The lights were on in the apartment Reese guessed was Weitz'. He found a fire escape across the street and climbed up, then peered through the windows through his camera lens. "I've got eyes on him, Finch."

"What's he doing?"

"Having breakfast. Which I wish I had done."

"I could bring you something," his partner answered absently.

"No, I'm okay. Might take you up on that later though." Reese settled onto a step and pulled his collar up. Even without the camera lens, he could see the man moving around his apartment. Weitz didn't seem worried or hurried. "He seems to be enjoying his retirement."

"Twenty-plus years in a classroom," Finch answered, "he certainly deserves it."

"You ever think about it, Finch?"

"Retirement? Certainly. I've retired from a number of jobs over the years."

Reese chuckled. "Not quite what I meant."

"You mean from our current occupation." There was a long pause; John could hear the comforting clicks of his partner's keyboard. "I created our occupation, John. I can scarcely abandon it."

"Hmm."

"But you certainly could," Finch continued. "If you wanted to step away, have a more conventional life, as you once said – certainly a longer life –"

"You trying to get rid of me, Finch?"

"I am offering you an off ramp, John. At any time. For any reason."

Reese watched their client walk from one room to another. He could only see him from the mid-chest up, but he inferred that the man was taking his dishes to the kitchen and rinsing them. Then he left the kitchen, vanished from view, and re-appeared in the room at the back of the apartment. He put on what looked like a chef's apron, bright white, and tied it around his waist.

"He's not a chef," John mused, "unless he repurposed one of the bedrooms."

"John?"

"I can't see what he's doing." He glanced up the escape. He could get higher, look down into the apartment. But Weitz' blinds were pulled half-way down; he still wouldn't be able to see in clearly.

"About the off ramp, John."

"Oh. Well, I do appreciate the offer, Finch." He let a smile creep into his voice. "But I think I'll stick around. I'm dying to know what this school teacher is up to."

"I think I know. And I'm afraid you're going to regret your choice."

Reese felt the child molester itch on his spine again. "You find something?"

"Yes." His voice was troubled, even over the comm link. "I don't … even know how to describe it. You'd better look."

John's phone vibrated and he pulled it out to look at the image. It looked like a model, incredibly detailed. Long wood buildings on each side of a courtyard. A stone wall at one end. Four odd figures in faded clothes against the wall. Ten odd figures in military uniforms facing them, with tiny rifles. There was a faded splatter of red on the stone wall; this was obviously not the first execution there.

A Nazi flag flew over the barracks.

"Is this Auschwitz?"

"So he claims. In his Etsy shop. He sells these. That's where his untaxed income comes from."

"Well. That's weird." Reese started to put his phone away. "Not really worth killing him over."

"Zoom in, Mr. Reese."

Curious, John studied the image again, and zoomed in. "They're mice. All the soldiers are little toy mice." They had tiny, detailed uniforms. The prisoners did, too: ragged, gray and white stripped. "Okay, that's really weird. But I'm still not seeing a motive for murder."

"Taxidermy supplies, Mr. Reese."

Reese zoomed further, focusing on a figure who seemed to be in command of the firing squad. It was hard to see clearly, but there was a vague dark line that started at the mouse general's chin and ran down his chest into his tiny cravat.

The mouse officer had quite possibly been a real live mouse once.

"Finch."

"Mr. Reese."

"It's still February. Way too early for April Fools jokes."

"Yes, it is."

"Finch."

"Mr. Reese?"

He put his phone away and rubbed his eyes. "Finch, please tell me you're messing with me."

"I sincerely wish I was, John."

John looked up and stared into the retired teacher's apartment. The man had his back to the window and seemed to be working, unhurried, at some kind of table.

"Apparently," Finch continued, after a moment, "it's considered something of an art form. Anthropomorphic taxidermy. Victorian whimsy. Popularized in the mid-1800's. They were generally lighter subject matters – The Death and Burial of Cock Robin, a kittens' tea party. Boxing squirrels. But our Number has specialized in something he calls historical taxidermy, and sometimes atrocity taxidermy."

