At first, Reese thought that Samuel Weitz' destination was a souvenir stand. But the man walked past the stand without a glance and instead went through a double doorway beside it. John followed, hanging back a bit, and found himself in what an old gilt-lettered signed announced was the Avenue Mall. The arcade was two stories high, wedged between two much taller buildings, connecting the avenues that ran on both ends of it. The upper level was a wide walkway along both sides, with an open center that gave a view of the floor below. The architecture was old but beautiful, lots of brass trim in need of polishing, sweeping staircases connecting the floors, hanging ferns along both sides of the central aisle. On both sides, on both levels, were gently run-down shops. It looks like mostly tourist bait – cheap t-shirts, refrigerator magnets, snow globes with the Manhattan skyline. It looked like there were some higher-end art shops and such, a high-end ladies boutique. There was a news stand opposite the souvenir stand, and behind that a gyro shop, but it was closed. Most of the shops inside the arcade were closed or closing. In the summer, Reese guessed that the place was full until midnight with wandering tourists, but on a Tuesday in February there was almost no foot traffic.

He examined the menu posted in the window of the crepe shop and watched Weitz in the reflection.

The schoolteacher looked around, then went further into the arcade and sat down on a bench. He pulled a newspaper out of his jacket and began to read.

"He looks like he's meeting someone," Reese murmured into the comm. "Funny place for it. Everything's closing up."

"At the far end of the arcade, on the left," Finch answered, "there is a shop called History Home."

Reese leaned back and looked. "I see it. The lights are still on. Maybe he's waiting for someone who works there. Got a hot history date."

"Perhaps."

"You sound distracted, Finch."

"Hmmm?" And then, "I'm looking at his computer. Mr. Weitz is evidently unacquainted with his delete button."

"Well, search for History Home."

"Yes, I had thought of that, Mr. Reese. It's just … taking an unreasonable amount of time."

After a few minutes, Reese turned away from the window and climbed the stairs to the second floor of the arcade. He tucked into the doorway of an empty card shop. He could still see Weitz over the railing, but his target wouldn't see him in a casual glance up.

Ten minutes passed before Finch breathed, "Oh, dear."

"You find something?"

"Mr. Weitz places some of his works for consignment through History Home. From this e-mail chain, he's had some recent conflict with the owner, one Doug Lawrence."

Weitz stood up, looked around at the now-nearly empty arcade, and put his newspaper down.

"What kind of conflict?"

"It looks like Mr. Weitz built a model of the Mai Lai Massacre, and Mr. Lawrence had a problem with the position of a helicopter."

Reese exhaled slowly. "Hugh Thompson Junior."

"I imagine so."

Weitz was moving, away from Reese, toward the store. He walked slowly, casually. John glided along the upper balcony, careful to stay behind him. "The dead mice in army uniforms didn't bother him, but the helicopter did."

"Well. Yes. The e-mails have become quite heated. Weitz said he would remove all of his works. Lawrence says he has a consignment agreement. The real heart of the dispute, of course, is unstated."

"Whether Thompson is a hero or a traitor." Weitz was directly outside the shop now. There was low light from within; the flip sign said 'Closed'.

The Number looked up and down the now-deserted arcade. Then he tried the door. It was locked. He rapped on the glass lightly and waited.

"The most recent e-mail was three hours ago," Finch said in his ear.

"So he came to steal his own works back."

"I don't see how. Fully assembled it's four foot square and must weigh more than two hundred pounds."

Reese watched while Weitz picked the three locks on the shop door and stepped inside. "Well he's definitely got something planned. Gotta go, Finch." He ran down to the stairs at the far end of the arcade and down them to the ground floor. He slowed as he approached the open shop door.

From within, he heard a faint whispering noise. Liquid. As if, John thought, Weitz was inside pissing on his model. He crept past the display window far enough to peek in.

His guess hadn't been far off. Weitz was spraying the model down with lighter fluid, from a small can in each hand.

