Finch wiped out everything he’d done on the computer. There were still ways that she could recreate it; short of reformatting the hard drive, which seemed rude, it was impossible to entirely prevent that. He did what he could and then rebooted the system. While it shut down, he sipped the last of his tea. It was cold, of course; his hostess had tapped on the door and passed him a fresh mug every hour, but the last refill had been forty-five minutes ago.
None of the tea, as far as he could tell, had contained any poison.
He glanced at the mug. It had a lovely pattern, a reproduction of the 1925 Cugat cover of Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. He thought back and realized that every mug she’d brought him had been from the same collection. Out in the café, he remembered, there had been a wide assortment of mugs, nothing matching. But this was a set. The good mugs, the ones she kept for company?
He sent the shop’s address to Reese’s phone. It would take him a few minutes to get there.
Finch knew from shipping labels on boxes in the store room that her name was almost certainly Christine Fitzgerald. That name didn’t ring any bells. He had resisted searching for her identity on her own computer. His intense curiosity “ and his paranoia “ had run up against his innate sense of propriety, and good manners had won out. Which was not to say he wasn’t going to research her the moment he was back in the library.
Christine Fitzgerald, whose friends called her Scottie. Who owned a collection of F. Scott Fitzgerald mugs. Who read Aldous Huxley. And whose blue eyes that seemed somehow wrong. He’d known her in another life, she’d said. Under another name, obviously.
He was exhausted, but he would know who she was by sunrise.
The computer came up again. He shut off the monitor, left the box running, and stood up. He stretched carefully; he hurt from his neck to his toes. Then he picked up the mug and unlocked the door.
Gatsby. A light-weight little novel, really, an outsider’s observation of the great doomed romance between Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan that …
Finch stopped dead, his hand on the door. For a moment it was hard to breathe. It couldn’t be her. And it had to be. He hadn’t recognized her because of the eyes. Of course the eyes “ they weren’t wrong now, but they had been so wrong before. “She survived,” he whispered to himself.
An odd sensation twisted around in his chest, shot tendrils of warmth throughout his body. All the gin joints, she’d said, and it was entirely appropriate. He’d never expected to see her again.
He’d given up on her. For a moment, that memory filled him with shame.
And yet …
“She survived,” he repeated. The shame faded; the warmth returned. Finch smiled. He opened the door and went out into the coffee bar.
The room was unexpectedly quiet and dim. Of course, Finch realized; it was three in the morning. The crowd was gone; the café was closed. Only the girl remained, curled in one of the big chairs by the empty fireplace, a reading lamp over her shoulder and a book in her hands.
Above the hearth, there was a quote painted directly on the wall: In the space between chaos and shape there was another chance. “ Jeanette Winterson.
She blinked up at him. “All done?”
Finch sat down slowly in the chair opposite her. “You’re Daisy Buchanan.”
“I used to be.” She smiled shyly, shrugged. “I still am, once in a while.”
“I should have recognized you.”
“I’ll take it as a compliment that you didn’t.”
Finch nodded slowly. The last time he’d seen her she’d looked dreadful. “You never came back. I thought you were dead.”
“I never came back because I was scared to death.” She put her book down. “And everybody’s sure that you’re dead.”
“That’s a common misconception. And one I’ve taken some pains not to correct.”
He’d forgotten how disconcerting her eyes could be. She seemed to be looking straight through his every façade. Working it out. Her eyes were much like Mr. Reese’s, in a way, unnerving in their intensity and perception. She nodded thoughtfully. “Then I’m just here talking to myself. Don’t worry, it happens all the time.”
“How did you know?” he asked. She cocked her head, puzzled. “When I came in. How did you know what I needed?”
“Ah. Do you want the long version or the short version?”
“I think I’d better have the long one.”
“Okay.” She settled back. “You know hackers, yes? As individuals we’re loners, introverts. Social misfits. But get us behind a keyboard and we gossip like the popular girls in middle school. As long as we’re not face-to-face, we share everything.”
Finch nodded. He knew too well.
“A year or so ago, the community noticed a new presence among us. An entity of enormous skill and power. A phantom who could walk through firewalls unscathed, who could hack into the most secure companies with ease. Who would drain Swiss bank accounts with a glance at his keyboard. Who could topple corporate titans with a keystroke.”
Finch sat very still, kept his expression blank. He could feel his pulse pounding in his temples. Of course they’d noticed. He’d always know the smart ones would notice.