Reese opened his mouth, but for a long moment no sound came out. He felt like he was strangling. All the horrors he'd seen in the world, all the absolute monstrosities – and yet Samuel Weitz' little hobby was just too. He couldn't even say too what – just too.

What finally came out was, "Where does he get the mice?"

There was silence on the other end of the comm.

And then, "Well, that's a very good question, Mr. Reese."

The keyboard noise resumed.

"Are there more pictures?" John asked.

Another pause. "Are you sure you want to see them?"

"I've got nowhere to go right now. Might as well try to get inside Weitz' strange little mind."

"You should tie a rope around your waist before you wade in there."

Reese grinned. "That's what I have you for, Finch."

Finch was back to whacking his way through the nonsensical thicket that was the public school information system when Bear jumped up abruptly, looking toward the stairway.

"What is it, boy?" Finch asked.

The dog glanced at him, then trotted down the hallway and down the stairs. From his manner, Harold could tell there was no enemy approaching. A moment later the smell of Chinese food reached him, and then Christine reached the top of the stairs, with Bear happily at her side.

"I don't usually have Chinese for breakfast, but I will admit that I'm starving." He cleared away from papers to make room for the containers.

"It's three in the afternoon."

Finch blinked. He checked the clock on his computer. She was right, of course. He remembered, then, Bear going downstairs twice to let himself out into the courtyard, and Reese saying something about going to a diner on the corner. He'd been too involved in his computer to take much notice. It happened, frequently.

"You are a lifesaver," he said.

Christine was already at the board. "What is this?"

"It's called Atrocity Taxidermy. It's an … art form. Of sorts."

"Taxidermy." She leaned closer to one of the images. "So these mice are …"

"Real mice, yes. Or they were."

"Where does he get them all?"

"I don't know. If he's buying them from a pet shop, he's paying cash."

"He could be breeding them at home."

"Perhaps."

Normally Finch would have gotten a plate. He didn't much care for eating directly from cardboard cartons. But at the moment he was too hungry. He ate with one hand, tried to continue his hacking with the other.

After several minutes, he became aware that his wife had turned away from the board and was watching him with a bemused expression. "I'm sorry," he said, wiping his mouth on a napkin, "did you want some?"

"No, I'm fine. Can I help? Either on the keyboard or with the fork? That thing you're doing with your pinkie makes me cringe."

Finch sighed and pushed the keyboard back for a moment. "The New York City Public Schools information system is proving quite elusive."

"It's a piece of shit," she confirmed. "Too crappy to hack."

"So it seems. But we need to know the circumstances under which our Mr. Weitz' employment was terminated."

She shrugged. "Ask the kids."

"I can't just …" He stopped. "Of course. Do you have an identity handy?"

"Sure." Christine came to the desk and reached for a pen, but Finch stood and gestured to his chair. She gave him a little side-eye, startled, but sat down and pulled the keyboard toward her.

He pulled up a side chair and fell to eating in earnest.

She found the correct middle school and poked around social media for a bit, then settled on the student athletes page and typed, I COME IN PEACE. ANYONE GOT 411 ON HISTORY TEACHER SAMUEL WEITZ

"Is 411 still a thing?" Finch wondered around a mouthful of rice.

"No. It's a throwback. Vintage."

WHY YOU ASKIN

Christine grinned. OUR HISTORY TEACHER IS PREG HES OUR SUB NEXT WEEK

OMG YOU POOR KID

HOPE YOU DON'T LIKE MICE

OR YOU DO

And then there came a barrage of responses. It was a bit muddled, students posting over each other, and there was a vast amount of snark, but what emerged was clear: The day before Christmas break, Mr. Weitz had brought one of his dioramas to school to help teach the students about Sherman's march to Atlanta. As part of the lesson he had actually set fire to a small portion of the scene. It had been planned and contained, but it had flared enough to set off the fire alarm. The principal was not pleased about the fire. And when the students realized that the mice in the army were actual preserved rodents, two of the girls had fainted and one boy had vomited in the trash can.

Mr. Weitz was allowed to retire over the break.

"Got enough?" Christine asked.