He evidently planned to torch his own artwork. And he didn't seem to care if he burned down the whole arcade in the process.

Reese moved. As he got to the door, another man stepped out of the shadows between him and Weitz. His back was to Reese and neither of them had seen him, so he froze again, half-exposed in the doorway.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the man thundered.

"It's my work!" Weitz shouted back. "It's correct. Historically correct. And I won't let you change it!"

"You're an idiot!"

"You're a lying bastard!"

"You think I'm going to let you destroy my shop over some traitor?"

"I think you know nothing about history!"

"I was there, you lying bastard!"

Then Weitz pulled out a lighter, and Lawrence pulled out a gun, and Reese moved.

When the scuffling he heard over the comm quieted, Finch said, "Are you alright, Mr. Reese?"

"I'm fine, Finch. On my way home. I'll pull the fire alarm on my way out."

"Is there a fire?"

"No. And these two are trussed up so they can't get in any trouble in the meantime."

"Understood. I've filed an urgent complaint with both the Health Department and the ASPCA about Mr. Weitz' in-home taxidermy. Hopefully one or the other will put an end to it." Then, "Would you like to get some dinner, Mr. Reese?"

"Thanks, Finch, but you should go home to your wife. I've got – other plans."

Finch smiled to himself. "I see. Well, enjoy. I'll call you when we get another Number."

"See you then."

Harold clicked off the comm and tidied up his desk.

It wasn't particularly late when Harold got home; he wasn't surprised that the lights were still on. He hung up his coat and scarf and made his way to the library. "I'm home, love."

"We're in here."

We was Christine, with her feet up on the coffee table in front of the fireplace, and Angela, sitting up against her legs so they were looking at each other. The baby was wide awake.

"Oh, hello." Finch kissed his wife, and then the baby. "How nice to see you again, young lady."

Angela gurgle-cooed in greeting.

"I sent Will and Julie out for a real dinner," Christine explained.

"Excellent."

"Did you get your client all sorted?"

Finch nodded. "A little attempted arson, a little attempted murder. Just another day at the office."

"Atrocity taxidermy. I think we really have seen it all."

Harold simply leaned to knock on the wood of the coffee table.

"Did you eat?"

"I'll find something."

"There's half of an enormous roast beef sandwich in the fridge. On pumpernickel, with horseradish and spicy brown mustard."

"Oh, that sounds like exactly what I want, thank you."

"Did John eat?"

"I invited him for dinner, but he said he had other plans."

Christine shrugged. "He's going to see Joss, then."

"He has not seen fit to mention it, so neither have I," Finch answered. "How do you know about it?"

"They have not seen fit to mention it to Taylor, either, but the young man is very observant."

"Ahhh."

Finch went back to the kitchen and got his sandwich and a glass of milk, then carried them back to the library. He settled at the other end of the couch and watched the two of them while he ate. Christine seemed so perfectly at ease with the infant, and Angela was so perfectly delighted with her undivided attention. He wondered again about what she'd said, so inexplicably, that she couldn't have children. He wanted to know more. He had resisted poking around in her medical records – so far – and he didn't know how to bring up the subject without sounding like he was hounding her about it. So he chewed his excellent sandwich and said nothing.

But often, he'd noticed, their thoughts ran on the same lines, so he was relieved but not surprised when Christine brought it up herself. "Did you ever think about having children?" she asked, as if they had not had the first part of that conversation many hours before.

Finch considered while he chewed and swallowed. "When Will was born, we were all very young. Well, rather young – it felt like we were very young. I was delighted to be considered his uncle. I adored him, from the start. But I will confess, I was also very pleased to be able to just give him back to his parents when he became fussy or cranky. Or when I did."

Angela had both of Christine's thumbs wrapped in her little fists, and they were playing a sort of informal pattycake, but she nodded, listening.

"After that, I suppose I never gave it much thought at all, until Leila. Caring for her, despite the danger and the stress, was – was deeply satisfying. In a way I had not anticipated. So I am quite delighted to have this young lady in our lives."

