Reese stood at the edge of the window in the half-renovated apartment and glanced out. Across the courtyard, one floor down and one window over, a group of men was gathered around a table, playing poker. Will Ingram was among them. They had the window open, and the sounds and smoke of the gathering drifted through the night.

He shifted his gaze without moving. At the back of building, at right angles to where he stood, Julie Essex watched from another empty apartment. She was sitting on the floor, probably, with just her head over the window sill, and she was motionless. It had taken him a while to locate her.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch said quietly in his ear.

"I'm still here, Finch," he answered.

"What's she doing?"

"Just watching." Reese shifted a little, rested his hip on the windowsill. He looked back toward the young doctor. The man across the table from him raked in a bit pot with both hands. "Ingram's not very good at this."

"I know." The keyboard clicked quietly, reassuringly, in the background.

"Ah, Will," Julie murmured to herself, "can't you just throw money at the stock market like the rest of the rich boys?"

Reese nodded to himself. Julie hadn't moved in the hour he'd been watching her, but she did talk to herself occasionally. She had no idea, of course, that both he and Finch were listening to her musings. Sometimes the invasion of someone's privacy bothered him. Tonight, it might give them some valuable insight.

The game went on. There had been beer from the start, but now someone brought out a bottle of bourbon. All the players had a shot.

"Bourbon has never once made your game any better, Will," Julie whispered.

He couldn't hear her, of course, but Ingram waved off a second shot and went back to drinking his beer.

Reese glanced through his camera lens at the game. "He's drawing to an inside straight," he reported to Finch. "Good thing he's got a trust fund."

Finch grunted. "He'll make it."

"Ten bucks says he doesn't."

"You're on."

Reese raised his lens again – just in time to see Ingram fill the straight. "How did you do that, Finch?"

The genius chuckled, but did not answer.

The boy bid the pot up effectively and won back everything he'd earlier.

"They're cheating," Reese said. "Letting him win a few so he'll bet bigger."

"Very possibly," Finch said. "I know I would."

"It's good to know that about you, Finch."

"You still owe me ten dollars."

Reese grinned. He looked back to the girl's window. She wasn't there.

Before he could even curse, he heard the single footstep behind him. "Don't move," Julie said quietly.

Reese started to turn around. From her voice, he knew she was far enough away that he'd need a step, maybe two …

"Don't," she snapped.

He froze, then raised his hands slowly. "On your head," she said. "Lock your fingers." When his hands were up, she moved closer. Reese could tell by her footsteps that she was on her toes. She was anxious, she was almost certainly armed, and she was not comfortable with the gun in her hand. The situation had the potential to end very badly for one or both of them.

Cold steel on his wrist. She pulled his hand down with one hand, then the other. Took the camera lens. "Why do you have handcuffs?" he asked in a conversational tone.

"I'm a very kinky girl," she answered briskly. She got his hands cuffed behind him, but she didn't drop off her toes. She was cautious.

"The kind I won't take home to mother?"

One of her hands roamed over him from behind. The other, Reese was sure, still held her weapon. He wasn't sure where she's gotten a gun, or the cuffs, but her handler had brought her a second bag of gear at the airport. She took his gun, his wallet, his phone. The knife off his ankle. And his own handcuffs. "Why do you have them?"

"Pretty much the same."

Julie grasped the chain that linked his hands and tugged him gently backward. He complied, and she used his cuffs to chain him to the radiator. There was a moment of silence. He guessed she was looking through the wallet. "John Rooney, huh?" Julie said. She finally moved around in front of him, looked him over. "You're not who I thought you were."

"Sorry. You can unchain me now. No hard feelings."

"Yeah. No." She studied him for another moment. Then she said, "Ohhhh."

"Someone's been reading their BOLOs," Reese said, for Finch's benefit.

"I'm on my way," Finch answered briskly.

"Just looking at the pretty pictures, actually," she answered. "But I'm going to read them now, if you'll excuse me a moment." She leaned her hip on the edge of the table where she'd dropped his weapons and brought her phone out.

"Easily the most polite person that's ever taken you captive," Finch observed.

Reese grunted. She was nervous, chatty. Or else she was a born-and-trained diplomat and the chatter was the tool she used to assess the situation. Either way, he was willing to talk. It would give Finch time to reach him.

Although exactly what Finch would do when he got there was unclear.

Julie looked up at him. "Not Rooney. You're the famous John Reese." She glanced past him to check on Ingram. Then she went back to surfing on her phone. Reese waited quietly.

