End of Innocence
Chapter 32
Cabin, Cimarron, December 2013
Not like he hadn't been warned. That feeling he'd had. Someone watching.
Someone else besides Finch and his machine…
Diner near the Homeless Encampment, November 2013
Raised his cup for her to pour. Noticed his hand. A tremor inside – making it shake. Her eyes slid to his, a question there.
"You okay, Mister?"
Far from it.
"Fine," he lied. She didn't look convinced.
"I saw you walk in, Mister. Before. Want me to call you a cab?"
"I'm good. Really. Just a little wiped – from the job, you know?"
Ah, made sense to her. Same thing happens to her.
"Anything else I can get you, then?"
"Just those sandwiches, to go; the soup; and a large coffee, black. And can you pour it into my thermos here?"
"Sure thing. Be right back." Her eyes flashed, and a smile brightened her face. Things were gonna be okay.
Reese left her a big tip and shuffled up to the front. Stopped near the door at the desk to pay. No wait. No one in front of him. Heard the keys pressed and the soft little beeps they made under her fingertips.
Hmm.
His eyes lifted and scanned the whole lot out there, and beyond to the street, and then the trees nearby. Couldn't explain the feeling, or the hairs prickling on the back of his neck.
Raised his collar up. Pulled the ski hat lower.
One of the door hinges squeaked on the way out. And the breeze carried the salty smell of the Bay in, all this way. Took the stairs, gingerly, one at a time. Scanned again, and then all the way back to the Camp.
The feeling was still there. Like eyes on him. Mile and a half back to Camp. Fresh set of clothes on his back, shaved, and as clean as he could get at a diner sink.
Homeless Encampment, Brooklyn, November 2013
Reese hadn't planned to stay so late. Hadn't planned on the brutal night last night, either. Sweats and the shakes, shivering all night on the ground. Doing a little better now. Upright, at least, and walking a little more.
Joan had come back early. Said she'd been worried a bit and wanted to check on him.
Reese handed her a sandwich, a full one. And one for Ol' Sam, too. Shared the coffee around with the three of them. Toasts again and smiles all around.
He'd be leaving soon, but something more he'd wanted to do before he left.
Limped over to Joan and held her by her arms. Startled her a bit. A question in her face, and then a frown.
"Leavin', friend?" Somehow, she knew.
Reese nodded. "Gotta go now."
Her face fell a little. But living on the street made you expect things like this. Couldn't count on a lot of things staying the same. Every day's another day. Come what may.
Reese reached into his coat. Something hidden in his hand so only she could see. Rolled up like a fat green cigar. One of the stacks of bills from his safe, with the slip of paper wrapped around the middle. Cash. More than she'd seen in a lifetime.
He took her hand. Opened it, gently. Placed the roll in the middle of her palm and drew her fingers over.
Her eyes saw and questioned. No sound. Just her kind, questioning eyes.
"For you," he said. "Saved my life. Twice." He turned her hand over the other way, pressed his lips against the back.
They stood there for a moment. Then Reese turned away. Headed along the path for the main drag – half a mile away.
Light had started fading. Dusk soon. Time to head out – on the road, again.
Didn't look back.
He was well-aware they'd be watching the transportation hubs. Airports, buses, subway entrances, rail. His last 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 there were a few places he needed to see before he left. Knowing Finch, he'd have them watched, too.
Just have to take his chances.
First in line was on his way back from Brooklyn: Lower Manhattan, Third Precinct.
Already starting to hurt in his heart before he got there. Checked for the camera placements first, and found a line where he could walk in, nearly hidden. Brought him out across the street from the corner. Same angle 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. He'd stepped out, clear of the trees. Then bang, bang. Reese went down. Bang, Joss hit. Bang, Simmons hit and skulking away. A pay phone ringing across the street…
Reese held it all in his mind for the moment. Finch never made it to answer the call. Maybe already too late to stop it. Remembered his face: stunned. How could this have come to be?
The stains then. Still on the street. Two lines, merging into one. He stared. Remembered her there in his arms, watching the lines running away.
