CHAPTER 20

Three days later, Finch arrived at the door of the apartment a few minutes before noon, with Bear at his side. Even with the door still closed, he could hear the cheerful clamor of activity inside.

The door opened promptly in response to his knock, and Jun stood smiling on the other side. "Hello, Mr. Wren. We are glad you able to come today—and also you big dog!"

A dozen more of the rescued women were bustling about the living room behind her, preparing the table for Jun and Anna had insisted on staying to sit with Reese during the first few critical days of his recovery, motivated both by gratitude and by a sense of responsibility for his condition. To keep the noise down, the other women had been moved into a neighboring apartment (which Finch had swiftly acquired at double the market rate, to the owner's delight) until more permanent arrangements could be made. The invitation to a reunion lunch today had been unexpected, but Finch found it little more surprising and far more pleasant than any of the other twists that Jun's case case had taken thus far.

"I appreciate the invitation, Miss Chan. And I hope you're well?" Finch replied cordially. But Jun could see that he was distracted, anxiously scanning the room beyond. "John . . . is he . . .?"

Jun cast a quick glance behind her, then smiled as she began to say, "Ah, you friend—"

But Anna interrupted, beaming as she threw the door wide. "Come in. Sit down. Eat!" Aromas of Chinese sauces and spices wafted invitingly through the open door, and Finch took an appreciative whiff as he stepped inside. Bear, too, sniffed the air, eager to investigate this delicious new array of aromas. But then the dog's ears perked up, and he gave a soft whine of recognition as he picked up a familiar scent.

"It smells wonderful," Finch said, marveling at the spread of Chinese food laid out on the table—as well as at the fact that it hadn't come in white paper take-out boxes. "Though of course we won't stay too long, since I'm sure John still needs his rest. And I hope it's alright that I brought Bear; he's been rather ill at ease with his master away."

The truth is, Finch was feeling rather uneasy himself; his hand was damp with sweat where he clutched Bear's leash and his knees felt weak. Each time he had returned to the apartment over the past few days, it had brought back a flood of wrenching memories of his friend's arrival here, brutally beaten and too weak to stand.

Of course, Finch knew he had no good reason at this point to be anxious about his friend's condition. Every update from the home-care nurse he hired on Dr. Madhani's recommendation had been uneventful, or even encouraging. Amid the routine reports of switching out IV bags, administering medications, and changing bandages, he had gleaned the happy news that Reese's vital signs had normalized, his wounds had shown no signs of infection, and he had been able to take some food by mouth. Still, Finch had yet to see his friend fully conscious again; during his brief visits, Reese has always been adrift in a morphine haze, his pain kept in check at the expense of his full awareness.

Finch cleared his throat, finding it suddenly tight. "I was hoping—perhaps—that if Mr. Reese is in a condition to receive visitors right now, that I might let Bear . . ."

Then, to his surprise, a familiar, gently gravelly voice called out a greeting from the kitchen. Finch could not have been happier or more stunned. He had expected to find Reese still bedridden from his ordeal. By now, he realizes, he should have known better than to underestimate his friend's remarkable powers of recovery. Bear is less restrained in his response, wagging his tail vigorously and prancing with excitement at the sound of Reese's voice.

"Finch, I'm glad you could come for lunch. Anna's quite a cook," Reese said, sauntering out into the living room—rather more stiffly than usual, Finch observed. He was holding a steaming mug of coffee in his right hand, while his left arm, still thickly bandaged, hung in a sling close to his side. At the sight of the dog, though, his eyes shone with boyish delight. "Bear!"

At the sound of his name, Bear tugged his leash out of Finch's hand and bounded toward Reese with a bark of joy. "Bear, be careful—please—" Finch cautioned helplessly, cringing at the prospect of a clash between the dog's enthusiasm and Reese's injuries.

Instead, Reese called out a command in Dutch, and Bear skidded to a halt at his feet, and looked up attentively, as if awaiting further orders. "Good boy, Bear." Reese set down his mug so he could scratch behind the dog's ears, and Bear offered a brisk bark of greeting, then panted happily in response. "I missed you, too," Reese murmured. The dog gave a little whine as he sniffed at his master's bandaged arm and nosed his side, before licking his left hand tentatively. "I'll be okay, buddy," Reese assured him in a low voice, then he stood and retrieved his coffee .

