Finch glanced at him as Reese entered the library. "How goes the patio?"

"Well," John answered. "It'll be ready for the edging tomorrow. Or whenever I get back to it. If the weather holds." He set the bag of carry-out containers on the desk. Smokey, Christine's cat who was on permanent loan to the library for rodent control, was curled tightly in a shoe box. He scratched her ears and she opened one blue eye briefly, then drifted back to sleep. "Also the secret shower works."

"That's good to know, I suppose." Finch nodded toward the board as he moved back to his chair. There was a picture there already, an unremarkable young man with stringy dark blond hair and brown eyes. He was wearing a blue uniform shirt; the photo was obviously from a work ID. "Jason Cutter. Twenty-seven. He works as an unarmed security guard for Buckler Security. He's been assigned to the night shift at the Marshall Office Tower for the past two years."

Bear ambled over and looked at Reese expectantly. He crouched to pet the dog, too. Then he stood and studied the photo.

Finch settled into his chair. "Mr. Cutter is single and lives alone. He holds an associate's degree from New York Community College. Average credit, a bit over-extended on his credit cards. Nothing remarkable about his bank statements. The largest deposits are his annual Christmas bonuses. No drivers' license. No criminal record that I can find; I'll ask one of our associates to search further in the morning. A rather minimal electronic footprint. So far, nothing suggestive."

"Nothing that tells us who wants to kill him."

"Or who he may want to kill. No." Finch shook his head. "I've only just begun my research. It's possible that something may appear."

John glanced at him. He didn't ask how his partner's walk in the park had been. Much as Christine would have to move from her apartment over Chaos in her own time, Finch would need to stop watching Grace Hendricks in his own. If he ever did. "Is he working tonight?"

"He's scheduled to work at eleven, yes."

"Might be a good time to have a look at his apartment."

"Yes. I'll continue to look into his background."

Reese's phone chirped, and he knew without looking that he'd received the Number's home address. "Start with girlfriends. Past, present, or imaginary. And see if you can get eyes in that building."

Finch nodded, but he was already focused again on his screens. John glanced at his watch. Then he picked up the bag and went to the kitchen area for plates and real silverware.

"I'm really not very hungry at the moment," Harold called after him.

Finch was never hungry after he'd been out to watch Grace. But if had food right in front of him, he might eat anyhow. Reese shrugged to himself and continued to dish up the food onto two plates.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch said aloud, "Mr. Cutter just came into the lobby. I'm up on all the public space cameras in the building."

"Nice work, Finch," Reese replied over the link. "I'm going in."

Finch watched for a moment while the security guards worked through the shift change. There were four guards on the evening shift, but three at night; only one of them was armed. He could access cameras in the lobby, at the building entrances, and in all corridors. He also had access to the handful of cameras covering the outside of the building. Harold hadn't had much trouble getting inside the wi-fi, which ran the entire security system. It was a nicely comprehensive system. The password hadn't been updated in three years.

Young Mr. Cutter settled at the front desk. The armed guard walked the four who were leaving to the loading dock entrance and saw them out, then locked the door behind them and took up his post there. The third member of the team took an elevator to the top floor and began a very leisurely walk-through.

As soon as he was alone in the lobby, Cutter pulled out a small laptop and turned it on. Finch checked, but there was no interaction with the building wi-fi. Cutter was playing some kind of self-contained game. Harold used the camera behind the desk to get badly-distorted view of the screen; he could tell from the graphics that it was some kind of graphic adventure game.

That was not likely to help him determine who wanted to harm Mr. Cutter. Or who he wanted to harm.

Finch moved the lobby view to a screen to his left.

It would be useful, he decided, to look into the backgrounds of the men Mr. Cutter worked with. He got their names off the wi-fi, but to get backgrounds he needed to hack into security firm. Buckler at least updated their network passwords on a regular basis. They also had a comprehensive and current firewall. Finch made a little face at the screen. He'd become rather accustomed to average or below-average computer security. It annoyed him to find a system that had been so recently updated.