Christine nodded and bent to kiss the baby on her nose. "And we can still give her back."

"Well, yes." He finished the last bite of his sandwich, wiped his mouth, and scooted over close to them. "And in a few years you'll be old enough for sleep-overs."

He kissed her too. She wrinkled her nose and frowned at him.

"Horseradish," Christine said.

"Oh. So sorry." He sat back, keeping his breath away from the baby. "I suppose she won't acquire that taste for a few years yet."

"Or ever." Christine did not enjoy the taste either. Harold assumed her half of the sandwich had had different condiments.

Then, just as he was about to steer the conversation to having or not having children of their own, the kitchen door clicked open and Will and Julie arrived to claim their daughter.

John slid into the booth. The waitress was right behind him; she slid their plates down while he was still getting settled. "Coffee, honey?"

It was late, but he was a decade or more past the time when coffee kept him awake. "Sure."

"Be right back."

Carter drained her coffee mug and pushed it to the edge of the table. The waitress came back with a fresh pot; she put down a mug for John and filled both of them. When she moved away, Carter gestured to his plate. "You said to order the special."

"I like their meatloaf. And I'm starving." He took a bite of the meatloaf and chewed. Unlike most diners, their gravy was homemade and not overly salty. He stabbed another bite. "How was your day?"

"Busy." She peeled a piece off her chicken and popped it into her mouth, then licked her fingertips. "I know your – project – makes my job easier, most of the time, but sometimes I'm not so sure."

Reese glanced around casually. Carter had chosen the booth in the back corner and the next two were empty; there was no one close enough to hear them. His gaze traveled up to the yellowish security camera above the counter. Almost no one, he amended. "How so?"

"This guy this morning. He called himself in. He was on his way to work, some guy took his parking spot, and he just snapped. Got out of his car and smashed the guy's windshield with a tire iron."

"And killed him?"

"Not then. The guy got out of his car and took a swing at him. Then he killed him."

Reese nodded. "Don't confront an out-of-control man with a weapon if you can avoid it."

"Right." Joss sipped her coffee. "Anyhow. He just sat down on the stoop, put the tire iron by his feet, called 911 and waited for us. All I had to do was the paperwork."

"The Machine doesn't see crimes like that. There's no pre-planning for it to see."

"That's the thing. These two guys weren't connected in any way. If the killer just got back in his car and drove away, we probably never would have caught him."

John nodded, chewing again.

"The ones she sees, the ones you stop – they're the ones we'd have been more likely to solve." She raised her hand. "I'm not saying I'm not grateful. I am. People not dying is good. But it's … problematic." She tapped a manila folder on the table. "Why doesn't she see serial killers?"

"She does, sometimes. Not always. I don't know why. We could ask Finch." He gestured toward the folder with his fork. "Do you have one?"

"I don't know." She flipped the folder around to him. "This came in this afternoon." She started to open it, then stopped.

The waitress appeared at his shoulder with a fresh pot of coffee. "Anything you need?" she asked as she refilled their mugs.

"We're fine," Carter answered.

"Meatloaf is excellent," Reese told her.

"One of my favorites," the waitress confirmed.

She moved away, and Joss glanced around again. "Sorry, this isn't exactly dinner table conversation."

"It is for us," John pointed out.

"True enough." She flipped the file open. "This guy," she said quietly, "throat cut ear to ear."

John studied the picture while he chewed another bite. "Looks professional."

"That's what I thought. But then there's this." She turned to the next picture. "The wrists are cut, but the wrong way and post-mortem."

In side-by-side photos, the victim's wrists each showed three deep cuts. The cuts were parallel to the wrists, not up the arms, and there was very little bleeding. John frowned at them. "So either the killer wanted to make it look like a suicide but didn't know what he was doing …"

" … or it's some kind of ritual." Joss closed the folder and pulled it back. "We ran it into NCIC. See if anything pops nation-wide."