The woman’s eyes sparkled. “Word went forth that one of the Nine Princes walked amongst us. Based on his behavior, he was most likely Prince Random. He was sometimes chaotic good, but frequently chaotic neutral at best. He seemed to be engaged in some higher calling; he showed no interest in the hackers of the mortal realm. And the wise ones decreed that Random was not to be bothered; no one was to draw his attention to us. It seemed likely that if we did warrant his notice, his wrath would be swift, fierce and wide. So any young hero amongst us who determined to make his bones by hunting Random swiftly found himself kneecapped in the virtual gutter by the elders of the community.
“Shorter version: We’ve been aware of you, we have some idea what you’re up to, we’re awed by your abilities, and not that you need us, but we’ve got your back.”
“I … don’t know what to say,” Finch said. “I can’t remember the last time I heard a Zelazny reference.”
The woman laughed out loud. Her laugh made him smile. So much better than the shouting and cursing she’d done last time. He never thought he’d hear her laugh.
It was still hard to breathe. Daisy Buchanan. He’d been so sure she was lost, many years ago. And she was sitting here in a dim café, safe and healthy and to all appearances happy. She still had a book in her hand and a computer at her fingertips “ some things never changed. But everything else about her was different.
“Assuming for a moment,” he began again, “that I am this lost prince of Amber … how did you know it was me?”
“I didn’t,” she answered simply. “Until you walked in here, I had no idea. No one does. But there are only a handful of men in the world who can do what Random does. And if you’re not dead and you’re here in the city, it has to be you.”
Finch took a slow breath. “The number of people who know that I’m one of those few men … may well be limited to the people in this room.”
She understood what he was saying immediately. “Then it’s good that I’m just here talking to myself, isn’t it?”
He trusted no one, ever, not completely, but he believed at once that she would keep this secret. She already had, he realized. For many years. “Thank you.”
“Kind of the least I can do,” she answered softly.
“No, Christine -- it’s Christine now?” She nodded. “You don’t owe me anything …”
“I owe you my life and every good thing in it. And except for that first few weeks of screaming, there has not been a single day, then to now, that I don’t remember that.” She took a deep breath. “And I should have said this a long time ago, but thank you.”
He didn’t begin to know what to say. “I just wanted you to live. Everything else … just live.” Over her shoulder, Finch saw a sedan glide by with its lights off. He stood up. “I have to go.”
She rolled to her feet, snagged a key ring off the end of the bar. “I’ll let you out.”
They walked to the front door slowly. Finch found himself reluctant to leave. He wanted to talk with her. To find out who she was now, what had happened to her since he’d last seen her. He could tell Reese to go home. They could brew more tea; they could sit here in the dim quiet and talk until the sun came up. He could listen to that laugh again.
It was dangerous. So very dangerous.
“Can I give you a ride home?” he offered. “Or call you a cab?”
“Thanks, but no. I live upstairs.” She unlocked the door.
“Is Mr. Ingram really dead?”
“Yes.”
She sighed softly. She’d been far closer to Nathan than she’d been to him, at least until the end. “I’m sorry.”
Finch nodded gravely. “Thank you for your help.”
“Will I ever see you again? I mean, in real life?”
He glanced around the dark coffee bar, remembered the crowd and the noise. Chaos was a perfect name for it. It was a good place to get lost. “Are you sure you want to?”
“Yes,” she answered without the slightest hesitation.
“Good. Now that I know you’re here, I’m likely to exploit you ruthlessly.”
She seemed genuinely pleased. “I’m sure that will be highly educational.”
“You have no idea.”
They went outside, stopped under the single light over the front door. “Um, what’s your name these days?”
“You can call me Mr. Finch.”
She nodded. “Can I call you Atticus when I know you better?”
Clever girl, Finch though. Oh, my clever, literate girl. “If you like. Or Harold, which I’m more likely to answer to.”
“Harold,” she said slowly. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”
He took her hand, but shaking it seemed inadequate. He held it for a moment. “Good night, Christine.”
“Good night.”
She didn’t move; she seemed content for a moment just to study him. He felt the odd twisting in his chest again. This woman was here now, alive, because of an action he’d taken “ one that he hadn’t been at all sure was right at the time. There had been others, of course, since he’d started chasing the Numbers. Women and men and the occasional child that he and John had saved. But Christine Fitzgerald, who had been Daisy Buchanan, had been before all of them. She was special. Very, very special.
Without thought, he raised her hand and pressed his lips to the back of it. It was a ridiculous gesture, but her face lit up with delight. She giggled, then laughed again. And blushed. Then she drew her hand back gently, went inside, and locked the door behind her.
Finch laughed a little himself as he walked to the car. He slid into the passenger seat. “Mr. Reese.” He couldn’t quite shake the smile. “Have you sorted out Mr. and Mrs. Frollich?”