Finch nodded, and she typed, OH SHIT DAD HOME GOTTA BOUNCE THANKS FOR THE INFO ILL WATCH FOR MOUSIES and then logged off.

"Well," Finch said.

"You do find the most interesting people." Christine stood and gave his chair back. "What else can I help with?"

Harold wiped his hands and settled back into his chair. "I don't suppose you have any guesses about who might be planning to kill him."

"Or who he might be planning to kill," she reminded him.

Smokey the cat wandered in from parts unknown of the library, jumped onto the desk, and strolled over his keyboard.

"I'll take that," Christine said. She scooped up the cat and carried her to the kitchenette. Bear, sensing snacks in the offing, followed.

"I need to widen my search," Finch said, to himself. He closed down all the tabs from his effort to hack the school system. Some other time, when things were quiet, he would hack in properly and construct a back door. "Why are you here?" he called after his wife.

"Logan Pierce," she called back.

"Is at your office?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

Christine came back, without the animals, and began to clear away his empty cartons. "Angela was sleeping or I would have brought her with me. She doesn't need to be around him either."

Finch smiled thinly. "I'm sure we have few years before we need to worry about her with him."

"He's a bad influence at any age." She carried the cartons away.

"Christine." She came back again and he spoke before he could lose his nerve. "Have you ever thought about having children of your own?"

He wasn't sure what response he expected, but her sad little smile and head shake were not it. "I'd love to," she said simply, "but I can't."

"Oh." He felt idiotic. How had he not known that? He'd thought he knew everything. "Well, and with all of this …" He gestured to the boards, the library.

"That, too." She leaned and kissed his cheek. "I gotta get back and see what damage Pierce has done. Call me if you need anything."

"Thank you for lunch."

"You don't eat, you get cranky, bad things happen," she called over her shoulder.

He listened to her saunter down the stairs.

Bear came out of the kitchenette and sniffed beneath the empty desktop. "It's all gone, Bear," Finch told the dog. "You don't eat table scraps."

The dog wagged at him.

"Well, not very often." He rubbed the dog's ears.

It had been a terrible idea, to think of having a child with Christine. Terrible for so many reasons. He'd known that. And if he'd thought about it longer, he would have found yet more reasons that it was a terrible idea.

But having it vanish as quickly as it had arisen seemed somehow tragic.

And then, Reese's voice was in his ear again.

"I'm here, John," Finch said, turning his full attention back to the keyboard.

Just after six in the evening, Samuel Weitz finally left his apartment. Reese moved to follow him, but he only went as far as the diner on the corner. Finch got up on the cameras to keep an eye on him, and Reese broke into his apartment.

They broached his computer first. The hard drive was jam packed with data. While it downloaded to Finch's system, Reese explored the bedrooms. One was actually a bedroom, with a neatly-made twin bed and a wall of bookshelves, completely full. There was nothing particularly interesting in the drawers or closets.

The second bedroom, the one Reese had been able to see into from the fire escape, was the work room. There was a portable vent fan with a duct that led to the window, but it wasn't connected and the window was closed. John could smell chemicals, but it was faint; evidently their Number hadn't been using them that day. He had a neat work table, stained but scrubbed. A diaper disposal system identical to the one Will and Julie used. Reese guessed that the remnants of the mice went there. Above the table were two shelves of chemicals. Below them, a peg board held an assortment of tools. Beneath were cupboards, jammed with jars and tools and more chemicals.

There were a dozen mouse skins tacked to a board to the side of the table.

On the opposite wall there was another larger table. There were tiny patterns, three different scissors, scraps of fabric, two glue guns, multiple tweezers of various sizes. The wall above was lined with sets of small bins Reese associated with hardware stores; they were usually filled with bolts and screws, but these held tiny boots, hats, spats, weapons. There was a pile of random clothing under the table, still with tags from thrift stores. Nice wools, silks, calico. "He makes his own clothes," Reese murmured.

"They're so tiny," Finch answered immediately. "He must sew them by hand."

"Looks like he glues most of them. There's a sewing machine on the floor."

"Maybe for bigger pieces."

