Chapter Seven: Reflection (part 1)

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"Miss Groves has succeeded in de-fragging the hard drive; I've been working on decompressing the fundamentals, and the data outputs have become quite promising—"

It was all Greek to John, but all Finch needed from him was a thoughtful nod, an encouraging noise now and then. And since it was the happiest he'd seen Finch in a long time, John was happy to let him ramble.

Even now, years after they'd met, the rare appearance of Finch's smile could still surprise him—the sudden wide line of it, the way it split his face into shiny halves and instantly took ten years off him.

Finch had the knack—or, more likely, a cultivated habit—of keeping his face impassive, his voice alarmingly neutral. The way he could squeeze perfect diction out of barely moving lips was a trick worthy of a ventriloquist.

But when Finch smiled—or, even more rarely, when he lost his temper and shouted—you could see how elastic, how expressive, his face really was. How he could chew words up and spit them out, when he wanted to.

So it shouldn't have surprised John, really, to see just how wide Finch's jaw could stretch when he screamed.

For once, Slim wasn't in the basement watching with him. John had been almost disappointed; he'd been looking forward to seeing his artwork on Slim's face. But Slim had only opened the door and called down to him from the top of the stairs.

"Something's come up for me tonight. Feel free to start without me! I've queued it up for you!" The door had shut and locked again before John could catch a glimpse of him—but he was gratified to hear the pronounced snuffle of an almost-broken nose in Slim's voice.

Sure enough, when he turned around the TV screen had flickered blue, then resolved into a still image of Finch on the floor, Slim's hand closing on his throat, under the rigged canopy of the tall, weird apparatus. John hesitated for a flat second: Slim wanted him to watch this. Wanted him to marvel and mourn as he watched his friend rigged up and immolated like a moth on a pin-board. A flame of rebellion flared in his chest—but it burned out almost immediately, leaving nothing behind but bitter smoke.

Of course he would watch. He had to watch. He had to know. He walked to the corner to stand at his usual place by the leather club chair, took up the remote and pressed play.

Slim bundled Finch's good leg through a hole in the large body sling, then flipped him onto his front, looping the rest of the fabric around his hips. Finch was still yelling wordlessly, scraping at the floor with his good leg, loosening the sling's hold. Slim stood up from a crouch, gripped Finch by the scruff of the neck and pulled him effortlessly back again into the center of the sling. Then he let him go. And waited. Finch struggled away again in a sad, one-legged crawl; Slim pulled him back and let him go again, waiting patiently. After the fourth try Finch gave up and lay panting under the shadow of the contraption's rigging. Exactly where Slim wanted him.

Unhurriedly, Slim adjusted the sling, smoothing the stretchy fabric into a wide, snug sash around Finch's hips. Then he moved to the Rig's control panel and threw a switch. There was a jingle of metal as the hydraulic stuttered once, then gentle creaks as the straps tightened and lifted Finch's prone form, slowly, pulling his back into a steep arch. Finch grunted, biting back louder sounds, until finally his arms and legs left the floor, putting their full weight on his stretched spine. He began squirming, his limbs searching uselessly for something to push against or hold onto, anything to relieve the pressure.

There was nothing there; John knew that Finch knew there was nothing there, that struggling would only make it worse. But it couldn't be helped; the animal fear of the trap was irresistible.

Then Slim stepped closer. Finch reached for him like a lifeline, clutching his bony shoulder with the hand that could still grip, scrabbling clumsily with the leaden fingers of the other. Slim steadied him with a hand against his waist. They stood in a twisted embrace: Slim's tall, narrow frame rock-steady, Finch's arms shaking harder and harder as he fought to keep hold. Then Slim gently wormed away and began working with the Rig's various auxiliary restraints, attaching them purposefully first to Finch's arms and then his legs. Gradually Finch was pulled into a precarious, lopsided pose.

Suddenly it dawned on John: he knew how Finch held himself on bad days, how he favored his pained joints and compensated for his weaknesses. He knew what that looked like, and apparently Slim did too, because he was trussing Finch up in exactly the opposite way; a perfect mirror image.

Slim stepped back and ran a critical eye over his work. So far there was nothing supporting Finch's neck; he was straining to keep it in line, but as the muscles tired his head drooped lower and lower. Slim ignored it and circled the Rig, examining it from all angles, pausing now and then to make minute adjustments. Finch's whimpers faded as his larynx was folded, until he couldn't produce sound anymore and, finally, couldn't breathe at all. He bucked twice, hard, then a third time, more weakly. His good leg gave one last weary kick and Finch went still.

"No," John keened, his face inches from the screen, eyes raking the image for movement. "You said. . . you promised. . ."

Unhurriedly, Slim plucked down a rounded piece of fabric which dangled above Finch's bowed head; there was a rip of Velcro and Slim eased it gently around the limp neck—a padded neck brace, attached by cords to a high bar. Slowly Slim pulled the cords tighter, lifting Finch's head by degrees until suddenly the prone man convulsed and spluttered, each cough pitching up to a yelp at the end.