He paused, his hands hovering over the keyboard again. Something about the configuration. Something about the specific updates …

His mouth curved into a small smile. He diverted his left hand from the keyboard and picked up his phone instead. It was late; he sent a text rather than calling. Within a minute his phone rang. "Christine," he answered happily, "I hope I didn't wake you."

By then he could hear the background noise. If she was home, she certainly wasn't alone. "No, I was up," she answered cheerfully. "Corrupting the youth of New York. Introducing Will and Julie to the venerable time-suck that is Dungeons and Dragons."

Finch nodded fondly. "Some computerized multi-player version, I'm sure."

There was a roar behind her, then shouts as the party battled a group of trolls. "Way too mainstream," she answered. "We're playing old school." The noise grew quieter; evidently she moved away from the table. "Books, graph paper, twenty-sided dice. Little lead figurines."

"Good heavens."

"Wanna come over? They could use a decent thief."

"That does sound … interesting," Finch allowed. "But unfortunately I have to decline."

"Next time, then. Whatcha need?"

"Buckler Security. We're investigating one of their employees, and their network appears to have your recent fingerprints on it."

"Hmmmm," Christine answered. She didn't sound displeased or surprised. "If I'm that identifiable I need to switch up my game."

"It's likely only identifiable to someone who admires your work," Finch assured her. "Or someone who's stalking you, of course."

"And which are you again?"

He chuckled. "Some of both, naturally. Are they one of yours?"

"They are," she admitted. "Would you like my access?"

"That would be useful, yes."

"One sec."

He listened for a moment to the click of small keys and the background noise of the café. It sounded as if the D&D campaign was going well. The party had defeated the trolls and was wisely searching the bodies for useful items. There was a great deal of laughter.

Harold sat back and looked at the ceiling, remembering. A crowded dorm room, hot from too many bodies. A cold breeze coming in from the half inch they'd cracked the window open. A wobbly folding table. Games that went on until sunrise. Loud impassioned arguments over arcane rules. Graph paper and twenty-sided dice, yes. Nathan had had a die set that looked like gemstones. The 20 SD was vibrant purple. …

Nathan would never have thought to teach Will to play D&D. Harold hadn't, either. It was something from their past. Something he'd given up ages ago.

He missed it suddenly, sharply. He missed Nathan.

"Here you go," Christine said.

Harold glanced at the text message on his screen. "Thank you."

"Are you okay, Random?"

Finch smiled again. Two simple words, and she'd picked up on the pained nostalgia he was feeling. "I'm fine," he assured her. "Just reminiscing a bit. I had a Bag of Holding once named OLP. Old Lady's Purse."

Christine chuckled. "Because it held everything you could ever need, of course."

"Of course."

"We should adventure some time."

"I thought we already had."

"Your point is well taken," she agreed. "Anything else I can help with?"

"Not right now. But I do appreciate the offer."

"Call me if you need me."

"I will."

The call went dead.

Finch looked at ceiling a little more. A thief, he mused. Christine thought he'd be good playing a thief. She wasn't wrong. Back in the day, his most enjoyable and memorable player characters had been thieves. Nathan played magic users, sometimes clerics, sometimes warriors, but Harold, given his choice, would be a thief every time. It was a funny that she'd guessed that. But maybe it was just a coincidence, the character that the game at Chaos needed.

Or maybe it was that, given a choice, Christine would play a thief every time, too.

He smiled to himself. Then he sat up and used her back door to access Buckler Security's network.

Jason Cutter lived on the third floor of an aging apartment building. Reese could tell just by the number of units in the building that the space would be small. He still wasn't quite prepared for the cramped living space. He'd seen motor homes that had more room.

Cutter was, either naturally or of necessity, very neat. To the right of the door was a tiny kitchen area. There was a drain mat beside the sink. On it was a coffee mug, a cereal bowl, and two spoons, all clean. Everything else was put away.

