Death of Innocence
Day 15
On the road, November 2013, later that day
"Sorry, Miss Shaw. I just want to see it for myself. It's not a trust thing." They'd headed for Mr. Reese's apartment together.
Harold had taken a new tactic now. Nothing had shown up on surveillance, monitored constantly by the Machine, which did what it did best to assist: scanning, comparing, analyzing. Some facial recognition in there, too, and a little gait analysis routine Finch had just added to the mix. Rather proud of that one. His engineering background had branched out to some new territory lately. Fascinating, for him. Still, surveillance hadn't come up with Mr. Reese anywhere near the monitored sites.
Finch drove. Partly out of self-preservation. Miss Shaw had a reputation for – uh - rather erratic driving, at times, perhaps most times. And Finch had already had one spinal fusion in his neck. Would rather not have another.
Pulled up in front of the apartment building and got out.
"Do you want to see the back first?" she asked.
"No. Maybe we'll save that for the end. I'd like to get an impression from the inside first." Shaw nodded, but he could see her confusion with this line of attack. Miss Shaw had difficulty with certain concepts. More of a concrete personality, hers. Preferred the direct approach. 'Getting a feel for things' would likely seem a foreign concept for her, on the hunt.
She let him lead the way, then. Finch used Reese's keys to get them in.
Faintest scent of coffee left behind. Cool inside, without the heat on yet. Walked in to a little vestibule first. Dim, with just the light of the industrial windows high overhead across the way, illuminating. Then into the living room, itself.
Vaulted ceiling, airy and open. Rather like outdoors in a park, he thought. A leather couch parked on the far wall, under the windows. He could picture Mr. Reese lounging there at night.
Kitchen next. Neat. Orderly. Little on the counters: a coffeemaker, a toaster in the corner, and near - on the way into the living room, one glass jar. Finch held it up to look inside. Pistachios, only a handful left. Their bright green skins just peeking from under the shells. He'd need another bag to replace them soon.
Finch tipped the top of the trash bin, just to check. And at the bottom, the drying filter with a mass of soggy coffee grounds inside. Stronger whiff of his coffee now.
He glanced around for anything he might have missed. Cup in the drainer. Dry sink. This all looked just like he'd imagine for Mr. Reese.
Down the hall. Bedroom. Queen-sized bed. Hmm. Unsettling. His suit.
Laid out as if dropped and left behind. Abandoned. Finch read it like a message he'd left behind. Turned and glanced at Miss Shaw.
"What?" she said, failing to read the intent.
"Did you notice how he left his suit?"
"You mean because he didn't hang it up? Should see my place, then," she mumbled.
Finch smiled. She hadn't caught his meaning. She had difficulty with things like this. It's why he'd wanted to come and see for himself. He'd maybe get a different read than Miss Shaw. Excellent for some things. But hampered in others. There were certain subtleties to the work, sometimes, that needed another pair of eyes. Mr. Reese had undoubtedly known they'd visit his place. Leaving his suit behind like that - a message left for the Team. A message a little too subtle for some.
Even Finch acknowledged: can't send a machine to do what only a human can do. That's why computers will never take over the world. Some skills cannot be taught.
The closet door - still open. Finch saw the dent on the rug where the bag had sat. Probably kept some things inside, ready to go. Their weight inside had made the dent. Slid the door a little wider. Like she'd said – a safe on the floor. Heavy. No one'd move that without some heavy equipment.
Maybe where he'd kept his extras, his valuables: papers, passport, cash, guns? Hidden safely inside. Finch thought of the three of them, then. Reese, Shaw and Finch. All of them, mysteries unto themselves. All of them with things to hide. The way of their world now, he mused.
Funny, he thought, no pictures. Not a one on any surface. Nothing to remind Mr. Reese of his past. His people. Carried it around in his head, he supposed. And another thing odd about his place? As neat and buttoned-up as it looked, one didn't sense it as cold, cold as in the sterile sense. A man lived here. Alone. Solitary by choice.