What do you do when there's nothing left to do...
Moved on, like anybody else. Kept going. Just a quick stop on the corner to check the time. Then the skies overhead for the weather, and moving on like anybody else. Maybe no one'd notice. It's dark. Maybe no one'd notice…
Reese kept walking. Once, he'd turned to see the Precinct over his shoulder. The Third. Where he and Carter had met that first night. Hurried on the best he could; the hurt in his heart only rising. Then down to the subways. Uptown. Took the train to Midtown.
One more stop after this.
He kept his collar up and his hat down low over his eyes. Would have hunched his shoulders even more - but the entry wound on the left and all that real estate torn up across his chest? The rib that hurt every time he breathed or reached? Broken man. Things didn't work the same anymore.
Keep walking, long as you can.
Hmm. There's that feeling again.
The hairs on the back of his neck, prickling.
He glanced around. People walking. Nobody looking his way. Crossed the street in the middle of the block. Nobody followed. Nobody looking his way.
Felt eyes on him, still. Even blindfolded, he'd know.
Damn...
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. 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 their rabbit holes: all, all at once, in parallel, simultaneously.
Probabilities, statistical analyses, observation continued; actually following along with the man, and attention from 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.
He recalled how the door in the back had been unlocked that time – a quick step out for a smoke by one of the techs inside. Probably kept it open through the night, when the tech left for home and the morning shift arrived for work. Reese had slipped out the back, HR and thugs following, away from Joss. That'd been his plan.
Something else had happened –not on the plan.
Reese limped along, eyes on the floor. Stopped to rest his leg on the way, a hand on the wall to steady himself. Rough there, under his hand and so dim inside he wouldn't have noticed. A bullet-sized hole, 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, leaning on the cane, caning his way back to their spot. Turned in at the room where they'd been. Stopped on the spot where he'd faced her.
Didn't think he'd be seeing her again. Wanted to draw them off, away. Give her half a chance. Four blocks to the FBI. Four blocks that seemed like four hundred that night.
Fighting and scrapping, until their kiss stopped them.
Not on the plan. But it should've been – and long overdue.
How do you thank someone who's given you back your life? Maybe a little too philosophical, too psychological for him. Really simple, though, 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. Had to tell her. Drove himself to say it – out loud. Show it, in his eyes, with his kiss. The time was running out. He couldn't know how fast.
Standing there, on their spot, Reese raised the flowers in his hands – as if to pass them along. Give them to her now.
Joss 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 bent and left the flowers where they'd stood.
He straightened and stared at the spot, ready 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."
Had an answer this time.
"Never thought you'd be the one, Joss. Should have been me."
Library Office, Midtown Manhattan, same night
Finch blanched with his thought. Team in tatters, torn and worse. Mr. Reese shattered. He'd barely survived that night. Had it not been for heroic work, a surgeon and Miss Shaw at his side, John would have perished in his care. Too close, and too many times for John.
This is not how he'd imagined their work to be: intervening to assist, bringing justice to those who would harm. He never saw it like this. Real people. His friends. His Team. Gone. Not sure he could do this anymore. He felt done with it.
Things out there would need to take care of themselves, now. The way things had been before. Not their responsibility. Not anymore.
He just needed to find Mr. Reese again. Bring him back in. Back to his family. Found family for sure – not his own, but all that he had for now.
Finch thought about it. How once he'd believed that People didn't change people; only Time did. Now, he knew without a doubt that he'd been wrong.
It was People who etched the changes onto their own – good or bad. Time was just the container that held them – while the etching was done.
"What are you thinking, Finch?" she'd asked, after such a long pause. He'd been staring out to space – like he did, sometimes.
Shaw had always had her trouble reading people, like this. Wasn't her thing to "get" them, read what they were thinking inside. Her flaw. Her Disorder.
Feelings? Emotions? Human connection? Didn't see the light of day for her. Smothered under the blanket of her Disorder. She knew it. She'd read about it. Could expound on it, to anyone else who'd wanted to know. But that's where it ended.