Finally she put the phone down. "Why does Mark Snow want you dead?"

Reese cocked his head. "It doesn't say 'dead or alive'?"

"It does, but I know he doesn't mean it."

"You know Mark?" John asked, surprised.

She hesitated. "Yeah."

The quietness of her answer told him something new. "Biblically?" he guessed.

"Yeah."

"You seem so much smarter than that."

"Thank you. I am so much smarter than that. Now. At the time I was young and rich and spoiled and he was about twenty different flavors of unsuitable. He was irresistible."

Reese scowled; of the many words he might have used to describe Snow, 'irresistible' was about the last. "I apologize," he said sincerely.

"For what?"

"For Mark. For the Agency. For my entire gender."

Julie actually smiled. "Thank you. But it wasn't all bad. The sex was fantastic. The head games were a little … overwhelming."

"That's the point of seducing co-eds," Reese told her. "They're easily overwhelmed. And they're too young to know how good the sex is. Or isn't."

"Mmmm. Pretty sure I was old enough to know."

"And then you followed him into the trade."

"No. That was another guy. Also unsuitable, but for entirely different reasons." She shrugged. "You're not answering the question. Why does he want you dead?"

"Because I left the Agency. I'm a loose end. And because he's Mark."

Evidently she knew Snow well enough to know that answer was true. "I'm sorry," she said, "that looks really uncomfortable. Let me get you a chair." She stood and pulled a chair over to him, slid it sideways so he could sit down. He sat; it took the strain off his elbows, and it made him somewhat less intimidating. Despite the hardware, the girl was suitably wary of him. "Better?" she asked.

"Yes. Thank you."

Julie retreated to the table again. "Why are you following my boy?"

"Her boy?" Finch sputtered in his ear. "A better question would be …"

"A better question would be," Reese said over him, "why are you following him?"

"It's considered rude to answer a question with a question, you know."

"And chaining someone you just met to a radiator isn't rude? Why are you following him?"

"Because he's still in danger," Julie answered. "From people like you, apparently. And this guy." She picked up her phone out and held it up in front of him. "Who's this guy?"

It was the blurry picture from the car. "I don't know."

"Why's he following Ingram?"

"I don't know."

"What's Mark Snow's phone number?"

Reese smirked. "It's probably on the BOLO. But you're not going to turn me over to him."

"Why not?"

"Because you know he'll kill me. And you're not that kind of girl."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." Reese nodded his head toward the phone. "You've seen that guy a couple times. You've seen me once, tonight. How does that add up to Ingram being in danger?"

"I saw you outside his hotel, too. In the park." Julie shrugged. "Lizard brain says he's in trouble."

"And you trust your lizard brain."

"It caught you, didn't it?" She didn't wait for an answer. "One more time. Why are you following him?"

Reese shifted his shoulders, got the cuffs to settle a little lower on his wrists. "I'm not following him. I'm following you."

She thought about this. "Why?"

"Your life's in danger."

"That's right there in the job description."

"It might be work-related," Reese agreed. "It might not be. But someone is planning to kill you."

"How do you know that?"
"How did you know Will Ingram was in danger?"

She tsk'ed at him. "Rude. Again. We knew Ingram was in danger the minute his father's will was read." She looked out the window, watched the young man again. "Lovely man, Dr. Ingram. Smart, funny, good-hearted. Has all the self-preservation instincts of a gypsy moth at a lantern festival."

"That's very true," Finch agreed in Reese's ear.

"Just filled his second inside straight of the night and doesn't realize the game is rigged." She shook her head. "Why do you think I'm in danger?" she asked again.

Reese shrugged. "Lizard brain?"

"Bullshit."

"I can't tell you."

She leaned back and studied him again. "I have, hmmm, two guns, two knives, a hammer," she looked behind the table, picked up a power tool, "whatever this is, an extension core, and an assortment of two-by-fours. Are you sure you don't want to reconsider that answer?"

"It's a Skilsaw," Reese told her.

"Thank you. And?"

"And you're not that kind of girl." Behind him, someone at the poker table said something about one last hand. He pushed his luck. "What does the lizard brain tell you about me?"

"That you're dangerous as hell," Julie answered immediately. "But also, that if Mark Snow wants you dead, I probably want you alive." She sighed and looked at her phone again. "Of all these people that have wants and warrants out for you, which ones won't kill you on sight?"

