Death of Innocence
Day 28
Downtown Hotel suite, December 2013
Shaw stepped through the suite, gun in hand, checking for anyone there to threaten them. Finch helped Arthur inside, and Diane brought up the rear.
"He's going to need his medicine soon," she said. Finch turned to Shaw. Couldn't be helped. They'd had to get him out of there.
"We'll make him as comfortable as we can, Diane." Finch's eyes lowered to his friend, who sat blankly, staring at nothing.
"Let me order something for us eat, then," she said. Shaw noticed the sound in her voice. Like someone in authority, someone used to giving orders. Finch had noticed it, too, and they exchanged glances.
"Maybe you'd like to lay down for a little while, Arthur? We're having some food sent up, but it'll be a while." Finch deftly lifted his arm, and guided him along toward one of the bedroom suites. He touched the door with his foot on the way in, and it swung nearly closed behind them.
"Tell me a little more about your project, Arthur. Samaritan, wasn't it? I'd like to hear about it." For a moment, Finch saw the confusion on his face, and then his lips, saying the word over and over – Samaritan. All of a sudden, his face changed, and a smile spread over the half that was still working.
"Yes, yes. Let me tell you all about it." The light had come on in his eyes, then, and Arthur set about telling him the story.
"And then, right when we were ready to deliver, they just ended the project, Harold. Stopped everything. No warning. They just pulled the plug." Finch watched him stare off into space. A look, like deep sadness, spread over his face.
"They picked someone else. That's what we all heard. Northern something. Northern –," and his voice trailed off.
"And that's when she died, Harold." Finch turned to him, questioning.
"Who do you mean, Arthur?" He turned his face to Finch, only half-working. Sadness in his eyes.
"Why, Diane – my wife, Harold. Didn't you meet her?" Finch started to blanch.
Diane walked in.
She'd been standing outside the door, apparently. But, for how long?
She crossed to the opposite side of his bed, with a tray of food in her hands, smiling at Arthur. But her eyes had changed when she looked from Arthur to Harold, standing there.
He dropped his eyes, and from under the tray, she let him see the gun in her hand.
"I'll be right back, Arthur, dear. I'll leave this right here for you. And, Harold, won't you join me for a moment, outside?"
Everything hurt, again. Laying there on the bed in the cell. Reese breathed as shallow as he could. Fusco landing his bulk on him like that – felt like he'd been hit by a truck.
Standing there by the cell door, Fusco started pacing again. He'd given them his badge, and his ID. What was taking so long? He glanced at himself in the plate over the sink. No mirror, just a silver plate hanging there. Could barely tell it was you in the reflection. But good enough to see the splat of blood on his cheek, and the eye starting to color a dusky shade of blue. The nose didn't look so good, either. His gut hurt, from some of the body blows. Lucky he had some padding there.
He glanced over to Reese. Jeez. Shot twice and he'd almost handed him his head. Wouldn't wanna take him on when he was fit again. He'd seen the pictures of the guy in New Rochelle. Reese had taken him apart. A cop, too. Jeez.
"Alright, Detective. We just got the confirmation from New York. Think we've got the picture now. You're free to go, on conditions." Fusco tipped his head up at the Officer.
"No more fighting, right? This isn't New York. We don't have brawls breaking out every night downtown. This is a peaceful place, right? Stay the night like ya planned, and then we'll give you a lift to the airport for your flight. Don't come back any time soon, right?"
Fusco didn't look amused.
"And what about my buddy, here?"
"Still running down his ID. We'll hang onto him for now."
The door squealed as it swung, and Fusco stepped out. He took a look back at Reese, who didn't say a word. The officer closed the cell door, and walked Fusco up to the front desk to sign some papers. A little while later, with his badge and ID returned, one of the cops took him out to the squad car, newly scraped free of the mud he'd dragged in. He dropped him at his motel.
First thing he tried to do was to call Finch from his room. Odd. No answer.
Waited a half-hour more and tried again. Same thing. He glanced at his watch and calculated on his fingers what time it'd be in New York.
Still early. Huh. Odd.
Reese shifted himself on the mattress. It'd seen better days, too. Needed to sit up for a little while.
He'd been thinking about things. How, as a young man, he'd fought the kid who'd come after him with his whole gang that time. Left him hurt enough to make his point and then some.
When they'd put him in jail, only offered the two options: stay there and rot, or join up – where he could put his 'skills' to better use.
They'd taught him to be The Tip of the Spear. Sent him all over the world. Tip of the Spear. You'll have to get through me!
Until success had turned to something else. Became the weapon. The Bloody Knife.
He'd believed, at first.
All the hurts and the pain, the sacrifice? Every bit of it.
And where was he now?...