Harold Finch desperately wanted a minute alone with his partner. First he wanted to be sure that Reese was genuinely not injured; John was very good at pretending right up to the point of collapse. And secondly, he wanted to know what he'd been able to learn about their situation.

But that moment to compare notes was not allowed. He could understand their hostess' position, of course. Hostess or captor? He wasn't sure even of that. Despite the gun in the man's waistband, he had made no further threats. Of course, they were professionals. Implied threats were more than adequate.

Who or what Mrs. Zane was hiding from remained unclear in Harold's mind. He didn't know if Reese knew, either. He did know that since the Machine had given them her daughter's number, the threat was real. But who was the man with the gun? Who was the chef, and the tall man in the kitchen with her? Were any of them the threat? And how were any of them connected to the sculptor Yvette Zaccardi and her wealthy stock broker husband?

He cast a questioning glance at Reese as they walked. John merely shrugged. But the look in his eyes was enough to reassure Finch. He might not have the answers, but he was not unduly concerned about their safety at the moment.

Of course, that status could change very quickly. He could see in his partner's posture that Reese was aware of that, too.

The two Rottweilers sat in a doorway half-way up the hall. They were very alert, highly interested especially in Bear, but neither of them moved. Reese approached within a few feet of them, then gave the hand command for the Malnois to sit. Bear did, though he was clearly interested in the other dogs, too.

Finch was used to thinking of Bear as a big dog, but he was barely half the size of either of the Rottweilers. Yet they were not overtly threatening, either.

"At ease, girls," Kostmayer said. The Rotties moved as one, approaching Bear slowly, heads low, sniffing.

Bear looked back and forth between them, then up at Reese. "It's okay," John told him. He reached down and unsnapped the leash.

The dogs circled, crowding through the doorway into the spacious living room, sniffing but not snapping.

"They'll be okay." Kostmayer moved on to the kitchen.

Reese seemed to concur, so Finch did not object.

The chef came out of the kitchen, holding a piece of green butcher paper open in both hands. "Is it okay?" she said.

Finch saw that there were three short pieces of fresh beef bone on the paper. Most of the marrow had been removed.

"They may fight," Reese said.

"We'll send the girls outside," she answered. "Star! Bella!"

The Rotties lumbered down the hall cheerfully.

"Pick one," Becky encouraged. She handed him a deli paper.

Reese picked up one of the bones. The chef led the Rottweilers to the patio door, let them out, and presented each of them with one of the other bones.

Finch understood from his partner's nod that he approved. By giving him the choice of bones, the small brunette had made it clear that none of them were poisoned.

"Bear, hier," John said. He had the Malnois sit down near the closed glass door, out of the way of foot traffic, and gave him the bone. The dog lay down and chewed contentedly. Outside on the patio, the Rottweilers did the same.

Finch glanced at Mrs. Zane. The mother was silent and still, very tense. Probably the most dangerous person in the room. And she was studying him. "I'm Harold," he said. "Thank you for meeting with me."

"Elizabeth. Where did you get those other names?"

"I have a source."

"Inside the Company?"

The Company, Harold noted. When John spoke of his former employers, he always called it the Agency. But Mrs. Zane was a generation or two older. The noun implied that she'd been away from the CIA for a very long time.

"No." He realized as he spoke that that wasn't precisely true. The Machine most certainly had tendrils inside the Central Intelligence Agency. But it was correct in the sense that she was asking. "How long have you been retired?"

She smiled faintly. "I didn't retire."

"Ahh."

A timer sounded and Becky hurried away. "Table," she called over her shoulder.

Mrs. Zane hesitated. Then she went to the bottom of the stairs and called up, "Kids! Come set the table!"

The tall blond man came out of the kitchen with an open bottle of wine in each hand. "Becky says wine," he announced. He went to the sideboard and brought out glasses. "I'm Scott."

"Harold," Finch answered. "This is John."

"Hey." He poured half an inch of the wine, sniffed it and then tasted it. "Whoa. That's hearty."

"Can I just have …" Kostmayer began.

"A beer," the chef said from the doorway. She had two long-necked bottles, already open, in her hand.

"You know me so well."