Reese considered. "NYPD. FBI. Maybe a couple others. But whoever you give me to, Snow will come and claim me."

He knew she could hear the poker game ending, too. "Then what the hell am I going to do with you?"

"You could let me go," Reese suggested.

"I'm very sure I don't want you behind me."

"I could go in front of you. Help you protect your boy."

"If Mark Snow can't catch or control you, I'm damn sure I can't."

"And yet," Reese said slowly, "you have me handcuffed to a radiator."

She raised one eyebrow at him. "You're telling me you let me catch you."

"I'm telling you I wasn't willing to shoot you to stop you. That's got to be good for something."

"The whole Agency condescending thing. Does it just never wear off?"

Will Ingram managed to lose ever dime he'd brought with him in the last hand.

Reese grinned at her crookedly. "Your boy's leaving, Julie. What's your play?"

"I should probably just shoot you. It'd be quick. Way more merciful than Mark will be."

"Mr. Reese …" Finch worried in his ear. "I'm still several minutes away."

Reese shook his head. "You probably should. But you won't."

"Because I'm not that kind of girl, I know." She looked over his shoulder and nodded thoughtfully. "You have a friend in town? Someone you trust with your life?"

"I do." Reese craned his neck to see the poker table. The men were on their feet, gathering their chips, throwing away the empty beer bottles.

"Can you call him or her with your hands behind your back?"

"Yes."

She dropped the handcuff keys onto the table, picked up his phone and moved to stand in front of him. Even then, Reese could see that she was considering her options. She kept her gun down to her side, but for the first time he thought that she might actually shoot him. It wasn't her nature; he was right about that. But Will Ingram was there, not thirty feet away, and in her view he was vulnerable. People could do very uncharacteristic things of defense of the ones they loved.

The difference between love and counter-transference was, at the moment, completely insignificant to her.

"You keep saying I'm not that kind of girl," Julie said quietly, "and you're right. I'm not. But people can change." Her voice remained soft, almost kind. "If you lay a hand on Will Ingram, you and I are going to find out exactly what kind of girl I can be. Am I clear?"

Reese didn't generally react well to threats, but this one didn't particularly anger him. It helped that she hadn't raised the gun, or her voice. She probably couldn't hurt him much and she knew it. But she would do whatever she could, and he would have to kill her to stop her. She wasn't being malicious. She was simply servicing notice that she would kill – or die – to protect Will Ingram.

He could respect that.

"Clear," he answered, without sarcasm.

Julie leaned past him and put his cell phone in his hand. She looked out the window again. "Damn it, Will, do not get in that car with that man." She put her hand on Reese's shoulder briefly. "Good luck," she said with sincerity. Then she hurried out of the room.

When her footsteps had faded to silence, Reese called, "Finch?"

"Two minutes. Or less."

"East building, third floor, apartment 306. Keep tracking the girl. I'll need to catch up with her."

"Are you sure, Mr. Reese?" Finch's voice had the faintest lilt to it; he was teasing, but very gently. "She seems more than capable of taking care of herself."

"She does, doesn't she?" Reese agreed grudgingly. "Maybe we should be promoting this romance. God knows Ingram needs someone to look out for him."

There was a long pause. "Finch?" Reese prompted. "I was kidding."

"I know," Finch said from the doorway. He limped across to the table, got the keys, and moved to unlock the handcuffs. "But truth is often contained in jest." He pulled the cuffs away and straightened. "He could do worse."

Reese stood up, rubbed his wrists lightly, and re-armed himself. "Let's try not to complicate things, Finch. We don't know who's after her yet."

"True." Finch started back toward the door.

"Still," Reese mused as he followed him out, "I've always been partial to a girl with her own handcuffs."

1999

"You have to talk to him, Uncle Harold. You can make him understand how important this is. I mean, this is my whole life here. This is a huge deal."

Harold regarded the young man calmly. "I don't think it's quite that crucial, Will."

"Every other boy in my class has his own car."

"Every other boy in your class didn't total a car while he still had his learner's permit," Harold pointed out.

"It wasn't my fault. The road was icy."

"And you were driving too fast."

Will looked exasperated. "Whose side are you on, Uncle Harold?"

Harold smiled gently. "What's her name, Will?"

"This isn't about a girl!" the teenager sputtered. "God. You always think you know everything. And what if I told you it was a boy, anyhow? What would you say then?"

"The same thing I'd say about a girl," Harold answered mildly, "only with different pronouns. If he or she is basing his or her decision about dating you on what kind of car you own, he or she is not worth your time."