Finch smiled at that. Glanced again at Miss Shaw, and thought of himself, too. Each solitary by choice. The consummate loners: "I don't need you to help me, I can handle things myself," he whispered, half-under his breath.
"Saying something, Finch?"
"Just thinking out loud."
Checked the bathroom next. Neat. Orderly. Counters clear. Mr. Reese didn't fuss much with himself. Soap, water, blade for shaving. Just the basics. Finch checked the cabinets. Nearly empty, too. A few trusty potions and pills. Seemingly, a simple life here. Yet, couldn't be further from the truth. Looks could be deceiving, as they all knew.
They went to the basement next, down the stairs.
Through the short hall, then into the larger room at the back. He could feel the wind blowing through before he saw the open window there. All the glass gone from its frame. Shattered in a heap on the floor. He tried to imagine - Mr. Reese, in the shape he was in, lowering himself through that wee window. Painful, he was certain.
And his coat. The wool one, with the tweed. He'd always liked that one.
Finch stepped through the glass to get it. Picked it up from the floor: the tweed side, full of glass.
A shame he'd had to use it that way: no keys to get in. He'd leave it there for another time, but hung it on a hook nearby.
A cat had wandered by outside, and turned, slowly. Saw them there in the basement and stopped to sniff the air. Then kept going.
Long, dark and thin, living on the streets, he guessed. Tattered ear, missing a chunk. Battered and scarred. Cat version of Mr. Reese, perhaps? Finch winced at the thought.
"I think I've seen enough, Miss Shaw." She nodded, unclear what all this might have added.
"Think I'm getting somewhere," he said. And then they'd headed back to his car out front.
Widen the net.
He thought of another place they ought to check.
Where Reese had stayed, at first, when he'd just arrived in New York.
The homeless camp. They should check for him over there.
Reese was well-aware that they'd be watching the transportation hubs. Airports, buses, subway entrances, rail. His next stop was just an hour and a half away, by car. Twenty-five miles, but through some of the densest suburbs in the U.S. And no friendly skies to get him there with Finch watching.
And he wasn't about to walk the whole way. Not like this. And not through this.
But, there were a few places he'd wanted to see before he left. Knowing Finch, he'd have them watched, too.
He'd take his chances.
The first one was first in line on his way back from Brooklyn: Lower Manhattan, Third Precinct.
It'd already'd started to hurt in his heart before he got there. He'd checked for the camera placements first, found a line where he could close in, nearly hidden. Brought him out across the street from the corner. Same angle that Simmons'd had. Chills ran through his body. And strange how the pain flared over his wounds - standing there, watching – like Simmons had watched them.
Stepped out, clear of the trees. Then bang, bang. Reese went down. Bang, Joss hit. Bang, Simmons hit and skulking away. The pay phone ringing across the street. Reese held it all in his mind for the moment. Finch had never got there to answer the call. Maybe it was already too late to stop it. Stunned. How could this have come to be?
Saw their blood stains were still on the street. Two lines, merging to one. He stared at the lines. Remembered her there in his arms, watching the lines run away from them. What do you do when there's nothing left to do...
Reese checked in with himself. Felt hollow inside. Nothing. Like suppressed. Couldn't even access inside - knew he'd need to face it one of these days. Maybe not today.
Some of it was a blur. The searching, after. Trying to find them. Who'd know where Simmons would go? Dirty cops - but they hadn't known, or died lying.
Quinn, then. How to find Quinn? His lawyer would know.
Found him. Got an address.
By then, still bleeding.
So he'd walked the aisle in a discount store. Stole a roll of duct-tape. Found the back of a noodle shop nearby. Cleaning rags hanging in the breeze. They'd do.
He'd fashioned some make-shift bandages – two. One of the rags squeezed into each of the wounds, duct-taped over the top to hold them. Probably would have hurt more than it did. But beginning to stop noticing anymore. Shutting down. Walking wounded.
No one'd need to know. Just finish the mission. Get it done.
And what happens, happens, after that.
Find a place to rest... Done...
Text Finch: "I'm fine. We always knew it'd end like this."