Straight ahead was a living area. There were built-in shelves on one wall all the way to the ceiling. Cutter had some big paperback books, the Idiot's Guide types, on computer security, networking, programming, and Windows. Another shelf held cans of soup and boxes of noodles and other non-perishables. Reese glanced again toward the kitchen; there were only three cupboards. On the shelves nearest the bedroom were folded clothes, nearly sorted: Pants, shirts, towels. In between, there were three whole shelves of video and computer games and gear. On the opposite wall was a huge flat screen television, with three different game systems on a tiny table beneath it.

On the top shelf, there was a neat stack of ten small boxes. John stood on the heavily-used couch to reach them. They were knives, the QVC variety, various lengths and styles, fancy-looking but cheaply made. Nine of the boxes still held their knives. The tenth was empty. The label said that it held a "Cascadia Brand Bush Series with Black Micarta Handle - Plain Edge and Hand-Tooled Sheath". Further reading told him that the knife had a seven-inch blade and was "high-carbon style". Like the others, in Reese's view, it was likely complete crap as a weapon.

Besides the couch there was one other cushioned chair, and a wooden chair at a table that served as a desk. There was a docking station and a flat screen monitor, but no computer.

Reese moved on to the bedroom. It was big enough for a queen-sized bed, but that left no space room for a dresser. It was the only room with a window. He looked out past the edge of the plain white roller shade. There was a tree directly outside the window, with big bare branches, and beyond that was the street. He squeezed around the bed to open the closet. Extra blankets on the top shelf. Uniforms on the bar. Shoes underneath. Winter gear stuffed to the side. There was a door to the tiny bathroom. John opened the medicine cabinet, but there was nothing remarkable there. Beside the bathroom there was a tiny utility room which held the smallest furnace Reese had ever seen outside of a camper trailed and an equally small water heater.

He sighed and tapped his earpiece. "Finch?"

"I'm here, Mr. Reese."

"Cutter lives in a shoe box. I'm not seeing anything suggestive. He seems to spend most of his money on video games."

"Does he have a computer?"

"Laptop, from the look of it, and it's not here."

Finch sighed audibly. "I've looked at his work history. There's no record of any conflict with his co-workers, no disciplinary action. He seems to be a perfectly unremarkable young man."

"Well, somebody thinks he'd remarkable enough to kill," Reese mused. He looked up. Above the bedroom door there was a combination smoke and carbon monoxide detector. The cover wasn't latched; he pushed it up and could see that the battery had been removed; probably it had run low and begun to beep. John stuck a small camera right above it. The detector masked it nicely.

He moved back to the living room and set two more cameras. "Cameras up, Finch."

"Visual and audio up on all three."

Reese went back to the table-desk and shuffled through the pile of papers next to the monitor. Bills and junk mail.

"It's unlikely that he has access to anything through his job that would provoke any this danger," Finch said, half to himself. "Equally unlikely that he's witnessed anything of note, although that remains a possibility."

"No girlfriend?" Reese asked. He leaned down and found a small drawer under the edge of the table. He pulled, but nothing happened. There was a little metal tab. He pushed it and the piece swung open: it wasn't a drawer, but a little door. Inside, stored under the table, were the two leafs that would make the table too big for the space.

"No girlfriend," Finch answered morosely. "No boyfriend, either, as far as I can tell."

John moved to close the little door and his finger bumped something. He pulled the leaf out a bit. On top of it was a very small notebook, three by five inches, black leather and very well worn. "But he does have the proverbial little black book," Reese said happily.

"Really? How very old-fashioned of him."

John grunted. He opened the notebook to the first page. There were several lines of neat, precise printing.

Krystal Krystal2179 y N2NY - PW 1

Moved from Minneapolis Jan 4, 2009

Mugged on subway Jan 7

Molested by boss Feb 6

Apt. robbed Feb 19

Fired from job Mar 1

Raped on subway Mar 2

"Finch …" John breathed. "This is … "

"What is it, Mr. Reese?"

Reese pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of the page. He hit send, then turned the page. A woman named Mina was the subject of the next entry, and she had a similar litany of difficulties. The third page was about D'Nah.

"Mr. Reese … " Finch said. From his tone, John knew he was looking at the photo.

"I'm sending more," Reese answered grimly. He snapped pictures of each page of the book and forwarded them.