Will stared at him. Finally, his expression softened. "Susie," he admitted. "Her name's Susie."

"Ahh."

"You really don't care, do you? I mean, if I'd said Sam instead, it wouldn't matter to you."

"Not at all."

"My dad's head would explode."

"Yes." Harold nodded seriously. "And then he would get over it. He loves you, Will." The young man made a face. "And he won't buy you a car because he doesn't want you to die behind the wheel of a car, particularly a car that he bought for you."

"I'd be really careful, Uncle Harold. I know I totaled the Lincoln, but I'm older now. More experienced. I swear …"

"I'll talk to him," Harold finally relented. "But give me some time. And in the meantime, take this." He gave the teen a business card.

"A car service?" Will protested. "I don't want a car service, I want my own car."

"Use the service for now. My treat."

"Uncle Harold …"

"Consider the advantages, Will."

"There are no advantages ..."

"You don't have to buy gas. You don't have to worry about parking. And there are so many things you can do in a car with a young lady when you don't have to keep your eyes on the road."

Will stared at him with his mouth open. Then he laughed. "Uncle Harold …"

"I was your age once, Will."

"Were you really?"

"No," Harold admitted, "I was never seventeen. But that's not the point. Use the car service." He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a narrow strip of aluminum packets. "And use these."

The teenager blushed until his face was solid red. "Uncle Harold …" he started.

"Please," Harold insisted, unperturbed. "Your father would kill both of us."

Will looked away, but he reached out and took the condoms. "Yeah. He would." He tucked the strip into his jacket. "You'll talk to him? About the car?"

"I'll see what I can do," Harold promised. "But it would help if you stayed out of trouble while I try to convince him."

"I'll try."

"Try hard." Harold gave the young man a brief hug. "Go on. Go call your girl."

As soon as Will was gone, Harold reached for his phone. "Nathan, you need to buy your son a car."

Ingram sounded exasperated. "He came to you?"

"Dad said no. Of course he came to me."

"Harold …"

"He wanted to know if I knew of a good car service."

"He … what?"

"He seems to think that if he doesn't have to keep his hands on the wheel, his dates with Susie can be a lot more interesting."

"Susie," Ingram snorted. "Is that her name?"

"I told him to buy condoms," Harold contributed.

There was a moment of silence. "Damn it, Harold, whose side are you on?"

Harold laughed out loud. "Just trying to help, Nathan."

"Don't help me, Harold. Please. Don't help me."

2012

Finch made his way back to the library. A quick check told him that his facial recognition program still had not identified the man that Julie Essex had taken a picture of. It probably never would; despite all the filtering he could do, the computer simply didn't have enough data points to work with.

He turned his attention to his second search. At a 100% match, the computer search had turned up Julie Essex herself, in various photos, all of which Finch had already found elsewhere. Nothing was more than a year or two old, and nothing led him to her history prior to her marriage. The broken nose, he knew, was impeding the search. If there were photos of her out in the ether, they were from before the break and the computer wasn't recognizing her as the same person, even after adjusting for age.

At an 80% match he turned up far too many close matches. He moved the percentage up slowly, narrowing the field with every search. It ran much faster, of course, once he'd narrowed the field down from eight million.

He worked through percentage matches, and then he worked through fractions of percentages. The number of potential matches came down nicely. And then it stuck stubbornly at 93 and refused to drop any more, until he made the percentage so high that he was back to just their girl again.

Finch scowled at the data. It was wrong, somehow. An anomaly. No one had that many close relatives, that strong a genotype. There shouldn't have been more than about two dozen. Something was wrong with the program. But it was his program, and of course there was nothing wrong with it.

He stood up and walked to the board. Glanced over the picture of Julie Essex, the glowing letters her previous clients had sent to her supervisors. He wondered if Will would ever be un-angry enough to write such a letter. Maybe he should write one himself, Harold thought. But he immediately shied away from any correspondence with the government – from any of his identities – that wasn't absolutely necessary. A year from now, he'd suggest it to Will.

If the girl was still alive.

He was missing something. Something important, and he was beginning to think something obvious.

Finch shook his head and went back to his computer.

Will Ingram's gambling buddies dropped him off at his hotel without incident. Reese watched him go in; the young man seemed remarkably cheerful, for someone who'd just lost several thousand dollars. Well, it wasn't like he'd miss any meals because of it. As long as Will didn't take it personally, John could think of worse vices.