"I really do." She held the bottles out, not to him but to Reese. He picked one. Kostmayer took the other.

Finch took the glass of wine the blond man offered him and sipped. It was an expectedly strong burgundy, a good pairing with a spicy seafood dish.

This man was younger than Kostmayer and Zane, and he reminded Finch very strongly of a younger Nathan Ingram. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a lion's mane of blond, unruly hair. His face was open, his expressions unhidden, and he smiled in a way that tried to be reassuring. Finch had seen this man before, somewhere. He didn't think they'd ever met face-to-face, but he looked familiar.

Scott and the chef were obviously a couple. He wore a wedding ring; she did not, but Harold could see a sturdy chain around her neck. She likely carried it there because of her profession.

From the aromas coming from the kitchen and the selection of the wine, he was assured that she knew her business.

Mrs. Zane took her own glass. The boys and then the younger sister came down the stairs, curious and nervous. Their mother immediately said, "No."

The boys froze. "What?" the older one – Robert – said.

"No," their mother repeated. "Take them back upstairs and secure them."

"But Mom …" the younger one, Michael, protested.

She threw a quick look at Reese. "He's better than you. I don't need to be trying to take your guns away from him. Upstairs. Now."

"But …"

"Now."

Finch blinked, trying to hide his shock as both boys drew weapons from behind their backs. They grumbled, but trudged back up the stairs, both handling the guns with familiarity and ease. "Your sons," he said carefully, "are permitted to handle firearms?"

"We live in bear country," the mother replied flatly. "All of my children are proficient with firearms."

Kostmayer cleared his throat, but did not comment.

Sarah, the youngest, was apparently unarmed. She continued down the stairs. "Helen says she's not coming."

Elizabeth leaned past her and called, "Robert! Tell your sister to get down here."

"Yes, ma'am."

Scott went back into the kitchen. Elizabeth gestured the others over to the space in front of the patio doors, away from the table. "Okay," she said, "you have your man back and you can see he's only been gently rumpled. For the moment. Who are you and what do you want?"

Finch nodded. "I'm a … concerned third party, I suppose. I promise that I am not affiliated with the government in any way. In fact the authorities are hunting John and I, probably much more avidly than they're hunting you."

Elizabeth looked at Reese. "Did you kill the cop? Detective Stills?"

"Yes," John answered without hesitation.

"Why?"

"To protect an innocent man."

"Did Stills know he was innocent?"

"Yes."

She looked at Kostmayer, then back to Finch. "Why did he grab Helen?"

"She was in danger." Finch was pleased with the straightforward nature of this conversation. "As I understand it, a man was trying to force her into his car."

"Yeah, but why was Reese there at all?" Kostmayer asked.

That was a more difficult question to answer. "We had information," Finch said, "that there might be some kind of incident. We didn't know exactly what."

The oldest children tromped down the stairs again. "Set the table, please," their mother directed. "Ask Aunt Becky what you need."

The boys went to the kitchen. Helen moped her way over to the grown-ups. "I'm sorry my mom dropped you," she said to John, a little shyly.

"It's okay." Reese rubbed the back of his neck ruefully. "She was protecting you."

"It's kinda your own fault, though. I told you she had zero chill."

"Helen," Elizabeth reproved mildly.

"Well you do."

"Who were the guys that grabbed you?" Kostmayer asked.

"I don't know. I never saw them before."

"Are you sure?" Finch asked. "Could they have been following you before today …"

"No," she snapped. "I stay alert. Like I'm supposed to."

Harold paused. The teenager had reacted exactly as Reese would have, as if he'd questioned her professionalism. But she was a civilian, a child …

… and all of Elizabeth Zane's children were proficient with firearms, too.

"My apologies," he said sincerely.

"I got some pictures on him," Reese said. "On my camera. I'm not sure how good they are."

"I ran the license plate of the town car," Finch added. "Of course it was stolen."

"Do we really have to go home?" Helen asked her mother.

"We're discussing it," Kostmayer told her firmly. "Go help set the table."

"But …"

"Go."

Grumbling, she left. There was considerable clatter as the children set the table. Another timer went off in the kitchen.