There were sixteen full entries. On the final page, there was only a partial entry:

Martha K. LonelyMK g FFPO PW 7

"Is he a … serial killer?" Finch asked. His voice was quiet with horror.

"I don't know." Reese flipped through the rest of the book, but it was empty. He put it back and closed the little door. Then he looked around the apartment again. "I'm going to take a closer look. Cutter's still at work?"

There was a brief pause. "Yes. They've changed assignments. He's doing a walk-through of the building."

"Good. See what you can find out about Martha K. If he is a killer, she's next on his list."

"Right away, Mr. Reese."

Grimly, Reese went to the bedroom and began to search it thoroughly.

A thorough search of the apartment turned up nothing more. Reese conferred with Finch, then went home and slept for a few hours. Early in the morning, he took a cab to the office tower and waited for Cutter to get off work.

The young man came out the back door, at the loading dock. He grumbled to his co-workers, then walked toward the subway station. He had headphones on. He kept his hands in his jacket pocket. He didn't look around.

Jason Cutter did not behave like a man who thought someone might be planning to kill him. Which made it more likely he was planning to kill someone else.

There was a small deli on the corner before the subway stop. It was quite crowded with commuters trying to grab breakfast before they went in to work. A single line of patrons formed from the front door the counter in the back, past a case of meats and cheese that would be sold later in the day. Those waiting stayed to the right; once they had their bags of breakfast, the worked came out to the left. There was a set and limited menu, with all the items prepared in large quantities by three men busy at a grill. It was jammed, but orderly and very efficient.

Cutter got in line, but he was obviously not patient. He grumbled under his breath, shifted from foot to foot, crowded the man in front of him. His muttering grew louder when the person at the front of the line didn't have exact cash ready. He did a lot of sighing.

Reese stayed outside the deli and kept an eye on him through the open door. Five minutes of watching the young man made him long to sucker-punch him.

Eventually Cutter arrived at the front of the line He ordered too loudly; the older woman behind the counter flinched at his tone, but she looked resigned, like he barked at her every morning. She gave him his breakfast sandwich in a bag, smiled and thanked him. Cutter muttered something that didn't sound like "thank you" from where Reese stood. Then he shoved his way rudely back to the street.

John followed him into the subway. Cutter walked to the far end of the platform. It wasn't very crowd at this hour; all the traffic was incoming, not outbound. Reese waited idly a dozen yards away. They got on the same car. Cutter sat at the front, put his feet against the front of the car, slouched down and ate his breakfast.

Jason Cutter chewed with his mouth open. Reese wasn't surprised.

He tapped his earpiece. "Finch?"

"Good morning, Mr. Reese."

"Did you get any sleep?"

There was a brief pause. "I haven't had any luck finding anything about Martha K. I've sent an e-mail to one of our friends at the police department. Perhaps they'll be able to shed some light."

"If someone's after Cutter, he doesn't know about it."

Finch sighed.

"I'll follow him home," John continued, "and then I'll come in."

"Very well."

No one tried to kill Jason Cutter on his ride home, despite his bad manners. At his stop, Cutter lurched to the door. A young black woman with a toddler in her arms was trying to board. Cutter and the woman both stepped to the same side to get out of each other's way, then back the other way. "Get the hell out of my way, you cow!" Cutter yelled. He darted around the woman, bumping her, and strode off.

Reese left the subway car by the back door. "I don't like this guy, Finch."

"That doesn't mean he's a killer, Mr. Reese."

"No. It just means he's a jerk."

"He wouldn't be our first thoroughly unlikeable victim, I'm afraid."

"No, he wouldn't."

Reese growled to himself and followed the possibly-endangered jerk home.

Lionel Fusco was a little late getting to his desk in the morning, but no one noticed. No one in the NYPD, anyhow. The minute his butt hit his chair, his phone rang. Fusco smirked at it. He was sure it was one of two people. Or, the thought, glancing at the empty chair across from him, it was Carter, either running late or already on a case. He picked up the phone. "Fusco."

"Good morning, Detective."

