Death of Innocence
Day 6
Day 6 prompts:
Recording, made to watch, "It should have been me."
Homeless Encampment, November 2013 (same night)
Blood in a pool on the floor – dark now, exposed to the air, and thick. Reese looked to his left. A long spray of it, splashed across the wainscoting. Blood everywhere. And there, on the floor, the weapon – fireplace poker. Peter hadn't actually thought he could use it on him, had he? A trained killer, like Reese?
Blood on his hands, on his clothes from taking the poker away, and using it on him. Peter wouldn't be getting up again. Ever.
Reese took in a deep breath. Let it out, standing in the middle of the room.
Turned around and looked back to the living room, where he'd been sitting when Peter came home. The video, still running on the TV back there. The happy couple, beautiful Jessica in her wedding dress, smiling.
Close-ups didn't begin to capture her – the softness of her skin under his hands, her laugh, her voice whispering in his ear. Reese remembered it all. She was the love of his life, and the biggest mistake of his life.
He'd come, after her call.
Standing in some god-forsaken hole in Morocco when he saw her number flash across his phone that day. December. Heard the sound in her voicemail. Something was wrong.
Had to switch to his other Sim card, so their handlers wouldn't know. And when he'd called her right back, his blood started pulsing through his body – at the sound of her voice.
That whole knot of feelings slamming him at the same time. Hard to sort it out on the phone, but he knew she was in trouble. When he'd asked, point-blank, Jessie'd danced around the question. Alarmed him even more, then:
"I'm coming to get you, Jessie. Promise me – you'll wait for me – be there tomorrow."
"I promise. I'll wait," she'd said. Hopeful, holding back her tears. Broke him up inside, he was so far away.
He'd never made it. Not in time.
Then, he was sitting there in her living room. New Rochelle.
Fancy house. Fancy life, it seemed.
And her, on the video he'd found. Played it over and over on the recording – like it was made to watch. Hurt to see her like that and know. Know that he'd sent her away. For a better life. Away from him, for a better life. She needed someone who'd be there for her, he'd said. Didn't think it could be him.
Reese'd put it together, then.
Went to her job when he'd finally got back from Ordos. Half-dead himself. February. Not December.
So sorry, they'd said. Jessie had died in December – car crash – almost killed her husband, Peter, too. So sorry to have to tell you this terrible news. We miss her, too. So kind, so loved by everyone. What a loss…
Made his way to her house, and played the video – over and over, made himself watch – while he tried to make sense of it.
She'd walked away at the airport, and he'd let her – should have told her he wanted her to wait for him. Needed her, more than he knew. If he'd really had courage, he'd have told her to wait for him. She'd still be alive if he had.
No Peter in her life to hurt her. And he had hurt her. Again and again – Reese was sure to get that much out of him before the end. She never should have died. He should've protected her. He'd give anything – too late.
"It should've been me," he said, watching the picture flip on the screen. "It should have been me."
Reese slept badly, if at all, that night.
Flashes of the past, filling the screen of his memory, unfettered. Couldn't seem to stop it. Like great waves crashing on the land of his mind's eye. Carrying him off to the depths. Reese felt himself adrift, tossed like some small thing in the vastness. Alone, of course. Not a light or a boat; no horizon, either. Just the dark waters.
Woke in the night, drenched. Shivering. Sweating. Every muscle hurting. Couldn't get warm, and the fires were out in the barrels.
"Miss Shaw?"
"It's me, Finch."
"Any luck?"
"Some." But when she didn't go on, Finch looked up at her, over the top of his laptop screen. Bear had stirred with the sound of her voice and rubbed his shoulder against her leg for a scratch.
She dropped into the seat on the far side of his desk and scrubbed her fingers around the top of Bear's head and neck. He smiled at her, in that way dogs do, then dropped down to offer his belly for a rub.
"Miss Shaw?"
"Look, Finch, I've been every place I could think of, and nobody's seen him. Called the usuals, and nothing there, either." She hesitated again.
"But –?"
"When I went to his apartment, he'd been there, Finch."
"Oh? How did he get in? I have his keys right here, Miss Shaw."
"Broke in through a window into his basement. I'm sure that didn't do him any good with the gunshots." Finch winced at the thought, and noticed how Miss Shaw could discuss this, devoid of any emotion. Never ceased to surprise him.
"Looks like he'd gathered some of his stuff, changed clothes. I found a safe in his closet, and it looks like he had a duffel bag or a backpack there on the rug in his closet. Probably has whatever he needs now – money, passport, a weapon." Finch saw her mind ticking through all of the details.
"So, where would he go, then, if he had everything he needed – to leave?" Finch offered.
She hesitated, chewing on her lower lip before she raised her eyes to him. Finch noticed the wind-up, and stiffened himself for her next thought. Looked serious.
"What is it, Miss Shaw?" She met his eyes with hers – dark and smoky, impenetrable – and if he hadn't known her already, it would have made his skin crawl. He'd be looking at her hand for a weapon.
"I need you to tell me the truth, Finch." He held his breath for a moment.
"Yes?"
"If you have any devices planted – keeping an eye on him, on us, I need to know." He held her eyes with his. No hesitation.
"I do not, Miss Shaw. You are allowed your privacy from any surveillance by me. That goes for all of you." She stared at him with those same eyes. Finch didn't flinch.
"And what about the Machine? Does she keep tabs?"
"She? Now you sound like someone else we know. And no, the Machine doesn't keep tabs on the assets, either."
Shaw was certain he was telling her the truth. No surveillance. So, if there'd been anyone else there at Reese's apartment and he'd been captured or detained in any way, Finch wouldn't have known about it. It was a long shot, anyway. No one'd be likely to sneak up on Reese in his own place like that. Besides, no sign of a struggle. And even though Reese was far from his usual formidable self, there would have been a struggle, on his own turf.
Shaw was ticking down her list of possibilities. Making sure they hadn't left something out that they'd regret ignoring, later.
Reese had left, apparently on his own. Stopped at his apartment, and even had to break in to get inside. Packed a bag and headed out. No one had seen him – not on surveillance on the street, not from contacts he could have used. Nothing.
He'd gone dark, completely.
She knew they might be running out of time. He'd missed doses of antibiotics and pain meds. He could be getting sick again – infection coming back because he'd stopped them too soon.
And he could be going through some nasty withdrawal from the pain meds, too. He'd been taking one of the big guns to control his pain. Trouble was, symptoms overlapped. Withdrawal can look like infection: shaking chills, sweats, nausea, vomiting, changes in mental status.
Wherever he was, he might not be able to help himself.
And who knows if anyone else would bother, stepping in to help. Shaw chewed on her lower lip again.
Crap.
They needed to broaden their search and hit it again.