Harold watched the children. Despite the tense situation, they worked with easy familiarity, cooperative and efficient. They had looked similar in their pictures, but in person the family resemblance was even more striking. They all had the same strong facial features, the heavy brow, the pronounced jawline, though the girls' were somewhat softer than their brothers'. They all had blue-gray eyes. They all had long, slender fingers.

None of them particularly resembled their mother.

He turned his head just a little and found Elizabeth Zane watching him just as intently as he was watching her children. There was ferocity in her eyes. It was restrained for now, banked. But Finch had no doubt that the slightest threat to her children would erase that restraint in an instant.

She had the eyes of a woman who had seen far too much, lost far too much. The eyes of a woman who would give no quarter.

Finch did not quite smile at her, but he softened his own gaze, let his expression be open and reassuring.

The corners of her mouth turned up a little, not a smile so much as a sardonic acknowledgement of his attempt. She was not buying.

In her position, he would not have lowered his guard either.

He glanced at Reese. The former operative was openly eyeing Kostmayer. Neither man moved, or even blinked. In a minute, Finch thought, they were going to start pounding their chests to demonstrate their strength.

Fortunately, the chef came to the door and announced, "Dinner's ready."

Kostmayer sat at the head of the table, with their 'guests' on each side of him. Lily sat on the far side of Reese. Mickey guessed that this was partially to keep him physically separated from her children, but mostly because it gave her a clear view of his partner across the table. They'd put Scott next to the man with the glasses, then the children, then Becky at the foot of the table where she could easily access the kitchen.

Mickey was confident he knew what Reese was. Former op, highly skilled, off the reservation. Totally committed to his new handler. He was probably paid for his work, but that was incidental. He was devoted to the work – whatever it was – and to his partner. Reese had found someone worthy of his loyalty, and he'd given it without question. Mickey'd been there. Exactly there.

But the man in the fancy suit was harder to pigeonhole. He was wealthy, obviously. Mickey had always lived in blue jeans when he had a choice, but he'd had a couple friends who knew clothes; he recognized expensive when he saw it. Harold seemed mild-mannered, but Kostmayer sensed a hard edge to him. The fact that Becky couldn't get a read on him said that he lot of secrets, and that he guarded them fiercely.

He was too rich to be Company. But he was fiercely loyal to his partner, too. So what was he hiding? And what the hell did he want?

While Becky served, Sarah Rose said, "Mama, can I have wine?"

Lily sighed, but went and got more wine glasses. She poured a little wine and a lot of water into one for Sarah, then a little more wine and less water for Michael, slightly more wine for Robert and finally roughly half-and-half for Helen. It had been their practice since Helen was old enough to demand her own glass; her parents had reasoned that alcohol was a lot less tempting when it wasn't strictly forbidden.

Kostmayer noted that neither of their guests seemed at all surprised by this practice.

The jambalaya was delicious. Of course, everything Becky made was delicious.

"This is outstanding," Harold said sincerely as Becky finally settled into her chair.

She blushed and looked down. "Thank you."

"Try a biscuit," Mickey said, grabbing one for himself. "You will never want anyone else's."

"I know I never have," Scott teased, making her blush even redder.

"TMI, Scott," Lily said.

Reese deliberately spooned up just a little broth and tasted it. "This must have simmered all afternoon to taste this rich. How did you do that?"

Becky took a sip of wine, trying to regain her composure. After all these years, Mickey thought, and after all the awards she'd won, it was kind of delightful that she was still bashful when anyone praised her cooking. "I, um … we own a restaurant. So yeah, it's been simmering since this morning. I just filled up a container and brought it over. Made the rice and prepared the shrimp and put it all together."

Harold took a single bite of his biscuit and announced, "O'Phelan's."

Becky blushed again. "How did you know that?"

"This." He waved another bit of biscuit between his fingers. "The texture, the buttery cheesy taste, these are unforgettable. I suppose you make the cinnamon rolls as well."

She nodded.

"Everybody loves those cinnamon rolls," Scott said proudly. "Everybody."

"They are extraordinary," Harold agreed.

"How do I not know about this place?" Reese grumbled. Mickey sensed that he was already plotting how to take the left-overs home with him.