Fusco relaxed a little. It was Glasses. He didn't need to keep his verbal sparring gloves on. "Morning."

"I'm sorry to bother you so early," Finch said, "but we have an issue that is rather urgent. If you could check your e-mail at your earliest convenience, I would appreciate it."

"I haven't even logged in yet," Fusco sighed. "Give me a minute."

"Call me back when you can."

He put down the phone and logged in to his computer. While it was connecting, Carter came in. She looked frazzled. "Traffic?" he asked.

The detective shook her head. "I swear it gets worse every day."

"I hear that."

The computer came up; he opened his e-mail.

"You catch a case already?" Carter asked.

"Not an official one," Fusco said drily.

She nodded sympathetically. "I'll get you some coffee."

"Appreciate it."

There were ten new messages in his inbox. Eight were official business, routine stuff. One was from CTP – Concerned Third Party. The last was a reminder from his calendar with the subject: Lunch w/Lee.

Fusco nodded. His son's school was having some kind of "Connect with Parents" thing where the students invited their parents to have lunch with them in the school cafeteria. Normally Fusco's ex would go to that sort of thing, but Lee has specifically asked Lionel to come – and to bring Christine. Lee's friend Marissa wanted to see her, and this was the easiest way to arrange it without attracting attention. Everyone would think Christine was Lionel's girlfriend, of course, but he'd already talked to Rhonda about it and she didn't mind. It was only half an hour out of Fusco's day – plus half an hour commute each way, if he was lucky. But he wasn't complaining. It was important.

Fusco nodded to himself and opened the second e-mail.

When the Number was safe behind his own locked door, John made his way back to the library. He stopped for coffee and tea, and also for breakfast sandwiches. He hadn't had much sleep and Finch had been up all night; donuts weren't going to cut it.

The wind had shifted and there was a bite in the air as the sun came up. Winter hadn't given up the city quite yet; the forecast called for temperatures in the twenties for the rest of the week. Reese shivered on his way from the car in just his suit, but he knew he had an overcoat at the library.

The monitors on the desk showed the feeds from the cameras in Cutter's apartment. The young man was visible on the center screen. He was sitting on his couch, playing video games.

When John had left the night before, there were only a few items on the cracked board. Now the main board and both of the side boards were covered. Finch was standing, frowning at them. "Good morning, Mr. Reese."

"Finch." John set the breakfast down and leaned to greet Bear. "You've been busy."

"Generating far more questions than answers, I'm afraid." Finch walked back to the desk and picked up a wrapped sandwich. "Thank you."

"Anything from the black book?"

"Not yet. None of the user names listed actually exist. I've sent Detective Fusco a list of the crimes and dates noted. Hopefully we'll be able to identify some of these women. That would at least give us a place to start." He paused to chew, then gestured to the right, where prints of each page hung. "We may be on the wrong track, thinking that he may have harmed these women. This one, Cricket?" He gestured. "Her misfortunes don't seem to involve any criminal activities. She was pregnant, gave birth prematurely, and her twins died. It's tragic, certainly, but I don't see where Mr. Cutter might have been involved."

"Unless he was the father of the babies."

"True." Finch sighed. "Several of the other women were the same. They have tragic stories, but no criminal element involved."

Reese chewed his own breakfast thoughtfully. "Maybe he's defending them."

"Hmmm?"

"If he's stalking these women, maybe it's not to harm them, but to protect them. To help them somehow."

"That's possible, I suppose. And that might give one of the perpetrators cause to come after him." Finch shook his head. "The only thing I learned from my overnight surveillance of Mr. Cutter at work is that he's not very diligent."

"Oh?"

"The three guards take one-hour shifts at each post – the front desk, the loading dock door, and the walk-through. At all three posts, Mr. Cutter spends most of his time on his computer."

"Even the walk-around?"

"They have access to all the offices. He picks one, makes himself comfortable, and sits on his backside for the rest of his hour. Also he steals the tenant's coffee."

Reese nodded. "I know people who might consider that a grievous offense." He looked at the rest of the board. In the center, there were pictures of Cutter's co-workers and various papers, back statements, his lease and such. On the left there were nine more pictures. "Who are these people?"