What do you do when there's so little feeling inside? A flaw like that. Brilliant as a doctor, but not enough feeling inside, they'd told her. So, what about an assassin, then? That might fit.
Until they'd turned on one of their own. Her partner. And things stopped fitting after that. Tried something else then. Found a home, as much as she could sense having a home. And a Family, if that's what really mattered, after all.
She'd found her work again, too. Not so easy to do - with a skillset such as her own. A little peace'd come her way. Liked it here, enough. Thought maybe she'd stay for a while.
And, God help any who'd try to take it - take them - from her. Fair warning: "you'll regret laying a hand on any one of them."
Finch appeared pensive to her:
"I see Mr. Reese returning to the places most meaningful to him right now. He's leaving, Miss Shaw. I mean really leaving. So, these are his final looks at the places he values the most: where he and Detective Carter met for the first time. The corner where she – left us. Maybe even his apartment. It seems he'd grown fond of it over our time together."
He paused for a moment. It was a lot for her to take in. Her disorder. After a moment, he glanced over to Miss Shaw. Her eyes were calm, dark pools. Listening. Aware. But not really understanding it all.
Took it in all the same. Impeccable memory. She'd store it, somewhere, under some title like "Odd things to know about Reese." She was sure if she looked, plenty of stuff already there.
Looked back to Finch, then. Her eyes calm, dark pools.
"So, where do we go from here, Finch?"
Midtown, November 2013
Had to let it go, navigating his way in the tunnels – another train headed north. On his way to Harlem, 125th Street station, then on to the next leg of his journey.
Hmm. The hairs on the back of his neck were prickling again.
Stared back - through the subway doors behind him. Nobody looking his way. Just an army of tired people rocking in their seats, lights flickering overhead in the turns. But nobody looking his way.
Watch your step…
On to Metro North, Reese rolling north out of the City. He'd left the subway behind. Exposed again, out there.
Still, so little for Finch to track along the way. Used cash at every stop. No credit cards, no ID. No trail to follow - unless the cameras had picked him up again. Not much he could do about those. Had to pick a path with the least and hope for the best.
Just one more place to go. One last place to see.
Kept sweeping the cars behind, then forward to the next.
That feeling was there – prickling on the back of his neck. But nobody looking his way. So short a trip out of Harlem to his stop, and then he was walking off the train and following the signs.
Maybe he'd try a ploy.
Ducked into the Men's room. If someone followed him in, he'd end it right there. Make him make a move he'd regret. Spent a little time in there, then at the sink, washing the City-grime off his skin. But nobody'd followed him in.
Maybe he'd be waiting outside. Watched for somebody's eyes searching and glancing away - telltale sign of someone stalking. This wasn't Reese just sensing Finch chasing him – someone was actually out there – tracking.
Time to lose him then and leave him behind.
Reese jumped in to the first taxi at his station. Had him stop then, near a hotel's parking lot and leave. Hopped their shuttle to the hotel. Then into another taxi.
Couldn't pick him up. Whoever he was, he was good. And the prickling hadn't stopped.
OK, one more taxi for good measure. Then out to the streets in the dark.
Reese was in the neighborhoods now. Some old grand houses set back from the streets. Caned his way along, and then cut through a yard without a fence in the back. Didn't think he'd want to jump one, not like this. Wasn't up to all the abuse he'd take on his wounds.
Crossed through the yard to the parallel street and hung in the shadows under the trees – just watching. Nobody showed. Couldn't shake the feeling, though.
Kept moving. Stayed in the shadows where he could. Until he was there.
Eerie in the dark. Last time he'd been there, daylight.
Houselights were off inside. So, he glanced and passed it by, walking down to the next one on the street with the lights off, too. Reese ducked through the yard and doubled back - all the way to the back door.
No lights in the back, too, and no security outside to trip him up.
Clicked a flashlight on from out of his backpack. Yellow tape still there on the door: Police - do not enter.
