Death of Innocence
Day 19
Midtown Manhattan, same night
The thing about Machines, the AI kinds of Machines, is that they become tenacious. Once they lock on, an AI will often pursue with unending determination and speed, almost anticipating to a fault what may happen next.
It comes from the splash of possibilities that instantaneously roll out from any situation, and the stunning capacity for an AI to follow all of them down each of their respective rabbit holes – each to its own conclusion – all, all at once, in parallel, simultaneously.
So, when a tall man had emerged from the shadows of a specific, sensitive target on a street corner in Lower Manhattan, the Machine merely observed the situation, at first. Probabilities began to accrue almost immediately, and observation continued.
A stop on the opposite corner, at a site even more sensitive than the first, changed the probabilities even more favorably. As did the brief stop and the glance at the wrist – longer, perhaps, than one would need for a time-check. And then the glance sky-ward. A check of the sky itself? The weather approaching? Or something else? If so, what else? You can see how this would go. Many possibilities chased down the rabbit holes: all, all at once, in parallel, simultaneously.
Probabilities, statistical analyses, observation continued; actually following along, with the man. And attention by the Machine intense, tenacious.
The Machine wasn't about to let him go. And didn't.
Cobbling all available sources together: CCTV street camera video, security footage along the way, and all the relevant input from the Internet of Things out there, the Machine made a solid prediction: They had their man.
And the Machine did not hold this revelation unto itself.
So, when a certain tall man appeared at another sensitive site, on another street in Midtown this time – notwithstanding a limp in his gait, and a cane in one hand, and a floral bouquet in the other – a text had already been dispatched informing Harold Finch of the new development.
The Machine – communicating…
Reese had run the same calculus in his head as the Machine. Maybe some props...
Changing things up – with the obvious limp, a cane from the drugstore and a bouquet of flowers from a street vendor. Might've worked. Doubted it, though. Finch was just too good at this.
And the Machine was supposed to be capable of learning new things all the time. So, Reese had a pretty low probability in his mind of fooling Finch or his Machine.
He was right about that.
Reese still took precautions. Checked for the cameras on the street overhead and made himself a line through to the back. More cameras in the back, but half of them hadn't worked when he was there last time, running from HR.
And he recalled how the door in the back'd been unlocked that time – a quick step out for a smoke by one of the techs inside, he'd noticed. Probably open through the night, 'til morning, when the tech left for home and the morning shift arrived for work. He'd slipped out the back, HR and thugs following, away from Joss. That was the plan.
There was something else there – not on the plan.
He limped along inside, eyes on the floor. Stopped to rest his leg on the way. A hand on the wall to steady himself. Rough on the wall there, under his hand. So dim inside he wouldn't have even noticed. A hole, bullet-sized, filled but never smoothed properly, and hastily painted over. The dead wouldn't much care here, he thought, then dropped the thought.
Carter had been here. More than alive.
Started up again, leaning on the cane, caning his way back to their spot.
Turned in to the room where they'd been. Stopped there, on the floor, where he'd turned to her. Didn't think he'd be seeing her again. Wanted to draw them off, away from her. Give her half a chance. Only four blocks to the FBI. Four blocks that seemed like four hundred that night. Fighting and scrapping, until their kiss.
Not on the plan. But it should've been – and long overdue.
How do you thank someone who's given back your life? Maybe a little too philosophical, too psychological for Reese. It was really simple, like most true things.
That thing between them? Mostly felt and left unsaid. Until that night. When he knew this could be it – last time he'd ever see her again. And so, he'd had to tell her. Drove himself to say it – out loud. Show it, in his eyes, with his kiss. Time running out. He couldn't know how fast.
Standing there, on their spot, Reese raised his flowers in his hands – as if to pass them along. Give them to her.
She wasn't there.
Brought them back and pressed them to his face, his lips – as if she were them. Then to his chest over his heart.
He marked the spot where they'd stood with his bouquet. Left it there for them. Turned and started to walk away.
Felt a wisp of soft on his face, dragging so softly across his lips. Breath in his ear, again: "You know I'll never leave you, John."
"Never thought you'd be the one, Joss. Should have been me. Should've protected you..."
His Towne car raced through the streets, bound from Brooklyn, through the tunnel.
Traffic snarled the way traffic does in Manhattan, with Finch stopped in the line, staring at his cellphone text:
Sighting at The City Morgue. Proceed with all due speed.
Best route displayed below.
Optimizing traffic lights ahead.
Within moments, traffic smoothed. No longer stuck among travelers, taxis, deliveries. Slipping through like silk through a hand. Ten minutes. All the time he'd needed to make it. Parked their car and rushed for the door.
The Machine observed. Knew they were already too late. Reported such.
No use rushing when he was already gone.
Thing was, the Machine couldn't find him now. So many cameras. Yet, so few sending a live shot for review. Low priority for cameras to protect the dead, right?
Reese had slipped from them, into the night.
Time for a Team meeting then. Back at the library office, with some food, hot drinks, clear heads.
When Reese had slipped out of the City Morgue, no looking back. He'd held his feelings in his chest, silent, as he often did.
Breathed into the feelings.
Nothing at first. And then the touch came up, soft on his lips, warm. Memory of tears gently raining down their cheeks.
A last goodbye, he'd thought. A tender moment to her. First of more, perhaps. Just had to get through tonight.
If there were sounds around him, Reese didn't hear. Let the sounds of their voices then, the touch of their lips hold him for a while. Lost in the touch, embracing. Would've stayed there with her like that. A little longer.
Needed to go, though, to spare her. Never thought it would come to this. Never thought it'd be her.
In his thoughts, revenge.
An eye for an eye. He'd raised his gun, held it steady at the end:
"It took one final step, and all you'd had to do was make me."