"I haven't been there myself in some time," Harold protested. "To be honest, when Mrs. O'Phelan died I was afraid … well, that the quality of the dining would decline. But if you're there, making these, then obviously it hasn't. I'll make sure to rectify that error as soon as possible."

"Can I go to the restaurant with you this weekend?" Michael asked.

"Me, too?" his brother added quickly.

Becky looked at Lily. "We'll see," she said carefully.

"She means if we don't have to leave," Helen added glumly.

The younger children traded some significant looks and nudges. Then Sarah stood up and moved to her mother's side. "Mama, we've been thinking."

Lily glanced at Mickey, then slipped her arm around her daughter's waist. "About what, Sarah?"

"We were thinking that since Helen is the only one who screwed up …"

"I did not screw up!" her sister protested.

" … that you should send her home and let the rest of us stay. We've followed all the rules and we've been very careful, and it's not fair we all have to leave just because of what she did."

"I didn't do anything! You little brat!"

"It wasn't all my idea!" Sarah answered.

"So you guys," Mickey interrupted quickly, "are willing to just throw your sister under the bus?"

"You're all brats!"

"It's delightfully ruthless," Lily observed.

"Can't imagine where they get that," Reese said quietly.

"Mom!" Helen wailed. "You're not going to do that, are you?"

"It's only fair," Michael protested.

"Stop," Lily said. "All of you. We're not discussing this right now."

"But Mom …"

"Stop."

Mickey leaned back and pulled out his phone. "Sarah Rose. You want to impress your mama, come over here and tell me which one of these people followed you around the park today."

The girl trotted happily around the table and settled onto his knee. She looked carefully as he scrolled through six pictures on his phone. Then she took the phone and scrolled through again on her own. On the third time through, she said, "This is Miss Mackey. She's Katrina's helper. Katrina's in a wheelchair, she mostly just watches, except she can ride a horse. Miss Mackey goes everywhere with us. But only on Fridays. Other days Katrina has other helpers."

Kostmayer nodded. He'd been certain the little girl would excel at this test. He'd taught her well. And she'd practiced with her parents and siblings, too, of course. "Go on."

She swiped to the next picture. "This guy was at the ticket booth to the carousel. He wasn't doing the work, though. He looked like a boss. A supervisor."

Sarah hesitated a little longer over the third picture. "Oh. He's a … at the school where we train, he's not a janitor, exactly. He fixes things. Like when the water fountain wouldn't stop."

"A maintenance man," Mickey provided.

"Yeah, that." She swiped again. "This lady … she had twins. They were like, little. Toddlers. They could walk and all, but they still had diapers. I don't think she was their mom. They were on the baby swings when we went to the playground."

She didn't even take a breath before the fifth picture. "This is Mr. Z. He drives our van." She moved on to the last picture. "This guy …um …"

"C'mon, Sarah," Robert muttered.

"He was selling something. I can't remember." She closed her eyes and her forehead wrinkled in concentration. "Not food. He wasn't the hot dog guy. He was selling … oh. He had one of those carts that sells stuff to the rubes. Tourists. T-shirts and do-dads, snow globes and key chains and stuff."

"Very good," Mickey said.

"The only one who followed me around all day, besides the people who were supposed to, was you, Uncle Mickey." She giggled and kissed him on the cheek.

He gave her a squeeze. It wouldn't be enough to convince Lily, of course, but it was a nice solid demonstration. "Good girl. Go finish your dinner."

She went back to her seat.

"She did good, Mom," he prodded Lily gently.

"Uh-huh," she answered drily. "I'm very impressed." But a little reassured smile played around her mouth.

"She is very observant," Reese said. "So is Helen. She might not have needed my help to get away from those men."

"I didn't," the teenager answered.

"If we're able to determine the source of the threat, identify those men and establish what their objective is," Harold offered, "you may not need to …"

"Stop," Lily repeated firmly.

"Mom," Helen persisted, "just listen. Those guys weren't after me because of you, or because of Dad."

"You don't know that."

"But he just said so." The teen gestured at Finch.

"He said he didn't know what they were after."

"Helen …" Mickey warned.