No one had taken it off, after. He'd noticed the sign out front, too: For Sale. Looked empty inside through the curtain. Reese used his knife on the tape, and a simple tool to defeat the lock. Back doors are usually the least secure in the house, and no exception here. In seconds, he was standing inside.
Felt cold in there, and the air so still.
Swung his light around. The kitchen there – neat, clean, empty-feeling. Reese closed the door behind him and locked it again. Headed out of the kitchen to the dining room. What would he find in there?
Memories flooded back: coming through the front of the house that day. Somebody lived here. He'd seen the table with all the flowers clustered in vases, withered and dry, two months on after the crash. Her photos were still there underneath. And a few candles, unburned.
Remembered walking the house. Each room. Just wanted to get a sense of her, anything left behind. Found her perfume on a dresser upstairs. Remembered the scent. It took him back to the trip that time - Mexico - where it'd all started, on that deep blue September day. She'd worn the scent then, too; pretty, like her…
Didn't need to end like this.
Strange how they hadn't emptied the house, after.
For sale, and still had the trappings inside. The photos were gone, though – all the things that'd shown who they were, living here.
Living. That is, until they weren't.
A tightness grabbed in his chest. Cold in here. So empty now.
In the dining room someone had cleaned up the mess. No sprays of blood splashing across the wainscoting. No splatters on the walls, and plenty of it left behind back then. No pool in the middle of the floor. Just a darker stain left behind - like they couldn't get it out after they'd tried.
Flashed his light around one more time and then moved on.
Upstairs then. Down the hall, stopping to look in each room. Clean. Neat. Like someone had just left for the day.
Then her room. Their room.
Bed on the wall, facing the door, a couple of side tables, two dressers – one for him and one for her. Reese glanced at the top of the longer one. Hers? Perfume was gone now. None of her personal stuff left behind. He checked the drawers. Empty, too. Nothing to say who'd been here.
Reese had a thought, then. Something gnawing at him for all this time.
He went drawer by drawer. Pulled each of them all the way out. Nothing behind or taped on the back? Then over to the side tables by the bed. Pulled each and checked there, too. Huh.
A white piece of paper – stuck with tape to the back of the drawer. His heart started to thump in his chest. Slipped it out and held the paper in his hand. A little shiver, holding it.
She'd always had such pretty handwriting. His initials were on the front.
If you found this note, something's happened here.
I tried to wait. Maybe I shouldn't have called.
Just wanted to hear your voice again.
Know that I always loved you…
Jessie
Standing there in the dark, with his light shining on her words, a fist gripped around his heart. Squeezing. How had he let this happen? How could he have failed like this? Failed to protect. Too late to save her…
A sound came up – from deep inside him – more animal than anything human. Like a long, low growl.
Remembered the day – when Peter came home. Shouldn't have tried to come for him with the poker. That was a mistake.
All the rage, all the pain inside, and what he'd done to her? It all came out, unleashed. He couldn't stop himself that day. Didn't stop himself.
Finch wouldn't have approved. It's not what we do, he'd say. Not what we do…
"Don't move!"
Familiar voice behind him at the door. Reese held the letter to his chest. If the end came now, at least he'd have it there, over his heart.
"Drop the flashlight on the bed. Leave it on."
Reese reached over to the left with his arm outstretched and the light in his hand. Slipped her note into his coat with the other hand. Dropped his light on the bed.
"Hands over your head. Feet apart."
Reese leaned his cane against the bed and stepped back, with his feet wider apart. He raised his hands over his head, wincing from the wound on his chest, and the pull, firing all the way down to his right.
Heard him approach from the rear. Grabbed the wrist on his left and yanked it down behind his back; his right hand next. Slipped a noose over and yanked it tight. Felt like the way a cop would do it.
"Have a seat, Reese."
Swung him around and pushed him down onto the edge of the bed. The flashlight wobbled on the bed and lit his face.
Hmm. Reese remembered how spry he'd seemed – must have forgotten himself for the moment, back at the Camp.
Ol' Sam.
And not so old now.