Reese opened the closet and switched on the light.

Twenty cages of mice of various sizes and colors squeaked and scampered in alarm.

He turned the light out and backed out of the room.

Reese moved to the third and largest bedroom. There were big shelves against the walls with completed dioramas on them. At the center there was a work table, accessible from all sides. On it was Weitz' composition in progress. The piece was larger than the others, a full six feet on each side.

John took a picture and sent it to Finch. "I think this one is Gettysburg," he said. Most of the Union army was in place, but the Confederate forces were still waiting for dead mouse reinforcements.

"Mr. Reese, our Number just asked for his check."

"Good. That means I have to get out of here." John made his way out to the hallway.

"It doesn't look like he's coming back there," Finch said over the comm. "He's hailing a cab."

"On my way."

Weitz' computer had downloaded 62% of its data to Finch's system. He could start poking into it, but he knew that doing so would slow the download and probably just cause him additional aggravation. It was moving at a decent clip. He let it run while he stood up and stretched.

The Number was on the move somewhere, in a cab, but Reese was comfortably behind him in his own car. Until they arrived, or the download completed, there wasn't much for Finch to do.

He went to the kitchen, filled the tea kettle with fresh water, and put it to heat on the electric hotplate. He rinsed the long-cold tea out of his cup and loaded the tea strainer for his next cup while he waited. Checked that the dog and cat each had food, and put fresh water in their shared bowl.

The kettle wasn't nearly boiling. He wandered back to his computer. 69% done. "Watched pots," Finch murmured to himself.

He went past the current board and drifted to the brightly decorated Board of Wins. The classroom-size bulletin board was covered with printed numbers. Pi, to a ridiculous number of decimal points. Some scattered series were highlighted in various colors. The partial numbers of all the Numbers they had saved.

Finch had maintained the board since Christine had given it to him, the Christmas before they were married. She said they should celebrate the wins as much as they mourned the ones they lost. She was right, of course.

He traced his hand lightly over the many numbers, careful of the page edges and the pins that held them at each corner. Infinite numbers, in infinite combinations. But bright spots of color where lives had not been snuffed out.

He remembered them all. His fingers touched a line of color and he remembered the name, the face that went with it. The construction worker. The doctor. The scrappy young attorney. The detective. The high school student on holiday from Canada ….

Helen Zane. Rowan. Romanov. None of those names had been on her parents' birth certificates. It didn't matter. The clever teen was the daughter of the CIA's spymaster and his courier/lover/assassin. The spies had eloped, covered their tracks. Vanished. Bought a nice house in Canada and raised four lovely children.

Gave up everything they had and lived happily ever after, until the spymaster died of natural causes in his own back yard.

The number sequence, highlighted in pink, whispered to him. It's not impossible.

The spymaster had died, and the children he left behind kept his wife anchored in life.

The teakettle whistled. Finch shook his head and walked back to the kitchen. Yes, and maybe a child could be kept safe. Maybe. But it was pointless now to think about it. Christine couldn't have children.

And likely he was only chewing on that because he hadn't known.

He hated to not know things.

As he poured the water over the loose tea leaves, his computer dinged. The download was complete.

"Coming, yes," he called softly.

Except – that wasn't right. Somehow it wasn't right.

He had felt the slender lines under the skin of Christine's inner bicep where her long-term contraceptive was implanted. When she'd been shot, the surgeon had warned that her unrepaired broken rib could complicate a future pregnancy, among other things. Of course, she hadn't been commenting specifically on that topic, merely tossing it in a list of hypotheticals …

Nothing had been said all those years ago by the rehab hospital, but again, her reproductive status hadn't been their focus.

Yes, he was annoyed that he hadn't known. But there was something else. Something he wasn't getting.

It wasn't nearly as hard as it should be to hack someone's medical records.

Or, John's voice, which was too often the voice of reason, said in his mind, you could just ask her.

That was almost certainly the correct course of action.

And then, blessedly, the real John Reese spoke in his ear. "Finch? Weitz is getting out of his cab."

He carried his tea back to his computer. "Where are you, Mr. Reese?"