Reese detected the change in the tone of the white noise in his ear. It was very subtle; it took him a minute to be sure over the sound of the car's engine and the nearby traffic. He tapped at his earpiece. It clicked off and on, but there was no word from Finch.

John glanced at the girl. She had her phone in her lap and her backpack between her feet. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing." He looked in the mirror. "Just making sure we're not followed."

Helen twisted to look over her seat. "Oh, God."

"There's no one back there," Reese assured her. "You doing okay?"

From the corner of his eye he saw the girl nod.

"I need you to think," he continued. "Are you absolutely sure you haven't seen that guy before?"

"I'm sure." Helen sounded both certain and a little defensive.

"Nobody following you? Maybe hanging around the neighborhood that was out of place?"

"No."

"Hang up phone calls, strange texts, anything like that."

"No."

Reese glanced over again. The girl stared fixedly out through the windshield. She was rigid, tense. Angry. That was how some people dealt with fear. John didn't blame her for being afraid. "You're okay now," he assured her. "I won't let anybody hurt you."

The girl glanced over at him. Her eyes were very wide. She was afraid, no matter how tough she tried to seem. Reese gave her his best crooked smile.

"Sorry," Helen muttered.

She went silent after that. Reese left her alone. He focused his attention on the traffic around them, but there was still no sign of a tail. The men who had tried to snatch Helen Zane seemed more muscle than skill. They hadn't expected her to put up a fight. And they sure hadn't planned on John being there.

There were days when liked his job very much, and this was one of them.

He tapped his earpiece again. There was still no response. Battery issue, he thought uneasily, or a short in a wire. He was used to Finch's equipment working flawlessly, but either of those things was possible. Or maybe there was a widespread cell phone outage unrelated to their case. That made more sense.

The thugs who'd tried to snatch Helen didn't seem like the kind who could black out cell service.

He knew his partner would be worried, but there was nothing he could do about it at the moment.

"You got her?" Gusev barked.

"No." Misha's voice sounded odd, strained. "She got away."

"She's a teenage girl. How'd she get away?"

"Some guy showed up. A cop."

"A cop. What cop?"

"Some detective."

"You should have shot him."

There was a pause. "We getting' paid enough to shoot cops, Boss?"

"You see where they went?" Gusev growled.

"No. We had to go."

The boss sighed deeply. "Get your asses back here. We need a new plan."

The further they got from the school, the more anxious the teenager became. She gave John a few directions, but little else. Finally Helen said, "You should drop me off here."

"What?"

"The house is right up that street there. You should drop me here."

Reese shook his head. "I'll take you home."

"My mom has zero chill," the girl protested. "If you turn up at the door …"

"She's already expecting me," Reese argued. "I'll explain the situation to her."

"It was probably nothing …"

"Those men attempted to abduct you," he said firmly. "I'm going to talk to your mother about it."

"This is a bad idea."

"You're not in any trouble. You didn't do anything wrong."

The teenager sighed heavily.

Reese looked over. The girl's mouth was set in a tight line. "You're safe now. I'll make sure you stay that way."

Resigned, she gestured. "That drive."

John turned and stopped in front of a ten-foot high iron gate. At either side there was a high stone wall that circled the entire yard. He rolled his window down and glanced at the teen for the entrance code. She shook her head. "I don't know it. Mom always drives." She leaned toward the window, and called, "Mom, it's me. I forgot the code. Let us in."

There was a short pause, and then the gate clicked open.

Reese drove up to the house and parked next to the family's black SUV. There was space for at least six more cars there. The house was huge, and the yard and gardens were spacious and very well-kept. As he got out of the car he caught the faintest scent of chlorine; there was obviously a pool behind the house.

It was the kind of house Will Ingram could have lived in, if he'd been so inclined.

Reese wondered who the aunt who owned this place was. Finch had missed her, somehow. Of course, the very wealthy could afford to hide their digital footprints better than the average citizen. Finch was living proof of that.

Helen looked over the top of the car at him. "You should go." She seemed seriously worried now.

"I'll talk to your mother," Reese repeated calmly.