Studied him a little more closely. Gone were the gray in his hair and the stoop in his shoulders back in the homeless camp. More of a swagger in his step now, and a shine in his eyes. Like a fever shine.
"So where were you, in Quinn's world?" Reese asked.
Behind him, he was working the zip tie around his wrists, reaching to feel the kind. Was it the standard-issue police tie, or one of the thicker, heavier ones, for security work?
Sam grinned at him, perfect white teeth framed with his brown skin, dark eyes shining in the light like fever. In his hand, police-issue Glock pointed at Reese.
"More of a background guy, like Quinn," he said, not humbly.
"Must be one of the last of the pack, then."
"Last man standing, thanks to that cop, Carter." The fever fired a little higher in his eyes. "Got what was coming to her. Never even saw us 'til she hit the dirt." Sneering.
The light changed in Reese's eyes. A piercing blue that'd cut right through you.
The next thing Bennett heard was the snap from the tie on his wrists giving way. The light went out on top of the quilt.
And the gun went off, again and again – flashes in the dark.
I 95, Northbound, November 2013
His Machine had arranged a green dot on the screen, tracking their whereabouts as they approached. The dots moved closer and closer on the screen, until at last, they'd merged. Shaw left the car two houses short and jumped out.
"I'm going in first, Finch. If you don't see me wave you in, drive away, and get some help," she said. And as she was closing the door behind her, "someone's gonna need it."
He watched her reach behind her back, under her jacket. Something dark came out in her hand. Finch shuddered in his seat.
He'd be in the way if he tried to stay close; but he desperately wanted to follow.
Heard what she'd said. Desperately wanted to follow …
Down through the yard. Lights off in the house. Over the fence. No dogs waiting on the other side. Silent, like one of her drops after her team had flown off. As Indigo Five Alpha, she'd been used to this. The quiet before the literal storm. Get your gear in play and Execute.
Light danced on the patio doors in back. The TV on inside. A man, asleep on the couch; she could see him through the gauzy panels on the doors. Another fence at the far side of the house, lower than the first. Then straight through to the back of the next. Someone singing at the sink.
She stayed in the shadows, invisible to anyone inside.
On to the driveway, then over the flowerbeds between. Now, hesitating just that moment. Sensed the breeze on her face, the scent in the air. Saw the yellow tape fluttering in the wind.
Door ajar, held with a rubber wedge underneath. Advanced. Kitchen. Empty. Moved on. Dining room. Empty.
From there, views of the rest of the rooms, empty. No lights anywhere. She had a sense to move upstairs.
Quiet up there. Glanced in at each room along the top. Neat, orderly. Like the owners were away.
The scent changed in the air. Shaw stiffened and held her gun up in front of her. Something bad up ahead. Hairs prickled on the back of her neck.
Last room at the end of the hall, then. Quick look, then back. A form on the floor. Swung her eyes and her gun through the line of sight this side of the door. Dropped low, and stepped to the other side, eyes and gun traveling through her line of sight. Cleared for the moment.
Stayed low and entered, gun high in front. Nothing to shoot on the other side. No rounds fired, no sounds at all. And the smell of blood, strong; like right there.
Something odd in the middle. Shaw stepped forward. A bed and a hump of pillow in the middle with something like a glow beneath it. She grabbed a corner and stepped away, dragging the pillow off the top.
Flashlight. Still glowing. Someone had smothered the light. And in the light now, the body on the floor. Wasn't Reese. Looked like his handiwork, though.
"Whoa," she whispered, eyeing him up and down. Not much left to bury. Broken, bloody cane lying next to him. What she could see of him, Sam Bennet – who'd met his match tonight.
Her foot crunched over something on the rug. White, curled like a piece of wire or plastic. When she looked more closely, a zip tie, snapped like a toy and lying on the floor. Her gun went up even before she saw the figure at the door. Held off firing and saved his life.
Finch, at the door.
"I'm sorry, Miss Shaw," he said, then discovered the carnage inside. His hand went to his mouth, and he turned away.
"Is it – anyone we know, Miss Shaw?" Voice strained and weak.
"Not Reese, Finch."
