Death of Innocence
Day 26
No-Name Motel, Arkansas, December 2013
Belle introduced him to Clay, one of her regulars coming out of Chicago, on his way to California, and then up the Coast for a few more stops. Time for Reese to move on now. He had another couple of weeks of growth on his beard now, and the blue had changed in his eyes. Might just be okay to be around people again. But not for long at any stretch.
Still wasn't sleeping. Long past exhaustion - a lot of the time he was working on fumes.
"You take care of yourself, hear? And if you get back this way again, don't forget about us. Glad to see ya any time." Belle wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. Reese grimaced, but tried to hide it, and thanked her again for all the help. She watched him climb up into the cab, and waved to both of them.
Clay was more of the silent type himself, so the two of them got along fine in the cab. The scenery got a little more scenic every hour they drove. Colder out there, too. Next stop he was going to have to buy some warmer clothes, and some heavier gear to get along.
They rolled into Colorado after dark. Made their way to one of the truck stops, and got a hot meal there. Just a little farther along, and Reese'd be heading off on his own again. There was a cabin up in the mountains. His father had owned it years back. Now people rented it out during the season. Pretty much shut down this time of year. One of the bar-keeps down the mountain kept track of the place.
Drove on for another two hours, and then made their final stop for the night. Reese bought him a few rounds at the bar, and then headed for town.
Chase was on tonight behind the counter. His smile lit up when Reese walked in. Big and burly, he sported a curly red beard and wavy brown hair. Looked like a lumberjack.
"Look what the cat drug in," he said, as Reese settled himself at the bar. "Cold one?" Reese nodded, and Chase pulled a handle back, filling a glass with amber-colored goodness.
"On the house," he said, smiling. His eyes crinkled when he smiled, and the little bit of skin on his cheeks not covered with reddish beard stuck out like shiny apples on his face. Reese tipped his beer toward Chase, and downed a sip.
"So what brings you all the way out here, my friend?" Reese dropped his glass down to the bar.
"Just a little overdue R&R," he said in his whisper-voice.
"Ah, that's right. You're one a them city-slickers now. How's that workin' out?"
"Can't say I recommend it. Long days. Sometimes you get so tired, you don't even know who you are anymore." Chase had started to laugh, but the way it'd come out, he stopped himself. He took a closer look at Reese. Something about the sound in his voice. No laughing matter.
"Jeez. You look like hell, Man."
"So I've heard."
"Where ya stayin'?" Reese took another sip of his beer, and waited a minute before he said.
"Think I'll stay up at the cabin for a while." Chase looked at him, closer again.
"Sure. It's been closed up a couple a months now. Checked on it last week. Got the keys right here." He reached under the cash register to a drawer and came out with a set of keys on a ring. Tossed them over to Reese.
"Gonna stay in town tonight, and get some supplies before I head up. How's it been goin' with the rentals?"
"Yeah. Makes us a tidy sum each summer. Still think you should rent it in the winter, too. Not so bad if ya put a little money into it, fix it up a little more."
"Thinkin' about that. I'll let you know. Thanks for the work you do, keepin' an eye on it."
"Means a lot to ya – your Dad's an' all. My Dad always talked about him. Best damn soldier there ever was, according to him." Chase smiled another one of those crinkly, appley smiles and then stepped away to another customer.
"Chase, you still have that ol' truck you used to bang around in?" Another smile.
"Still as sweet as they come," he said, gazing up to the heavens.
"Mind if I borrow it for a couple days, until I get my ride set up?" Chase nodded and reached into his pocket for his keys. Unclipped a pair of keys off the ring and tossed them over to Reese.
"It's over at the house. Nobody home this week. Karen's over in Tulsa with her Mom. Some kinda Girl's Weekend thing comin' up, and she's over there helpin' to set up." Chase rolled his eyes and smiled again.
Reese stayed another hour, had another beer and some bar food to tide him over 'til morning. Left around ten, when things were just starting to get busy at the bar. Waved to Chase as he left.
He lived about a mile away in a sleepy part of town. Reese grabbed a cab to drive him over, and then found the truck on the side of his house. The lights were off in there, but the spotlight on the side of the house tripped when he walked down the path.
Dropped his pack on the passenger side and slid in behind the wheel. It started right up and made a satisfying rumble under his hands. Backed out onto the street and rolled down the hill to the main part of town.
Reese stayed at one of the local motels overnight. Nothing special. They didn't even recognize him at the front desk. A lot of the businesses had turned over since he'd lived here before, so nobody striking up a conversation about the old days.
Took a long, hot shower to heat him up all the way through, then covered himself with a thick layer of blankets. There was a TV in the room, but just like back in Arkansas, he left the thing off. Didn't wanna know what was going on out there.
Kinda liked it this way. Floated from one day to the next. Didn't have to solve the problems of the world. It was better like this. Clean air, some sunshine, a little mountain stream and maybe a fishing pole if he could get up there in time.
Had some chores to do in town before he went up to the cabin.
"I think you're gonna want to see this one, Harry."
"Miss Groves, as I have explained a number of times, already, I have no interest in pursuing the numbers any longer. We've closed down operations. Permanently."
This didn't sit well with her. She had an inside track to information about the number waiting for Finch to acknowledge. And once he did, there'd be no stopping him. He had a personal connection with the next number.
"Harold, I'm telling you. You're gonna want to see this. He's running out of time." Harold crumbled some time later. And then he understood Miss Groves' admonition. His dear friend, Arthur Claypool, had run into serious trouble.
If he decided to open the Team to another number, a new case, he was glad it concerned someone like this. An old friend, a scholar, from their days at MIT. Arthur and Nathan Ingram had both been friends of his, and the three of them frequently spent their time together. Now that Nathan was gone in the ferry boat bombing, Arthur's life had become even more precious to Finch.
Finch sat at his bedside, only newly aware of the diagnosis. His face had fallen with the news. He'd arrived when Arthur had been arguing with one of the staff. Others had had to respond to stop him from resorting to violence. Harold was shocked at this display. Arthur had never been a violent man. Far from it. If anyone among them had been the pacifist, it would have been Arthur. Now, after hearing his diagnosis, Harold understood. All part of the symptoms: headaches, double vision, personality changes.
This kind, fun-loving, bear of a man had changed – under the influence of the tumors in his brain and the treatment given to try to save his life.
"Terminal," he'd said, bluntly, in one of his more lucid conversations. It broke Harold's heart to hear it. While he sat there, listening, Miss Shaw had been circulating the floor, her own talents as a physician allowing them to sift through the charts and observe an odd dance around the patient.
Finch himself had noticed one of the security detail hovering around Arthur.
Security?
Harold had learned that Arthur worked for the NSA, had done so since college, in fact. Perhaps one of his projects demanded it. As Arthur was slowly losing his brain processing, how would they protect him from himself? Perhaps Arthur was now a walking, talking, security breach-in-the-making. Emphasis on talking. Anything could potentially come out of his mouth.
Miss Shaw had some other concerns. She'd read through his records, and even sat with Arthur's wife, Diane.
Harold wondered how that had gone. Showing sympathy wasn't exactly high on her list of accomplishments.
There seemed more to this story than first met the eye, and Miss Shaw and he were going to get to the bottom of things as quickly as they could.
Arthur Claypool was simply running out of time.