"It's not about you. They're just some local creeps or something. It's not about you or Dad or any of that. No one cares about you anymore. It's all ancient history. Nobody cares who won the Cold War …"

"Helen!" Kostmayer snapped.

The girl closed her mouth, opened it, then closed it again.

"Go to your room," her mother said quietly.

"I didn't mean …"

"Go."

The teenage stood up and threw her napkin down. She grabbed a biscuit defiantly and stomped off.

Her siblings kept very quiet.

Harold took another bite of his jambalaya. "So," he said to Becky, "where do you get your shrimp? It's very fresh."

"Why were you at the school?" Michael asked, when most of the plates were empty and the worst of the silence had eased.

Reese wiped his mouth. "We got a tip that someone might be in trouble there."

"A tip from where?"

"That's complicated," Finch supplied.

"But you're not a cop?" Robert asked.

"No," John answered.

"Fed?"

"No."

Michael jumped back in. Reese had the feeling they frequently spoke in tag-team fashion. "So why were you there?"

"Do you need a badge," John asked carefully, "to try to protect people?"

"People you don't even know?" Robert retorted. "Usually."

"Usually. Not always."

Scott McCall drained his wine glass. "So you're just concerned citizens."

"Basically," Finch said.

"Vigilante?" Michael asked.

There was a brief pause around the table.

"What if nothing happened?" Robert began again. "At the school. What if nothing went down?"

"Then I would have waited, and come back tomorrow. Until whatever it was happened."

"Because your source is that good?" Elizabeth asked.

Reese nodded. "Yes."

"And you're not going to tell us who your source is," Mickey concluded.

"No."

There was another brief pause.

"So you just go around helping random people?" Sarah asked.

"Pretty much," John agreed.

"People who didn't ask for help."

"Usually."

"Don't you get like, bear-maced and tazered all the time?"

Reese grinned ruefully. "Sometimes. Not very often."

"But why?"

"Because someone has to," Harold provided, "and Mr. Reese has the skills to intervene."

"You help people," Becky said slowly, "when the odds are against them."

Finch folded his napkin. "You could put it that way, yes."

Reese watched the faces of the adults around the table. Unexpectedly, every one of them seemed to accept those words. Kostmayer smiled vaguely, but the tall blond man eased into a wide grin. Even Mrs. Zane's guarded expression softened marginally.

"I know that must sound … unlikely," Finch continued, with some confusion.

"No to us," Scott answered cheerfully. He stood up and walked quickly into the next room.

"We used to know a guy," Kostmayer explained.

Elizabeth focused on Reese. "He'd done a lot of things that he thought he needed to make amends for. To redeem himself for."

John nodded. There was no value in trying to lie, and perhaps a lot to be gained in telling the truth. "That sounds about right."

"Yeah," Kostmayer said. "A career with the Company's good for racking up regrets."

Scott returned with a small square picture frame in his hands. He handed it to Harold. "Odds against you," Finch read thoughtfully. "I remember this." He handed the frame across the table to Reese. Inside was a newspaper clipping, yellow with age. A classified ad:

Got a problem?

Odds against you?

Call the Equalizer.

212-55-4200

"I used to read those ads and wonder …" Finch began. "He was a real person?"

"He was my dad," Scott said proudly. "Robert McCall."

Reese straightened. He didn't know anything about the newspaper ad, but he knew that name. Robert McCall was a legend at the Agency. One of the last of the old-school Cold Warriors. One of the best.

"Oh, the calls he must have gotten," Finch mused.

"Ninety-five percent cranks and weirdoes," Kostmayer confirmed. "But the few that weren't, he helped them."

"And you helped him?" Reese guessed.

Mickey shrugged. "Once in a while."

That was an obvious understatement, but John let it go. He was more intrigued by another thought. He looked at the older of the boys. "You're named after him?"

The boy nodded. "Yeah, he and my dad were …"

"Robert." Mrs. Zane didn't raise her voice, but its firmness cut through the room like a knife.

Her son snapped his mouth shut. "Sorry, Mom."

A moment of awkward silence descended. Harold sipped his wine and then said, to the man beside him, "Then you would be Scott McCall. You're the conductor for Sweeney Todd."