"Zero chill," the girl reminded him grimly. She walked beside him up to the front door. It opened before they got there, and Elizabeth Zane took two steps out and gathered her daughter in her arms. "Helen, what happened?" she said. "What's going on?"

Reese stepped closer. The mother half-turned, putting her daughter behind her shoulder. He showed his stolen badge. "I'm Detective Stills, NYPD."

"Detective? What happened?"

"There's been a bit of an incident. Helen's not hurt. But we do need to talk. May I come in?"

She moved back into the house, herding her daughter through the door without turning her back on him. "Yes, please do."

Reese heard a soft growl behind him. He turned and saw two large Rottweilers climbing the porch steps, heads down, fur bristling.

"Halt," Elizabeth Zane said firmly. The dogs both stopped exactly where they were. "Please, come in."

John followed her across the threshold. He paused to look over his shoulder at the dogs. They were beautiful, powerful, and perfectly trained. He liked dogs …

Lightning struck, and then it was dark.

"Mr. Reese," Finch said urgently. "Mr. Reese!"

There was still no answer. There had been no answer for – Finch checked his dashboard clock – eighteen minutes. He pressed his foot a little heavier on the accelerator.

If he were strictly logical about the situation, as he always strove to be, it was much too soon to be this concerned. Mr. Reese's communications link might have been interrupted for any number of reasons. Perhaps he'd turned his phone off deliberately, though Finch could not imagine why. Perhaps he'd inadvertently bumped it off. Perhaps his battery was dead. Or he was in a cellular dead zone.

Or perhaps there was a secret government operation of some kind nearby that interfered with common communication devices …

Finch shook his head. He was reaching. Each theory was more unlikely that the last. He hated guessing, and with the evidence he had – guessing was his only option.

He drove faster still.

He already knew Reese and the girl wouldn't be at the address. Helen Zane had said something about going to an aunt's house. But his research hadn't turned up anything about any relatives in the city. He would need to get their location from whoever was at the residence that he did know about. If there was no one home, he'd need to find a note or other clue. Hopefully there would be a computer, with an address book and an easy password. He needed to get the aunt's address quickly.

He diverted himself by developing a cover story for himself. It was difficult, since he didn't know what kind of trouble Reese had encountered. If he'd even encountered any trouble at all. So, Finch thought, you're a middle-aged widow from a small town with four children, and someone just tried to abduct your oldest daughter off the street, but a strange man claiming to be a police detective rescued her and brought her to you. And now a second man arrives at the front door, having tracked you to a place where you don't live, an older, crippled, innocuous, friendly-looking man – and he tells you he's …

He swerved around a car that was trying to turn left, badly.

He tells you he's … ah. From the Institute. No, not from, she'd run background checks on everyone from the Institute. On behalf of the Institute. Better. They'd called him about an issue, someone approached the girl and he was making sure that she'd gotten home safely, and also of course he'd want to thank the detective for his timely intervention, and assure the mother that every precaution had been taken …

That was good, as a rough outline. That would work. He would need a name. Crow, he decided. He could be, if pressed, a private investigator working security on behalf of the camp's insurer. But he doubted it would go that far. The girl would probably be rattled, and the mother as well. He and John could reassure them, smooth this over. If they could get Elizabeth to keep her daughter home for a few days, it would be easier to keep her safe.

He parked the car, double-checked the address, and hurried up the stairs to the front door. He rang the bell and heard it sound inside, but there was nothing else. No voices, no footsteps. He rang again, and then knocked.

Nothing.

Finch looked around. No one was paying any attention. He concealed his hands close to his body and picked the lock.

Of course, if anyone was home and already frightened, he was likely to be greeted with a shotgun blast.

He unlocked the door and pushed it open.

No gunfire. Nothing. Cautiously, Finch stepped inside.

He knew almost immediately that the house was empty. Not only that no one was home at the time, but that no one lived there at all. It had the sound and feel of one of his safe houses. Perfectly furnished, move-in ready, but no one had moved in. He looked around the comfortable living room. Not a single throw pillow was out of place. Not a single footprint on the plush carpet. No family of five lived here, nor had in the recent past.