John considered. His first instinct, always, was to protect, and serial killers were obviously dangerous. But Joss Carter had gotten her detectives' shield by being smart and tough and able to take care of herself. The first unwritten rule of their relationship was that they didn't interfere with each other's jobs. So instead of pushing for details, he said, "Let me know if we can help with anything."

Joss nodded. "But if it is a serial, the FBI will snag the case away from us." She stabbed a green bean, sighed. "So how was your day?"

"Weird," John answered. "Possibly the weirdest day we've ever had."

"You protected a dead teenager once," she pointed out.

"Yeah. This was weirder." He brought out his phone and offered her a picture.

Carter squinted, then zoomed the picture. "Is this a … mouse firing squad?"

"At Auschwitz," Reese confirmed.

"With toy mice."

"They're not toys. They're mounts. Taxidermy.

She was still staring at the picture. "They're … real mice. Dead. Real. Mice."

"Yep."

"Why?"

Reese shrugged. "It's his hobby. And his side gig. He sells them for money."

"I know I'm going to regret asking this," Joss said slowly, "but where does he get the mice?"

"He breeds them in his apartment."

She laid the phone face-down on the table. "I don't know why that makes it so much worse, but it does."

"Yeah."

Joss forked another bite of chicken, paused with it half-way to her mouth. "You're not pulling my leg."

"I am not."

"Because this is …"

"I know."

She bit the chicken and chewed slowly. "Was he planning to kill someone and stuff them?"

"No. He was going to set a fire. The other guy was going to shoot him."

Carter put her hand over her eyes for a moment. Then she sat back, touched her napkin to her mouth, and shrugged. "Okay. Start at the beginning."

John grinned and told her the story.

Harold was settled against his pillows but still awake when Christine rolled in her sleep and began to scoot in tiny movements toward the edge of the bed. He watched her long enough to be sure that she was in the grips of her recurring sleep episode again, and then he began to speak, softly but clearly, assuring her that she was safe, until she uncoiled again. He listened while her breathing deepened to peaceful sleep. Then he drifted off himself.

The next time he woke, perhaps two hours later, she was coiled at the far edge of the bed again, her knees drawn to her chest, her chin tucked down, and her arm curled to protect the back of her neck. He talked her down a second time. It took longer, but eventually she relaxed back into sleep.

He tried to remember if Christine had ever had an episode twice in the same night. He couldn't recall that happening before.

He listened to her breathe for a while again, and then fell back into sleep himself.

Finch woke again around five, as he always did, when his pain meds wore off. When he'd lived alone, he'd gotten out of bed – an agonizing process – and gone to the kitchen for more medication and a few crackers to keep them down. Then he would go back to bed and wait until the pain relief kicked in. Sometimes, if he was lucky, he managed to go back to sleep. After he moved in with Christine, he would get up and stay up so that he wouldn't wake her a second time. It took her two nights to realize what was happening and why, and one more day to solve it: she replaced their headboard with a bookcase model that had a small cabinet in the center, and stocked it with a dish for his meds, a small water bottle with a pop-up straw, and a dish of goldfish-shaped crackers, which tasted like saltines but did not leave crumbs. Instead of getting out of bed, now he only needed to move his arm to the cupboard. He didn't wake Christine, he didn't have the agony of moving, and he quickly fell back to sleep. He should have come up with that simple solution on his own years before.

This morning, as he closed the little cupboard door, Christine rolled to the side of the bed and began to pull her knees up again.

That, Harold knew, a third episode, had never happened before. "Christine, love, you're safe, you're safe here. No one is going to hurt you. I'm right here, and you're perfectly safe. Relax. No one will harm you."

She stopped coiling. After another moment her body relaxed.

Harold lay and looked at her. Her outline was dim; the light was still low, and he didn't have his glasses. But he understood now with perfect clarity. When Christine had said she couldn't have children, she hadn't meant, I am unable. She'd meant, almost certainly, I dare not.

And that, Harold thought in cold rage, would not stand.