Finch couldn't help but smile to see his friend up and on his feet again, looking haggard and rather the worse for wear, but content. Patches of white gauze still covered the wounds on his head, accentuating the pallor of his bruised face, and his wrists were ringed with ugly scabs where he'd been chained. There was an uncharacteristic carefulness in his movements, Finch noticed, and a tightness at the corners of his mouth that intensified whenever he raised his mug to take a sip. And no wonder; his battered back must still be painfully raw. Although he wore his usual white dress shirt, it hung untucked, and the sleeves were rolled up above the elbows; an array of odd lumps and bulges betrayed the yards of bandages wrapped around his torso beneath it.

Finch swallowed hard, hesitant to admit to his own protective instincts. "Mr. Reese, are you sure you're well enough to . . . that is to say, shouldn't you, perhaps, be—"

"Before you tell me to go lie down and rest, Finch, the answer is, yes, Dr. Madhani said I could get out of bed." Reese's mouth quirked with humor as he added, "But I can't come back to work just yet. He won't be a happy man if I start throwing punches and tear out all his stitches."

"Ah—I'm glad to hear that your recovery is proceeding so swiftly, Mr. Reese," Finch said awkwardly, "Of course, as they say, 'You can't keep a good man down.'"

Reese took another sip of his coffee, then dismissed the implied compliment with a wry half-smile. "I wouldn't know."

"Oh, I'm not so sure about that, Mr. Reese. I think some of your new friends here would beg to disagree," Finch said, surveying the laughing, chattering women before turning a look of approval on his friend.

The tall man, who could be so imposing in action, seemed suddenly self-conscious, shifting his eyes toward the floor almost coyly. When he looked up again, a cloud seemed to have passed across the clear blue of his eyes. "What about Mr. Lee?" Reese asked. "Is he going to give Jun and her friends any more trouble?"

"Ah, that," Finch said, studying his shoes, then the ceiling. "It turns out that Mr. Lee succumbed to smoke inhalation. And while I would hardly wish such an end on any human being . . . I must admit that I am quite relieved to have him out of the picture."

Reese nodded his agreement, suppressing a wry smile at Finch's admission. "And his gang?"

"After the police discovered the explosives workshop in his basement, they called in the FBI to assist with the investigation. There will be serious charges in store for anyone that they can connect with the operation. By the way, you might be interested to know that Detective Carter said that the fire marshal told her that if all of the raw materials and explosives in that basement had ignited, the entire block would be little more than a smoking crater."

"Impressive," Reese admitted with a raised eyebrow. "And what about our new friends? They're living under stolen Social Security numbers, and they can't hide out here forever. I've been thinking we might be able to do something more for them."

"The delicacy of their situation did occur to me," agreed Finch, "and during your convalescence these past few days, I've begun applying for visas and work permits to enable them to remain in the country legally, at least on a temporary basis. It's a daunting process and may take awhile to complete, but I think I may have found some ways, with a well-placed donation or two, to . . . expedite it."

"Good work, Finch," Reese replied with a grin, genuinely impressed. "Sounds like you've gotten everything wrapped up while I've been lying around, stuffed full of drugs."

"It's the least I could do, John," Finch said sincerely. "Your rest was well-deserved. I only wish it could have been a more pleasant respite from the rigors of our work." He hesitated. "Speaking of which, if you ever decide—that is, if you ever regret your decision to take part in this endeavor, well, I wouldn't blame you if—"

"Finch," Reese said. There was a quiet conviction in his voice that instantly stemmed Finch's rambling tide of words. "I wouldn't give up this job for the world. It's the best thing I've ever done in my life. After all, I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for you—and now, I owe them my life, too." Reese gave a nod toward the women.

A peculiar look crossed Finch's face as he considered this. "You know," he says, "When they brought you here that night and Carter told me what they had done for you—it made me wonder: are we the ones who are saving the Numbers, or are they, perhaps, . . . the ones who are saving us?"

Before Reese can offer his opinion, Anna comes bustling up, herding them toward the table, "Too many talk! Come, eat! Food is get cold. And you, John, you make youself wear out. Here, Meester Wren, take a sit!" Holding Reese's good arm, Anna guides him to a chair with the attentiveness of a mother hen, while Jun offers Finch the seat opposite him. Bear, torn between his two allegiances, gets tangled up with several squealing and giggling women as he tries to decide where to sit, before he compromises by lying down beneath the table.

As the happy chaos of the meal begins, Reese never gets a chance to voice a response to Finch's thoughts. But the subtle smile he throws Finch across the table, a smile that softens the lines of pain in his face and extends to the bright blue of his eyes, is all the answer Finch needs.

THE END