The blond man gawked at him. "How did you know that?"

"I'm rather an aficionado of the theatre, when I have the chance."

"Nobody remembers the conductor's name."

Harold smiled, a little embarrassed. "I was in the audience the night Brienna Spitzer stepped off the front of the stage. You made a heroic catch that prevented her from crashing into the orchestra pit."

The man laughed and rolled his eyes. "Oh, that. Yeah, that was a memorable night."

"You may have saved her life."

"No, probably just kept her from breaking an arm or a leg. I was actually more concerned about protecting my musicians. Decent oboe players are a bitch to find on short notice … sorry, kids, a bear to find." He chuckled. "But don't tell her that. Brienna. She thinks I'm her biggest fan."

"You're not?" Reese prodded.

"She's … got an excellent voice," the conductor said diplomatically.

"And a reputation for being exceedingly difficult to work with," Finch provided.

Scott nodded. "Yeah. But since I saved her life, I'm the exception to the rule."

"And you," Finch said, addressing the chef, "would you be the same Becky McCall who's won nearly a dozen awards for culinary excellence in the past few years?"

The woman's cheeks turned bright red again. Reese smiled gently. There was no false modesty about the woman; she was genuinely bashful and humble. He liked her, and not just for her cheddy biscuits. Though those would have been reason enough.

Harold shook his head. "I have been seriously remiss in not frequenting O'Phelans. Frequently."

Finch at his best could be irresistibly charming. He was working it now, pairing honest praise with genuine warmth, and it was working. The civilians, at least, were calmed. Comfortable with him. The pros were less impressed. But they had a faint understanding of his mission now. And because they'd had personal experience with someone who had done what Finch was trying to do, help those who could not help themselves, they actually believed him. To some degree, at least.

He set the framed ad down carefully next to his plate. Thank you, Equalizer, wherever you are. Reese started to think they might just get out of this alive.

He also thought he had learned something important. Robert McCall had been a legendary operative. He had been a close friend of Elizabeth Zane's late husband, close enough that their oldest son was named for him. The other son had been named for Mickey – Michael – Kostmayer, also a career operative. So it stood to reason that the late Mr. Zane had also been an op. Elizabeth had also been Agency, as evidenced by her trail of abandoned cover names. Intra-Agency relationships were forbidden, but that never stopped anyone from hooking up under the radar. Getting married was another matter. The children apparently didn't remember their parents as operatives, so they had likely left many years ago, either before Helen's birth or shortly thereafter.

It was damned hard for a seasoned operative to get out of the Agency. They would rather bury an agent than let him or her go. Reese knew that first-hand.

If Elizabeth Zane thought that the Agency was still after her, she was probably right. They didn't let anyone go. If they saw her on the street, even now, of course they're grab her. But she seemed to think they were actively pursuing her. Which meant she had been very high-level, indeed.

And that all explained why her children had the skill set they did.

He didn't have all the pieces yet. But he was getting closer.

Scott leaned over his chair and took one more bite of stew. "I'm sorry, I've really got to run. I can trust my first chair to warm them up, but not with the overture. It's kind of a bitch and the chorus can be pretty unpredictable."

"Go," Mickey said. "We got this."

"I've got to go, too," Becky said. "Dinner rush."

"Thank you for dinner," Harold said. "It was truly delicious."

"I could, uh, take care of the leftovers for you," Reese offered.

"The hell you could," Mickey snapped.

Becky laughed. "I brought lots. There's plenty for both of you."

"Prescient as always," Elizabeth said quietly.

"I know boys. Even once they're grown."

"Thank you for, um …" Reese began. "However you did it."

The woman blushed. "I couldn't begin to explain it."

"There's no need," Harold assured her. "It was effective, and we are grateful."

She and Mrs. Zane walked to the door, and spoke quietly there. The mother seemed agitated still; the chef was calm and soothing. Scott was less verbal; he simply wrapped the older woman in his arms and held her.

"Oh," Becky called over her shoulder to Finch, "the kettle's hot. Tea's in the last upper right cupboard."

Harold nodded, dumbfounded.

The chef giggled softly and left.