"Cleaning crew. They come in to the building at eight p.m. and leave at midnight. There are only four on each the job at a time, but it seemed sensible to run all of them. Some misdemeanors, traffic issues, but nothing suggestive."

"What about tenants in the building?"

Finch made a face. "One thousand forty-seven suspects, as of the last building management census. I am hoping that circumstances will narrow the field." He gestured to another set of papers. "There have been a handful of small thefts in the building over the past few months."

"Beyond the coffee?"

"Petty cash funds, small office equipment, valuables from desks. Food from refrigerators. The most expensive items are several I-Pads that one company had purchased as client gifts. The thefts have been reported to Buckler and building management, but none have warranted a police report thus far." Finch shook his head. "That may not be related at all. You didn't find anything in his apartment?"

"He probably carries a cheap knife," Reese reported. "Standard behavior for the city."

Finch's phone rang and he stabbed at it. "Detective?"

"This list you sent me?" Fusco said. "It's a no-go."

"What?"

"A rape on the subway, March 2 of '09? There's no record of it. Or the day before or the day after. I'm not saying it didn't happen. A whole lot of rapes don't get reported. But there's no record. And not of any of these other crimes, either."

"Not a single one?" Reese demanded.

"That's what I said."

Finch's mouth drew into a tight circle of displeasure. "Thank you, Detective." He clicked the phone off.

They turned together to the board. Those pages of crimes that had never been reported. That maybe had never happened at all.

"Perhaps he's a … novelist," Finch finally ventured, with great uncertainty. "Or a screen writer?"

"Or maybe these things didn't happen in New York," Reese countered, with just as little conviction.

"One thing is certain," Harold finally pronounced. "We need to get our hands on Mr. Cutter's laptop."

Fusco stopped by Chaos just before eleven. Christine brought him a cup of coffee, and a bigger one for herself.

"You look like hell," the detective said. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Christine promised. She buckled her seat belt, then took a long sip of her coffee. "I just stayed up way too late last night."

"You weren't with some hockey player, were you?" Because, Fusco thought, that was likely to get his ass kicked by Mr. Grumpy, even though he'd had nothing to do with it.

She shook her head. "No. I was playing D&D with Will and Julie and the gang. It was a lot of fun. But we stayed up way too late."

"Will Ingram?"

"Yeah. You met him at the hospital."

"Yeah. Nice kid."

"He's my age, Lionel."

"Yeah, and you're a nice kid, too."

She snorted, but didn't answer.

Fusco turned the car onto the main street. Traffic was still a mess; he was glad they'd left the café on time. "What's his girlfriend like?"

"Julie? She's good people. Very … practical. Pragmatic. Will needs that."

"He kind of a space case?"

"He's kind of a dreamer." Christine swigged more coffee. "He's an optimist and he sees the best in people. Julie's a little more world-wise."

"Doesn't hurt that she's rich as hell, too."

"No. But I don't think either of them cares about money very much."

Fusco made a face. "It's easy not to care about money when you don't have to worry about where your rent's coming from next month."

"You're not wrong there," Christine agreed.

He drove in silence for a while. When he looked over, the woman's eyes were closed. "You sure you're okay with this?" he asked quietly. "Seeing Marisa and all?" The little girl, one of Lee's classmates, had been who Christine was protecting when she got shot. "Cause if it's too much …"

"No, it's fine," she assured him. She opened her eyes. "I'm looking forward to it, actually. And this is good. It gives us an excuse without any bullshit."

The detective considered, then nodded. "Okay. But if you need to get out of there, just let me know. Lee will understand, I promise."

"I'm okay, Lionel." She drained her coffee cup. Then she reached for his. "Or, I will be, when I get caffeinated enough."

Fusco shook his head and swerved around yet another idiot driver.

Reese tapped his earpiece. "Finch? What's Cutter doing?"

"Still sitting on his couch," the genius replied glumly. "There's every chance he won't go out until he leaves for work tonight."

John looked up and down the street in front of the apartment building. "Five bucks says he walks down to the pizza place on the corner before he racks out."