Reese growled quietly; foolish domestic situations always irritated him. “Who’s your friend?”
“Just someone I used to know.”
“Uhhhh-huh.”
“Actually, she’s the first person I ever kidnapped.”
Reese looked at him. “I thought I was your first, Finch.”
“I’m sorry. I should have broken it to you more gently.”
Reese’s silence, as it often did, spoke volumes. He drove to the end of the block before he turned the headlights on. A very small idea tickled across Finch’s brain and came to rest. He would need to look at it again, closely. But for the moment, a small seed would do. “Mr. Reese, stay away from her.”
There was a second brief silence. “Anything you say, Finch.”
“John. Please.”
“If you want me to stay away from her, Harold, then you’re going to have to tell me why you kidnapped her.”
It was exactly the response he’d expected. Finch looked out the window for a long moment. There had been another night, very much like this one. The same over-baked quality to the air, the same irregular blending of neon and florescent light on concrete, the same tall building drifting past. But this time, instead of leaving a shrieking, dying child raging in the care of strangers, he was leaving a safe and healthy young woman content in her own home. “I suppose for the same reason I kidnap anyone, Mr. Reese.”
“To save her life.”
He nodded. A rare contentment filled him for a moment. “To save her life.”
***
1999
Drug raid. High summer. Hot as hell. The house smelled like pot and piss and God only knew what else.
Fusco moved through the rooms with the other cops, gathering junkies as they went. No one put up much resistance. The dealers were long gone; only the stoners remained behind to get caught up as prisoners in the war on drugs.
In the last room on the left, Fusco found a young boy sitting cross-legged on the floor in the corner, playing some computer game on a laptop. “Come on, kid,” he said. “You’re going to jail.”
“One sec,” the kid said vaguely. “I almost won.”
Fusco reconsidered his guess about the kid’s gender. His hair was very short, blue-black with big white streaks, but the voice sounded like a girl. Hell, as skinny as this one was, it hardly made any difference. He reached down and slammed the lid of the computer, then hauled the kid to his/her feet.
“Aww, come on, I almost won.”
“Whatever, kid.” He turned her around and got a good look at her. “Ah, shit.”
“What?” Chrissy said.
Behind her glasses, her pupils were huge. He could tell by her expression that she had no idea who he was. Hell, she probably had no idea who she was. “Shit,” he said again. He dragged her toward the back door.
There were a couple other uniforms there, watching the exit. He didn’t slow down. “I’m takin’ this one out of here,” he barked.
“Kinda young for you, isn’t she?” one jeered.
“Too young,” Fusco said. They didn’t try to stop him. He dragged her onto the nearest side street, stopped under a light so he could get a look at her.
She was as skinny as she’d been the year before, and not much taller. A lot dirtier. And clearly high as a kite. Her eyes were bright, goofy. Fusco felt sick. He grabbed one arm and pushed her sleeve up. No track marks, not yet. That was something. “Christ, Chrissy, what are you doing out here?”
“I’m not Chrissy,” she said primly.
“You’re not, huh? What’s your name, then?”
“Daisy.” She made it into a little song. “Daaaaaay-sie.”
“Daisy. Sure. What’s that, your hippy name?”
She struggled to stuff the laptop into her shoulder bag. “I coulda’ won,” she complained.
“Sure, kid. Whatever. When was the last time you ate?”
“Huh?” She pushed up her glasses and squinted at him.
“Ate. You know, food?”
“I know food.” She giggled, poked his belly with one finger. “Not as good as you, though.”
Fusco rubbed his forehead. Behind them, the raid was wrapping up. They’d started looking for him pretty soon. He got out his wallet, took out a ten and one of the stupid business cards the department had given him. “Chrissy, here, listen to me. I want you to take this number and keep it. If you get into trouble, you call me, okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
He gave her the ten dollars. “Take this and get something to eat. To eat, right? Don’t buy drugs. Get some food.”
She giggled again, tucked them both into her completely unnecessary bra. “Ooooo-kay.”
“And then I want you to go home. Do you hear me, Chrissy? Go home.”
The girl sighed loudly. “Go home, Chrissy,” she mimicked.
“That’s right. Go home.”
“Ooooo-kay.” She started off down the street. Then she stopped and looked back at him. “I coulda’ won, you know.”
“I know, Chrissy. I know.”
She walked a few more steps, and then she started to run, clumsily.
One of the other uniforms came up on him. “You know that kid?” he asked. He clearly didn’t care that Fusco had let
her go.
“Used to.” Fusco shook his head. “Always knew she was gonna be a heartbreaker. I just didn’t expect it to go down this way.”
***
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