"Hello?" Finch called, without hope.

He checked his phone. It was the correct address. He'd known it was.

He moved through the room and into the kitchen. The sink was perfectly dry. The dish towels hanging on the bar still had the creases in them. He eased the dishwasher open. It was empty. The refrigerator was running, cold, but also empty. The freezer contained only ice cubes.

Elizabeth Zane had rented this three-bedroom town house for the summer, at significant expense. It was the address listed on every camp registration form she'd completed. But she and her children had not spent one minute here.

Which meant that he had no way of knowing where John Reese had taken Helen Zane.

The aunt's house. Brooklyn Heights. Maybe they were all living there … but then why go to the expense of renting this place at all?

His anxiety on his partner's behalf doubled, and now it had a reasonable basis.

Finch hurried out. He still had one more way of tracking his partner. Reese wouldn't like it, and once it was activated he would likely know about it, but it was the only option now.

He glanced up at a traffic camera. "I don't suppose you have any suggestions," he muttered.

The red light blinked at him steadily.

"I didn't think so." He started down the front steps.

As he reached the sidewalk, a phone rang. Finch turned quickly. Three doors down there was an ancient pay phone. He looked up at the camera again. The red light blinked implacably. The phone continued to ring.

He hurried to it.

The mechanical voice gave him key words in the usual combination. A new Number.

Finch shook his head as he hung up the receiver. "I'm sorry. I can't help them until I find John."

He took two steps. The phone rang again.

Finch scowled at the camera this time. But he went back and answered the phone again.

Key words again, but different ones. A second Number.

Finch memorized them and hung up the phone.

"Are you helping?" he asked the camera. "Or are there just more people in trouble?"

The blinking eye did not answer.

He genuinely couldn't help them until he found John. But he had to return to the library anyhow; he could at least look up their names.

Finch walked to his car, fully expecting the phone to ring again. It did not.

Reese tried to be still when he woke up. He kept his eyes closed, controlled his breathing. He was sitting up. His head was forward, his chin on his chest. He could feel pressure on his wrists, narrow. Zip ties. His feet were apart. Without moving, he could not feel for certain if his feet were tied. His throat hurt a little. There was a peculiar, familiar taste in his mouth. Chloral hydrate. That explained his vague nausea, too.

Lightning – a taser – and then chloral hydrate. Mother Zane had been waiting for him. He wondered which of the words in Helen's phone call had tipped her off.

It was very quiet. No traffic noises, no voices. No air movement around him. No brightness through his eyelids and no areas of heat on his skin. Cool, but stuffy. Definitely indoors. He might be alone. That would give him time …

A phone chirped. He heard a woman's voice, soft. "You got them?" And then, "Yeah, we're secure. See you when you get here." A click, a soft sound of a phone being set down. Then, only a little louder, the woman said, "Back with us, Handsome?"

Reese opened his eyes but didn't move his head.

His jacket was off. His wrists were secured to the arms of the chair with zip ties. He'd expected that. His elbows were also bound. He hadn't expected that. He flexed the muscles in his ankles. They were secured to the chair legs. All the ties were loose enough for comfort, but not nearly loose enough to escape.

Break the chair.

The chair was heavy, metal. He'd never be able to dent it, let alone break it.

He lifted his head. The mother, Elizabeth, sat on a wooden stool in front of a mostly-empty workbench and looked at him calmly. His car was parked to his left, behind a battered blue minivan. From the dim lighting, the garage doors were closed.

Wait for Finch.

Behind her on the workbench he could see his jacket, neatly folded. His phone and his earpiece were laid out beside it. The battery was out of the phone. If Finch was coming, he'd be coming in blind.

She had also taken both of his guns, his ankle knife, his car keys, his watch, his wallet and his badge.

Talk your way out.

Reese tried to speak. Only a painful squeak emerged. He tried to work up enough spit to swallow. His mouth was too dry.

The woman picked up a bottle of water and took the top off, then stepped forward and held it to his lips.

He turned his face away.