"Possible," Finch allowed. "I'll say he stops at the pizza place on his way to work. It looks like he's about to fall asleep right where he is."

"I hope not." Reese shoved his hands in his pockets. The temperature was dropping like a rock. If he was going to be watching the building for ten hours or more, he needed to find somewhere warmer and less conspicuous than the street corner. The pizza place might not be a bad idea, at least for the first hour.

If Cutter didn't leave his apartment until he went to work, he'd have his laptop with him. Reese knew the lay-out; he was tempted to risk breaking in again while the man was sleeping. If he slept in his bed and not on the love seat in front of his big screen TV.

"Mr. Reese …" Finch said slowly.

"What is it?"

"I think … there's something wrong with Mr. Cutter."

"Wrong how?"

"He keeps shaking his head and rubbing his forehead. And swearing at his video game."

"Well, he worked all night and he's been playing for four hours. He probably has a headache."

"Yes, but … his speech is slurred."

Reese straightened. "Show me."

The view came up on his phone. He studied it and listened in. Cutter had been playing with great animation and some commentary all morning. But now, as Finch had said, his speech was slurred. He didn't seem to be able to focus or to shoot accurately. He shook his head repeatedly, as if he was dizzy or confused, but he also rubbed his forehead every time he did so.

He couldn't seem to remember that shaking his head made it hurt.

"You're right, Finch. There's something wrong."

"He hasn't been drinking alcohol. Could that sports drink have been drugged?"

Reese thought back. "No. It was sealed in his refrigerator. Has he eaten anything?"

"No, not since he's been home."

On the tiny screen, he saw their Number pitch forward and vomited on the floor.

Reese was already moving. "Finch, call an ambulance." He sprinted across the street, dodging cars, and ran into the building. He skipped the elevators and ran up the fire stairs.

"They're on their way," Finch reported before he reached the fourth floor.

John reached Cutter's door. He paused long enough to pick the lock only because he knew it would be quick, then threw the door open. Cutter was leaning back on the couch. His eyes were open but unfocused. Vomit trickled down his chin. He was panting for air.

Reese grabbed the young man by his shirt and hauled him bodily to the hallway. He dropped him onto the floor. Then he pounded on the nearest neighbor's door. Before they could answer, he hurried out of sight down the hall.

"Mr. Reese, what's happening?" Finch worried in his ear.

John turned a corner and peered back. Cutter remained on the floor and didn't try to go back into his own apartment. The neighbor, an elderly man and his wife, came out and began to fuss over him. The woman went back inside to call for help.

"Carbon monoxide," Reese reported. He shook his head. "He has a detector in his bedroom, but the battery's out of it."

"Deliberately?" Finch asked.

"Probably. It could be an accident."

"The Machine doesn't warn us about accidents."

"No, it doesn't."

Reese stayed where he was until the paramedics arrived. Police followed them, and after a quick look around his apartment they called the fire department. They took Cutter out on a stretcher, but John could hear that he was already more alert by then.

The last thing he heard Cutter say was, "Somebody bring my backpack."

The paramedic snagged it. The laptop was, of course, still inside.

Grumbling, Reese followed them down, then went back across the street.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch prompted.

"We got to him in time," Reese reported. "He'll be okay. Have a hell of a headache for a while, though."

"Video games really are dangerous to your health."

"Could be." Reese moved into the crowd that had gathered to watch the firemen. They were running a ladder up to the window of Cutter's apartment. Only one firefighter went up, and he came down very shortly. He had an armful of twigs, leaves, and other nesting material. "Huh."

"Something interesting?"

"Looks like a squirrel took up residence in the vent for his furnace," Reese said. "It might be accidental."

"The Machine …"

"I know," Reese said. "So we know it's not an accident. What we don't know is who's been squirreling things away in Mr. Cutter's vent."

"Very amusing, Mr. Reese. I'll see if I can access any surveillance cameras."

"Guess I'll take a drive to the hospital."

"We've done entirely too much of that lately," Finch lamented.

"I agree, Finch."