Reese didn't really mind having to be rescued by Finch. That had happened often enough that it was becoming routine, and though he wasn't keeping score, he'd rescued Finch a lot more often. But having a State Department agent get the drop on him – that stung a little. She was right, in a way; there was a certain condescending viewpoint built into every CIA agent, and he hadn't shed his as much as he'd thought he had. He didn't have any particular grudge against her. But he did have a little ego bruise that needed soothing.

So when Ingram's cheating gambling pals stopped at a light right in front of him, in a classic sky-blue GTO with straight pipes, top down and the radio blaring, he couldn't help himself and he didn't try. He stepped off the curb and pointed his gun at the passenger's head.

The man said, "What the f—"

"Shut up," Reese said, "and give me all your money."

"What?"

"Money. Now. Both of you."

"Screw you, man," the drive said.

"You can drive away," Reese said calmly, "but I guarantee you'll be wearing your friend's brains if you do."

"Give him the money!" the passenger shrieked.

"Listen to your friend," Reese advised.

There was some grumbling, but the driver finally reached into his pocket and handed over a stack of bills.

"Now you," Reese said to the passenger.

"I … I … don't have any."

"You have half. It won't do you any good with a hole in your head."

The man swore, but he gave up the money.

"Thank you, gentlemen." Reese stepped back from the car and put the money in his jacket.

The car squealed through the light, very narrowly avoiding an oncoming car, and vanished.

Reese put his gun away, strolled back toward the hotels, and touched his earwig.

"Where are you, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked.

"Back in the park," Reese answered. "Ingram's back at his hotel."

"And Miss Essex followed him, I presume."

"Yes." Reese sounded puzzled. "But she's going into the lobby."

"Of his hotel? Why?" Finch wondered.

"I don't know. She didn't make any effort to catch up to Ingram." They both listened through her cell phone while the woman checked in. She requested, and got, a particular room number– the room next to Will's. "She wants to keep a closer watch on him," Reese mused.

"Isn't that dangerous?" Finch replied. "If she's right next door, he's very likely to see her."

"Unless it's not for her."

While he waited, Finch opened the list of the 93 close matches and sorted them alphabetically.

After a moment his partner's voice returned. "She's coming back out, Finch."

"Keep your distance, Mr. Reese. I don't imagine she'll be pleased to see you a second time tonight."

"Probably not. But at least I could give her handcuffs back."

The young woman made a phone call. Finch put a trace on the number the instant she finished dialing. "She's calling a … motorcycle repair shop," he told Reese, puzzled

A gravel-voice man answered on the sixth ring. "Yeah?"

"Hey, Vince. Julie Essex. I'm sorry to wake you."

"No problem. How you been?"

"I'm okay. You still got guys up for a little freelance work?"

"Sure. How many you need?"

"Two at a time. Handguns. Closed tail, twenty-four seven. Probably just for the next day or two."

"Not a problem. Starting when?"

"As soon as you can get here."

"Where's here?"

"Central Park, across from the Mandarin."

"Half an hour."

"Thanks, Vince."

As the call ended, Finch said, "Vincent Mauer. Owner of West Side Cycles. Vietnam veteran. And apparently, freelance security." He adjusted his glasses. "You've frightened the young lady, Mr. Reese."

"I tried to be friendly, Finch. If she's spooked, why's she going private? Why doesn't she just call her handler?"

"She didn't seem very happy with him earlier. And he didn't seem convinced that Will was still in danger."

"She can't tell him that she's being followed without telling him that I'm the one following her," Reese contributed. "She doesn't trust me, but she's not willing to give me up. Complicated girl, Finch."

"Yes."

"She's going to an ATM. Mandarin lobby."

"On it," Finch said. He identified the bank easily; cracking it would take a few minutes. "I tried to track the source of Mr. Kemp's prime rib. It's being sent from a local butcher who, sadly, keeps all his records on butcher paper. But it's paid for with a corporate credit card. The company is called Cambria Electric."

"Is that another State cover?" Reese asked.

"No. It's a whole-owned subsidiary of …" Finch stopped, his eyes drawn to his most active screen. "Mr. Reese, Miss Essex has just withdrawn five thousand dollars from that ATM on a credit card."

Reese whistled. "Got to be a pretty special card to pull that kind of cash."

"It is." He traced it. It was still in the name of Julie Essex. "It's linked to a very low-activity account – with a balance of over a hundred thousand dollars."

"Tough to save that much on a State Department salary."

