco trailed behind. They could see her expression as she wandered, picking up this or that small item. Her eyes were shining when she turned back to them.
"So many memories here. Nothing seems changed. The new owners have kept it just like it was."
"He's a bachelor, Grace, and not so much interested in decorating. He found it comfortable for him just the way it was," Harper said. Grace nodded, taking one last look around.
And then she saw it. On the mantel. A photograph of her and a man. It can't be! This is impossible! Cruel! Why would anyone do that? Ruin a beautiful memory with this cruel joke – she turned away, and told the two Detectives that she needed to leave. The man in the photograph with her, on the mantel, smiling, with his arm around her, was the same man who had tormented her in Bethesda, when she was a prisoner!
"Why is this here? Who would do this? It's so cruel. I'd like to leave now." She walked out through the living room, and opened the front door. She hurried down the steps, with her eyes welling with tears. Enough. She had had enough. It was time to leave. In fact, it was time to leave New York, get back to her life, her real life, in Rome...
Back in the apartment, Fusco and Harper looked over at a figure in the next room. They were silent, as they watched him. It was a mistake to let her see the picture. They thought it would remind her of when she had been in love, in a different time, before the ferry boat bombing, before Italy, before Greer.
Harold dropped his head down. He turned away in the shadows, heading for the door at the back. They saw him reach up to lift his collar and adjust his hat. It was suddenly very cold...
Manhattan, November, 2014
Reese was dragging. It was only mid-afternoon, but he was ready to leave. He wasn't recovered yet from the flu, or whatever had hit him last week. He should have had his follow up meeting with Leon already, and he had cases at work to write up for the Captain, but he was out of gas.
He sat down at his desk in the squad room and leaned back against the wall. He was alone in the room. It was strange, to be empty like that, at this time of day. It felt more like the middle of the night, when the coffee had boiled off in the pot to a black sludge that had that "not-if-you-value-your-stomch-lining" smell to it. Some of these guys actually drank it like that anyway. Suicide.
He still wasn't sleeping. Dreaming. He was having dreams that woke him right up out of sleep, but he couldn't really remember what they were. His heart would be pounding, though, when he woke up. Sometimes, it was better if he got up and walked around, to change things. If he was lucky, he could catch another hour or two before he had to get up for work. He was cranky, and irritable. The rest of the team was noticing, and they weren't keeping it a secret. Nobody got much slack on this team. You had to get things done, whatever it took.
When he thought about it, that was his rule. He had started that rule when he first got here – a throwback from his old days in the Rangers, and for sure, in the CIA. Just like there was "no crying in baseball," there was no whining on the team. People played hurt – that's the job.
Reese was aware of his thoughts, but he was leaning his head back on the wall next to his chair, and his eyes were heavy. He just needed a little cat nap, and he'd be ready to put in another 3 or 4 hours to push through some of the backlog.
His eyes were heavier, and then they were closing, against his will. He was letting himself sink into the chair, and breathe a little deeper. Soon, he was drifting off, and he could just hear the sound of the coffeepot clicking every once in a while, as the heat came on to cook the contents a little more.
"John, you need to go home," she said. He shook his head, no.
"No, I'm okay. I just need a minute," he said back.
"You're not sleeping any more. You're exhausted. You're still sick. You look like death warmed-over. That was a joke – " Reese frowned. What was going on? Who was that?
He opened his eyes, and she was sitting there at her desk. Carter. She was leaning back in her chair, looking at him, shaking her head at him. He sat up a little.
"What are you doing here?" he said, foggy and still half-asleep.
"Just came to check on you. You didn't look so good the last time I saw you. Not much better today, I see." She looked him up and down, and shook her head again.
"What is it going to take, John?"
"What do you mean?" he asked. Was he dreaming?
"No, John, I'm really here. I came because you're sliding backwards. You're losing ground, John. If you don't start to change things, it's going to accelerate. Like a runaway train." She was staring at him, waiting for him to say something, but he didn't know what to say.
"You need to move on, John. You can't stay here – in this dark place. You need to move forward, make plans, get a life." She was staring at him again, but he had nothing to say.
"It's going to get harder, if you don't change something." She sat there, watching him. And then that half-smile. And then the one that he was hoping for. The one that said she felt something for him. He took it in, but it was like an arrow shot to the chest, too.
She was right – what was it going to take?
Reese looked up, ready to engage her again, but her desk was empty. She was gone. He looked around the squad room for her, but it was empty, too. Just the click of the coffeepot, cycling again.
Portland Oregon, November, 2014
In the darkness, he could see the cars rolling slowly on the track, and then there was a jerk and a heavy metallic sound, as the three cars coupled to the rest of the long line of freight cars. This was his chance. He stood up and started walking fast along with the cars. He would pick the best place to grab on and swing himself up before the train started to gain too much speed.
He saw the handle coming up, and grabbed on as the car was going by. He was up on it now, and it was carrying him off the ground, hanging on a little metal step. He swung over to the decking, and grabbed on to the door frame. When he was sure he had it, and wouldn't fall off, down onto the track below the car, he let go of the handle, and pulled himself up and inside the car. It was drafty, but if he moved to the end of the car on the same side as the front of the train, it might be a little sheltered from the wind coming past. He'd have to try it and see. If it didn't work in this car, he could try another when they slowed down again later.
Ping opened his backpack, and took out some food. It had lost its heat now, but he had already eaten most of it when it was hot before. He would just finish it up for now, and then try to get some sleep before the next stop. He might have to hide himself, if the trainmen were checking the cars.
It was a long way to New York.