Fic: Doubt: Three Vignettes from the Dead of Winter, Part 2

[blacktop50]

Chapter 2

Three weeks later

“I mustn’t stay long, Detective. I know you need your restorative quiet.”

Joss smiled at Finch’s precise language.

The steam from the mug of tea at his lips had fogged up his glasses, but she was sure she could detect a gleam of affection through the obscured lenses. If he wasn’t exactly winking at her, he was certainly twinkling.

“I won’t claim to be a medical expert, but surely just three weeks out of the hospital is not nearly enough time to count yourself fully recovered from a gunshot wound, I would say.”

“Well, alright. You got me there, Harold.”

She leaned back against the sofa arm, stretching her legs out along its length. Spread across her lap, the jumbled colors of her Aunt Juliette’s crazy quilt clashed with the pink flowers of her flannel pajamas.

“But at least I’m back on light duty at the station now. Desk jockeying for a few hours isn’t much, but compared to sitting around here all day watching my nails grow, it is a real blessing.”

Her hair was clutched into a bun at the top of her head. If she had had the time she would have combed it properly and arranged it so that the neck wound was covered.

Harold had witnessed the shooting, of course, and knew how seriously she had been injured. But still she wanted to spare him the sight of this gash and the implied accusation its clumsy stitches still carried.

So this visit was a surprise; she barely had time to slap on a protective dash of lip stick before answering the door. He had chosen the hour before Taylor was due home from school for his arrival, not a coincidence, she was sure.

As he settled in the high-backed wing chair opposite the sofa, she prayed Harold wouldn’t notice her upswept hair and exposed neck. With what she hoped was an unremarkable movement, she tugged down a tendril to cover her wound.

Harold seemed to be decked out in an unusual number of layers, more clothing than required by the blustery weather, she judged.

Even after shedding the gray window-pane plaid overcoat, he still wore a wool suit in heathered blues and greens, under it a snug vest striped in turquoise and olive. The narrow magenta scarf he kept over his lapels complemented the red handkerchief and the flecks of crimson in his navy tie.

She thought she detected a festive hint of pomade which made the tufts of his hair shine as he turned his head before the frame of the bright window opposite them. Though the pink in his cheeks could have been the result of wintery gusts, she thought some of their glow came from a recent close scraping with a straight razor.

Harold’s dress, his grooming, his manner underlined her first impression: this was indeed a noteworthy occasion.

In the past whenever she was around him, Joss had sensed an itchy impatience radiating off the man; she had the feeling that he wanted to dismiss her, found her company irksome, and was always searching for a way to cut their meetings short.

Like Alice’s White Rabbit, Harold always seemed to be late for a very important date.

Sometimes she enjoyed poking at this prickly side of him by drawling out her end of their conversations, using her mother’s best Southernisms to spice up - and slow down - the exchange. Getting his goat that way was fun.

She knew just how to drive Harold to the point of exasperation.

But, the teasing had its limits. Though she liked to nudge him out of his clenched formality, when the man’s fidgety temper threatened to overcome his usually impeccable manners, she knew to stop.

This afternoon however, Harold didn’t seem in such a terrible hurry.

Maybe it was the shooting itself that had tempered his impatience. Or maybe the wild oscillation of John’s responses - from fiery rage to stony retreat -- had reconfigured his friend’s sympathies.

She had doubts about the exact causes for the change; perhaps she would never pinpoint them for sure. But as it began, this visit had all the relaxed appearance of an aimless social call. She was sure there was more to Harold’s visit than that but she resolved to let him set the pace while she followed.

He wouldn’t let her fix the tea when she offered it, even though she argued. He was determined to usurp her hostess role and so she decided to rest on the living room couch and enjoy his efforts.

While the water boiled she heard him opening every cabinet in her kitchen, scrabbling like a furtive mouse though every cranny in search of mugs and sugar cubes and the dented canister of loose tea and that crazed old brown pot she hadn’t used in years.

He even dug out a forgotten package of Fig Newtons, still moist and sweet in their cellophane wrapper.

Employing the wicker tray that John had used for similar service, when he brought the mugs out to the living room and spread the quilt over her legs, he performed these tasks with such a courtly flourish that it set her laughing.

And it also touched her heart. She didn’t feel deserving of this attention, but she recognized that it meant a great deal to him to have her just accept these kindnesses.

She knew something of John’s vengeance-filled rampage in search of the man who had almost killed her. She knew that Elias had sent his mobsters to bring a bloody end to the job John couldn’t finish.

But until this moment, she had not considered how deeply the shock must have affected Harold as well.

“I won’t stay long, Joss. Just a sip and then I’m out the door.” His voice was bright and warm, like the Darjeeling tea.

Her fingers fluttered to her neck again.

“You don’t need to hurry away, Harold. I like the company. And don’t treat me like an invalid either. I’m feeling stronger every day.”

She thought he bristled at that, as if she had accused him of an impoliteness.

“John acts like I’m made of glass too. Like I’ll break at the slightest touch. But I won’t, you know. I promise, I’m alright.”

Harold only straightened his back at this personal turn in the conversation. He let a vague sigh ruffle the steam curling around his face before he spoke again.

“He’s…well, we both were quite shaken by the shooting. You must know that, Detective.”

She nodded but remained silent.

“It’s one thing to imagine your own demise. I think I can say with confidence that not a day goes by but John doesn’t contemplate the possibility of dying.”

She took his free hand then and pressed it between both of hers. He carefully placed the mug on the table.