"Next to impossible, I'd say." Finch stabbed at his keyboard, opened his sorted list of near-matches. Many of the names produced were single hits. But sorted alphabetically, it was easy to see that one surname accounted for more than a third of the images. They were all related.

Finch sat back, feeling deeply satisfied with himself. "Cambria Electric is a whole-owned subsidiary of Carson Avionics."

"Okay," Reese said. "So what?"

"Carson Avionics," Finch repeated. "Affiliated with Carson Oil. Carson Defense. Carson Aerospace." He leaned forward again and swiftly entered a new search.

"And a thousand other Carson enterprises," Reese said. "I know. Do you own them, Finch?"

"No. Well, I own stock in a number of them, but no controlling interests. Those are held by Robert Carson, Junior, mainly, and members of his immediate – and very large – family." The search return came up and he nodded at it. "The youngest of Mr. Carson's fourteen children is named Julie."

Reese got it. "Julie Carson. Julie Carson."

"I think we have learned two very important things tonight, Mr. Reese. Ms. Essex is indeed deeply devoted to Will Ingram's well-being. And it's certainly not because she's after his money."

"She's worth as much as he is."

"Potentially, I suppose. Although her father's estate will presumably be spread over a great many heirs. In any case, the young lady is certainly comfortably set for life."

"That opens a whole can of worms, Finch. Or suspects, rather."

"I know." Finch frowned at his monitor. "Although … the Machine alerted on her State Department identity."

"Which she dropped almost as soon as she got her," Reese argued. "I don't know what that means, Finch."

"Nor do I, I'm afraid. Her family name is a very closely-held secret, for obvious reasons."

"The same reasons that they want Ingram to use a false identity. With his own name, anybody looking for a fast buck looks at him as a target."

Finch nodded. "She's actually done exactly what she encouraged Will – through me, as a proxy – to do. Change your name, hide your connections, and you eliminate the restrictions that your family's wealth imposes on you. You can do whatever you want. If anyone knew her real identity, she'd be as vulnerable as he is."

"Obviously someone does know her real identity," Reese countered. "Family members might be aware of her cover identity. Her parents, anyhow. They've been in contact with her handler."

"And desperate to get her home," Finch agreed. "Although that may suggest they're trying to protect her, rather than harm her."

"No," Reese said slowly. "The Carsons have the same financial resources you do."

Finch snorted. "They wish."

"If they had credible evidence that the girl was in danger …"

"... they'd do what I'd do," Finch finished for him. "Put a very skilled team around her to protect her, regardless of her protests."

"Or throw her in a bag and take her home."

"So either they don't know about the threat, or they are the threat."

"Maybe another family member? Someone else who might have access to her identity?

"Possibly," Finch agreed. "Although …" He stopped, clearly aggravated.

"Finch?"

Instead of a reply, Reese heard a tone on his phone. He brought it out and glanced at the picture. It was a group of people, probably a hundred of them, posed on risers. It could have been a class picture, except that the people were of all different ages, from early seventies to newborns. "Family reunion?" he guessed.

"Yes. And that's not all of them."

Reese scanned the picture. There were no blondes in it; the Carsons were uniformly brown haired and brown eyed. "I don't see Julie."

"I don't think she's there. Although I'm sure she's not a natural blonde." Finch sighed. "I don't have time to sort all these people out."

"You need an expert," Reese suggested immediately. "Someone who knows all the secrets of high society families."

"Yes," Finch agreed. "Fortunately, we know one."

When her freelance security men arrived, Julie Essex showed them a picture of Ingram, of Reese, and of the blond man in the car. "This is the one you're protecting," she explained, in order. "This one is dangerous as hell, but I'm not sure he's after Ingram. If he turns up, just call the police, tell them they have a BOLO on him, and let them handle it. Don't engage him if you can avoid it. And this guy – I don't know who the hell he is, but if he shows, I'd like to talk to him. And I don't care if he's a little banged up when that happens. He's the one that's keeping me awake right now."

She gave them the cash, her phone number, and the door key for the room next to Will's.

Then she went back to her own hotel room. Reese kept watch on her through the candy box camera. Or, rather, he watched her ankles. She put her feet up on the coffee table next to the box and watched bad television for the rest of the night. She might have dozed off, sitting there on the couch, but she didn't go back to bed.

Reese felt vaguely guilty for contributing to her sleepless night. But then, he reflected, he wasn't getting any sleep, either. And he didn't have a comfortable couch to sit on.