She lifted the bottle to her own lips and drank. Then she offered it to him again.

Reese drank. She held the bottle long enough for him to get two good swallows. Then she drew back while he caught a breath before she gave him one more drink.

She moved back out of his reach. As if he could reach her, with those plastic ties firmly in place.

"I think …" Reese began. He stopped, swallowed, cleared his throat. "There's been some misunderstanding."

The woman didn't answer.

"My name is Detective Stills," he continued. "I'm with the NYPD. I didn't mean to alarm you. Your daughter was being harassed by two men at the Institute and I …"

Elizabeth took two steps and gave him another drink. "Let's not," she answered quietly. Then she stepped back again and waited.

Both her voice and her posture seemed familiar. She was completely still. Focused, attentive. Watchful. But she knew she was in control. She was relaxed. Not wasting any energy. She could watch him just like this, all day long, without exhausting herself.

The look in her eyes. She was concerned, and she was afraid. But she was not panicked. She was thinking. Assessing. Waiting for the next thing.

She's a pro.

Every aspect of his current situation confirmed that. Whoever Elizabeth Zane was, she'd had as much training as Reese himself, and as much experience. His mind flashed to Kara Stanton, but that wasn't who this woman reminded him of. Kara had been impatient, impulsive. Kara didn't wait to see what happened if she could act instead.

This woman reminded Reese of himself.

He went silent and studied her.

She remained silent and studied him.

You're screwed, John.

He'd had the best of intentions. He'd only been trying to help. But he had arrived here, armed and uninvited, and put himself between a young girl and her mother. And the mother had unexpectedly effective means of neutralizing the threat that she thought he represented.

He didn't see any way out.

"I'm not trying to hurt your daughter," he told her honestly. "She was in danger. I was trying to help." He tugged lightly at his restraints. "There's no need for all this, I promise."

Elizabeth regarded him for a long moment before she spoke. "Who are you?"

"Detective …"

She shook her head. "If you're going to steal an identity, don't steal one from a cop whose missing posters are all over the internet."

Reese licked his lips. "My name is John Randall. I work in private security."

"Better," Elizabeth said. "Still not the truth, but better. Who do you work for?"

"I'm freelance, but I do a lot of my work for insurance companies."

"Any company in specific?"

He could give her Universal Heritage. That would lead her to Finch. It might help him. Tell Harold where he was, at least. But she was dangerous, and he wouldn't put Harold at risk to save himself. He shook his head.

"Back in my day," Elizabeth offered, "we called it American Life Insurance Company. Julia Child started came up with that."

So she's not only former intelligence, Reese thought, but she's specifically former CIA. That might be very good. It might be very bad. It would depend on how and why she'd left the Agency. "I don't work for them any more."

"Who do you work for?" she asked again.

Reese did not answer.

They shared another very long silence.

This time the woman spoke first. "Okay, let's try this." She picked up the water bottle and held it to his mouth, but as he leaned forward to drink she pulled it away.

She picked up the knife. Reese watched as she lowered the blade toward his hand. She flipped it over and ran the sharp tip down the back of his wrist. It left a white scratch; she didn't press hard enough even to draw blood.

He looked up at her, surprised.

Elizabeth raised her free hand and pulled his hair gently. Then she pinched his ear lobe between her thumb and forefinger and twisted lightly.

She stepped back and put the knife down. "Now you can tell them I subjected you to a variety of tortures before you gave them up."

Reese gave her a fleeting smile. "That's the best you can do?"

The woman shrugged. "We both know that I could flay you with a potato peeler and all it would get me is a pile of skin and a big stain on the floor. I'd rather save myself the clean-up."

"I appreciate that," he answered sincerely.

"Tell me who you are. And why you came after me."

"I didn't come after you," Reese told her. "I don't even know who you are. Who you used to be. We got a warning that your daughter was in danger. The guy tried to get her into his car. I stepped in, showed her the badge so she wouldn't be scared, and brought her home." He opened his hands. "You know the rest."

"Who's we?"

John didn't answer.

"Where did this warning come from?"

He couldn't tell her that either.