John blew out his breath and leaned his forehead against the TV screen, the knuckles of his clasped hands bruising into his lips, grateful.

Again, Slim circled the Rig. This time his hands roamed Finch's body, testing the bones and muscles, sometimes slipping under the green cloth of Finch's scrubs to probe more intimately. Finally satisfied, Slim gave Finch a playful little shove, then left him alone to swing.

When the nauseous motion finally settled, Finch fell into a kind of rhythm, shifting his weight slightly at regular intervals, easing the pressure before it could build up too much in any one place.

Back, left, right, left, front. Right, front, left, right, back.

Whenever he miscalculated, he was sent surging headlong or backward to be pulled up short with a jolt by the restraints. Sweat began to darken his hair again, stiffening the ends into quivering barbs. One particularly grievous error left Finch shuddering, gagging out curses under his breath. He allowed himself a brief fit of frustration: shrill whines and petulant thrashing against the straps. Then he relaxed and took five deep breaths.

Back. Right. Front. Left. Back.

Hours passed. John ignored the signals of his own body—to eat, drink, sleep. He huddled close to the screen with a sniper's perfect stillness, watching. Nothing else registered.

By unspoken agreement, John and Finch had never discussed the limp or the stiffness. Right away John's playful curiosity had been piqued by any number of other, much more interesting, things about his new boss. Finch was so much more than a bad back and a fat wallet; Finch was dry wit and flashy waistcoats, a sweet tooth and old books and a truly alarming ability to wreak electronic mayhem. An ability made only slightly less frightening by the short leash of an uncompromising—and often inconvenient—conscience.

Right. Left. Back. Front. Back.

Back.

Back—

Finch wasn't moving. John tensed, nostrils flaring, but soon he saw the rise and fall of steady breathing. Shallow, labored, but steady. John shifted his own weight, popped a knee and stretched his arms with a groan. The chair sat innocently beside him, inviting.

Not content with simply gifting John an entire apartment, Finch had insisted on furnishing it, too—making it a home. He'd kept it simple but comfortable, likely knowing that John would either never get around to it or, worse, do it up all tacky. Grand gestures were kind of Finch's thing, but he had also shown a surprising talent for the anonymous, the unexpected—the downright whimsical.

"Who knew there was a Falafel-of-the-Month club," Fusco had enthused, a dab of tzatziki in the corner of his mouth. John didn't have the heart to tell him that there probably wasn't—at least not until very, very recently, when a certain eccentric investor had decided to sink a lot of money into a suicide venture. Not that the venture would actually fail until, oh, about two hours after Fusco's 12-month membership was up.

"If you wanted to thank Lionel for taking that bullet on little Darren's behalf, I'm sure a check would have worked just fine," John had said later, back at the Library.

"The policies regarding police officers and bribery are exceedingly stringent, Mr Reese," Finch had sniffed, not looking up from his computer.

But the most surprising thing about Finch ran much, much deeper.

For good or ill, John was loyal by nature. He had accepted it long ago.

"You're like me," Hersh had said. "We don't give orders. We execute them."

"Speak for yourself," John had answered.

But Hersh had only been half wrong. After Ordos, if he hadn't chosen scotch and the cold stink of the streets, he might have ended up like Hersh: a joyless ghoul of a man, waiting to die at the whim of a superior and never be mentioned again.

Much as he'd accepted his own fundamental need to hand over his life and his loyalty to someone, he had also accepted as fact that he'd never find anyone truly worthy of handing them over to. But he'd been wrong.

"...falcon... falconer..."

Finch's voice was tiny, reedy. John dropped his arms out of the stretch and reached for the remote; his thumbnail cut into the rubber button as he turned up the volume.

"...center... senator..."

Senator? Was Finch trying to communicate? Was Senator Garrison involved somehow? Was he being held at a government center of some kind? Off the grid—way off? But no; Slim was a civilian, an uncontrolled variable, totally unacceptable in an official mission.

"...Kahlo... hidden... no, left, gone... book... left..."

John nodded, suspicions confirmed. The words were nonsense; Finch was dreaming.

"Grace," Finch said suddenly, reverently, and John hit pause on reflex. This felt... intimate. Private. He swallowed. And blinked. And pressed play again.

"...Mmm... clippers... Sharpie... vertical... smile... mmm, smile..."

Finch sounded almost happy, and John was grateful for the respite, illusory though it surely was. He tilted his head, oddly soothed by the uncharacteristic dreaminess in his friend's voice. Then:

"Mr Reese?"

He reached for the TV on impulse. "I'm here, Harold."

"Mr Reese?"

His fingertips ghosted across the screen, warm and fuzzy with electricity.

"John?"

"I'm here. I'm coming for you. Hold on. Hold on. I'm coming."

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