Saw his shoulders drop and the long exhale. Meanwhile, she'd picked up the flashlight from the quilt – more of the carnage splashed around the room. Blood in pools, splattered on the walls, across the bed.
She scanned, searching the entire space: in the closets, under the bed, inside the bathroom attached on one side.
No sign of Reese, anywhere.
Later, downstairs: "We must call this in, Miss Shaw." Finch looked pale in the light of the flashlight. He blanched even more with the sight of blood sprayed across the lens and handle.
"On it," she said. "I took his phone," she said, tipping her head toward the stairs. She hadn't touched it with her hands but used her shirttail to grip the sides. Blood of course, but no broken glass.
She'd noticed a feature, so Finch wouldn't need to hack in. A red call button on the side – must have come in handy for a cop on the beat. Shaw pressed the button.
"Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?" Shaw held the phone up, and then raised her gun next to the speaker. Two shots into the air pierced the ceiling. Unmistakable, at that distance, what it was.
"Hello? Are you there?"
She left the phone on and laid it down on the floor.
"Hello? This is the 9-1-1 Operator. We're sending help to your address. Repeat – help is on the way."
Wiped the flashlight down with her shirttail and laid it next to the phone, still lit. Then she grabbed Finch by the sleeve and headed through the door. Stayed in the shadows to the street. Two doors down to their car.
He watched them - all the way back to their car. From deep in the shadows.
He saw her open the door for Finch and close it after. Shaw walked around to the driver's side and stopped. She held for a moment. Stood there, as if sampling the air. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
Took a last look around. Stared for a moment, as if she'd seen him in the shadows. Then a small shake of her head as she got in. They almost had him at the end of the night.
In minutes, the street was empty. Their car headed one way - and Reese, alone, headed the other …
Cabin, Cimarron, Colorado, December 2013
Cold.
He woke up cold on his chair. Cold and dark inside him, too.
If he'd had a drink in his hand, he'd have drained it and gone for more. Only embers were left now, glowing in the stove. Reese grabbed for his coat and something hard thwacked a knee. Damn!
Right. The other night. He'd found his gun laying in a drawer. Didn't recall how it got there. Dropped it in his coat so Shaw wouldn't see.
Reese swung the coat over him and pushed himself up to standing. Slipped his arms in and gathered it around him; long enough, at least, to get the fire going. Checked the time. Good. Only nine. Felt like midnight already.
Reese bent down on a knee to shake the embers, then threw in a few more logs. Had to blow on the coals for awhile before the flames came back. A little light showed in the stove. Could see the reflection off the glass in the windows.
Enough light. Didn't wanna see the bottle on the hutch. It was everything he could do to keep from smashing something. Smashing everything in sight. Bent himself forward with his hands on his thighs. Breathing hard.
Had to get ahold of himself.
Turned and made his way to the kitchen. Wouldn't look at the hutch. Ran the water. Filled the carafe and poured it in. Added the scoops of coffee and hit the button. Just had to wait for it now. Stared out the back into the woods. Too restless to stand there and wait. Keep moving.
Turned around and limped past the hutch to the hallway. Down to his room.
Empty.
Moonlight slanted across his bed, sharp against his eyes.
What was that?
Something on the side table. He limped over and stared at it. White, paper, his initials on the top. A rush of feeling came over him. Picked it up.
The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Like before.
Slipped a hand in his pocket, silently. Drew his gun out in the darkness.
Swung around. Shadow in the doorway and moonlight hit the barrel.
A gasp. Something falling. Glass shattering. Then, footsteps running down the hall.
He stood there.
Gun in the moonlight.
Heard the front door slamming. Engine starting. Tires spinning in the snow.
Reese flipped the lamp on behind him. Limped to the bedroom door. Red all over the floor. Smelled like wine. He stepped over the glass and down the hall.
Fire danced a little higher in the stove and his coffeepot gurgled. Headlights turned in the yard, as her tires finally bit. She swung all the way around and onto the drive.
Watched her lights from the window, until they disappeared in the woods.