Elizabeth, or whatever her name was, wasn't angry. She seemed to understand, as Reese did, that there was nothing personal in this interaction. They were just two professionals negotiating an impasse.

She folded her arms, prepared to wait. Reese shifted, got a little more comfortable in the hard chair. He was prepared to wait, too.

There was a sudden loud alarm. They both jumped. Elizabeth pulled out her own cell phone and studied it, then waved it close to him. The alarm grew softer. She turned back to the work bench and ran it over the items there. It got loudest closest to his car keys.

Reese groaned out loud.

Elizabeth dropped the keys on the concrete floor and stomped the key fob with her heel. The alarm stopped abruptly.

She picked the keys up and dropped them on the workbench again. "Who's coming for you, John?"

Finch, Reese thought hopelessly. Finch planted a tracker on me, one that remained inert until he activated it. He lost contact, he tried everything else, and then he activated it. And now he's coming. To try to save me. He's coming right into your trap.

He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing with all his will that Finch would stay away. But he knew there was no hope of that. He had no way to warn him that this ordinary-seeming mother was most certainly not ordinary.

When he opened his eyes, Elizabeth was still at the work bench. She picked through the remnants of the key fob, clearly without much hope. Her posture had changed. There was a new tension in her shoulders. She'd been watchful before, curious, observant. Now she was done waiting.

She walked over and crouched in front of him, put one hand on his knee, and looked him straight in the eye. "Here's where I am. You're clearly trained. You came after me – after my kids. You won't tell me why, or who you are, or who you work for. And now back-up's on its way. So I don't have a lot of choices."

Reese nodded his understanding. She had one choice, and in her position, he would have made the same one. If he told her the truth, if she believed him, she might spare his life. But he could not tell her anything without endangering Harold.

He remained silent.

"Please," Elizabeth said. "Please give me something, anything, that gives me some reason to reconsider."

John studied her eyes. They were sincere, troubled. Determined. But there was a certain warmth in them. An acknowledgement that she knew his position, too. She was protecting hers. He was protecting his. They were professionals, the two of them. They understood each other well.

This close, he could see that she wasn't as old as she looked. That the too-dark hair and the too-pale makeup were intentional. There wasn't one woman in a million who would deliberately make herself look older. It was a good disguise.

Who are you? Who are you hiding from?

He was going to die not knowing the answers. He felt some regret about that. About dying in general. But he'd always expected to die. Elizabeth would make it quick, he was certain. He would not suffer.

And though she was wrong, she genuinely believed she was killing him for a noble cause: The protection of her children.

That was far more than he had any right to expect.

But Finch – Finch would come, and this mother had already decided she had to kill him, too. "My … handler. My friend. You're right. He'll be coming. He'll look for me. But just him. Alone. There's no one else."

Her eyes narrowed, glinted hard.

"He doesn't know who you are, either. Who you used to work for. We just wanted to protect Helen. He's not an operative. He's not any threat to you. If you hide my body, destroy the phone, tell him I was never here – tell him Helen stole the car – he's no threat to you. Please."

"Why should I believe you?"

"You shouldn't believe me. You know what I am. But H – he's not one of us. He just wants to help people. If you meet him – you're a good judge of people. You knew what I was the minute you laid eyes on me. You'll know. Just talk to him. Let him talk to you. He's a good man. I swear. He doesn't always believe it, but he is. He's the best man I've ever known. Please. Don't kill him."

"What's his name?" she asked quietly.

"Harold. His name's Harold."

"Harold what?"

Reese did not answer.

"Who does he work for? What does he want?"

Reese remained silent, because he could not give her those answers. She would try to get them from Harold, of course. But he knew from the way she'd treated him that she as genuinely decent. And Finch was very good with words. He had some chance, if he actually got to speak.

Elizabeth considered for a long moment. "I'll talk to him," she finally promised. "I may kill him anyhow, but I'll talk to him first. But if he won't tell me any more than you did …"

Reese took a deep breath. "Believe me, if I could tell you more I would."

"I believe you." She stood up and put her hand on his shoulder. Reese leaned into it. It was all the comfort there would be. That he would die at the hands of another professional. One who understood why he could not speak, even to save his own life. One who respected his silence.

One who had no interest in his suffering. One who would be quick and clean and merciful.

She walked to the workbench and picked up his knife again.

Reese raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Always thought I'd die by gunshot."

Elizabeth gave him a little wry smile. "If you'd ever seen me fire a gun, you'd be thanking me for the knife. Much faster, I promise."

"I'll take your word for it."

She walked behind his chair. Reese closed his eyes. It was inevitable, this death. He was not afraid. Much.

He waited for the blade.

Instead, there was a loud, urgent knock on the door.

Elizabeth's hand fell on his shoulder again. "Hold that thought," she sighed. And toward the door Reese could not see, she called, "Mickey?"

"No, it's Scott." The voice was male, agitated.

The woman swore under her breath. "Kinda busy in here. What do you want?"

"I need to talk to you. Like, right now."

"Scott …"

"About what you're busy with."

She walked away from John. There was the snap of a deadbolt, the creak of a door opening a few inches. "How'd you get past the gate?" Elizabeth said softly.

"It's my sister's house. I have the code."

"What do you want?"

"Helen called." He matched the low level of her voice, but it was quiet enough in the space that Reese caught every word. "She said you had a man tied up in the garage."

The door creaked open a few more inches.

"Shit!" the man exclaimed. "Who is that?"

"I don't know, and he's not telling."

John turned his head, but the door was almost directly behind him and in shadows. He could see part of the woman's back, nothing more.

"Helen said he was a cop."

"He's not a cop."

"So what, you're just going to kill him? Take the kids and run?"

The woman remained silent.

"Oh, shit."

"Go inside, Scott."

John considered calling out for help, but from the sound of the conversation, it wouldn't do him any good. The woman was willing to kill him even though her daughter knew he was there. This newcomer wasn't going to change her mind.

I wish my Scotty was here, Reese thought. My Christine. She'd be a lot more helpful than this Scott, whoever he is.

And then he was glad she was safely far away.

The door creaked again. "No, wait, listen." The creaking paused. "Right after I hung up with Helen, Becky called. She said … she said she was going to bring over some jambalaya and she'll make cheddy biscuits when she gets here. She said she'll bring lots and you should invite your guests to stay for dinner."

"Guests, plural?" Elizabeth sounded deeply surprised.

"That's what she said."

There was a very long pause.

Reese had time to wonder who Becky was, and why she thought Elizabeth would have guests, plural, for dinner, and why her offer of jambalaya was giving them both such cause for thought.

Elizabeth finally said, "It's been a long time."

"A really long time," the unseen Scott agreed. "So, um, maybe you want to hold off on … you know? Until she gets here?"

"I suppose so." The woman sighed, in what Reese hoped was relief. "Go back inside. Let me know when she gets here. And send Mickey out."

"Mickey's coming?"

"He heard there'd be jambalaya."

Scott chuckled. The door creaked and stopped again. "Oh. She also said she'd bring soup bones for the dogs. And she'll bring an extra one."

"Really." Elizabeth sounded almost amused now.

"You weren't really going to kill him, were you?"

"Scott."

"I know, I know. Just …"

"If I end up killing him, I'll make sure you never know about it, okay?"

"Thanks, Lil."

The door closed.

Lil? Reese though. Liz he could see, a common short for Elizabeth. But Lil?

So she wasn't using her real first name. That suggested that her first name was distinctive enough to give her away.

Who's after you, Mrs. Zane?

She walked past him and put the knife down. "Apparently we're going to have a small delay," she said, half-apologetically.

"I'm in no hurry," Reese assured her.

"You like jambalaya?"

"It just became my favorite food."

She gave him another drink of water. "Anything else you need?"

"I could use to stretch my legs a little."

Elizabeth gave him a little smile. "Don't make me like you. I don't want to like you." She sat down on her stool to wait.

"John," he said.

"What?"

"My name," Reese said. "It's not John Randall, but it is John."

"I still don't want to like you, John."