“I won’t claim he’s alright with it, of course. But I believe that John has come to some resolution about the dire chances we face in our mission. In fact, I think he's truly consoled with the thought that you would survive him, if the worst came.

“But this…this was so different. So awful. To see someone you care for threatened, harmed before you can do anything to prevent it… I, um…Well that’s…”

He closed his eyes and his voice hitched and he squeezed her hand in turn.

“Well, that’s a horror from which it’s hard to recover.”

She had to press into this opening.

“But he will recover, won’t he? I mean, I didn’t die. And I’m here and I’m healthy. Or getting healthy anyway. He’ll be better too, won’t he?”

She wanted to ask: He’ll come back to me, won’t he? We’ll be better, won’t we?

But she couldn’t make her plea so personal. Not like that.

“I hope so, Joss.”

Though the words were confident enough, their quavering tone was an admission that Harold might have just as many doubts in these new circumstances as she did.

She knew that nothing he had ever done had been preparation for events like these. She had been in combat; John too. But Harold was plunging into new territory now, with no maps or guidebooks to point the way forward. They would have to forge on blindly together, just counting on their instincts to find the next steps.

But still she doubted Harold - worldly and brilliant - could be as dislocated as she was. He mustn’t be. She needed him to be steadier, solid, and sure-footed while she stumbled along this uncharted itinerary.

So she was grateful when he took the silence as a chance to turn their conversation in a new direction.

He drank deeply and looked past the curtains with a vague, even dreamy air. Then his regard turned precise again, his eyes piercing above his tight mouth.

“Well then, if you’ll permit me the time and if you are feeling up to it, Joss, I’ve actually come on a mission. I’ve come to make an introduction, really.”

He gasped as if taken aback by his own words, but didn’t proceed further until she prompted him.

“An introduction? What’s that supposed to mean, Harold?”

He cleared his throat, set the mug on the coffee table and fiddled with the unfastened lower button on his vest.

Finally, after what seemed like an eon of deliberation, he continued.

“I know that you found your way on your own, Joss. A tribute to your ingenuity and your diligence, to be sure.
“But now I think it’s time that I introduce you to the machine in a more formal manner.”

xxxxxxxxx

So for the next hour they sat side by side on the sofa, the antique quilt stretched over both sets of knees, heads close together, breathing in unison like conspirators.

Harold’s laptop was sprung open on his thighs and Joss had to lean into his left shoulder slightly to get a proper view of the screen.

First he took her on a virtual tour of the headquarters of his operation, which he called the Library.

“I can give you the address if you want.”

He offered the information with a charming hesitation, ducking his head and looking down as if suddenly shy.

But the sly smile she threw at him as she rattled off the coordinates of their financial district headquarters won a warm chuckle in return.

“So you were on to us, were you?”

“From the start, Harold. I’m a detective, remember. Scoping out intel is what I do.”

“But you never revealed your knowledge, Detective.” He underscored her title with a low drawl and a sidelong smile.

“I just thought it was better to let you and John have your little fun. I always knew how to find you if I needed you.”

Then with a lash of his fingers the screen split into nine sections, each offering a view into a different room of the Library.

Dimly lit chambers lined with dusty volumes multiplied across the screen: a long heavily carved table topped with a row of darkened lamps dominated one space; a cozy sitting room glowed in a yellow light as two wing chairs crowded behind a low coffee table where a crystal brandy snifter sparkled; in another room, glass-fronted curio cabinets flanked an ornate partners desk with green felt blotters above each kneehole; elsewhere several dingy rooms held chunky old-fashioned card catalogs, some of their long drawers overturned, the contents spilling across the tiled floor like the remnants of a card game interrupted.

In a majestic room with high coffered ceilings, she saw five monitors arrayed across a round table, one ergonomically correct chair pushed against its edge.

Behind the table, toward a bank of towering windows, she could make out a glass evidence wall. Taped to it were a photo of a brown-skinned woman with elaborate dreadlocks, a map of generous green spaces like those on a college campus, and an organization chart.

The glass board was garishly cracked.

She wondered why, with all his money and all his meticulous personal attributes, Harold kept a glass board with such a giant fissure across its surface. Surely he could afford a slick new glass board for his private work space. Or even a fancy touch screen wired to the Internet.

But then as she studied the board further, she saw that although the jagged blemish certainly disfigured the glass, the crack didn’t hinder its functionality.

The glass evidence wall was damaged. Just like Harold was. Like John and now herself. But it still had a purpose and it still worked. Perhaps that was why he kept it, as a reminder and as an emblem of hope for them all.

Before she could pose the question, Sam Shaw sauntered across the room and crouched before a lumpy dog bed next to the round table.

Joss thought she looked like the special naughty elf Santa Claus chose to compile his list of sinners.

Saturnine in black tights, combat boots, and inky t-shirt, Shaw wore a black knit cap pulled low over her forehead.

They watched as she placed a bone on the floor next to the dog bed and then strode away, her lips pursed in a tuneless whistle.

“Smile, Ms. Shaw. You’re on candid camera!”

Harold’s ringing voice startled Joss as much as it did Shaw.

The younger woman swiftly raised her head toward a corner of the room and grimaced directly into the camera lens. Then she stuck out her tongue at them and lifted an expressive finger for punctuation.

It pleased Joss that, despite all of Harold’s best efforts to gentle her, Shaw remained as untamed and indecipherable as ever.

Next he showed Joss a tiny galley kitchen: just a microwave, a coffee maker atop a miniature refrigerator, and shelves holding six mugs and an equal number of plates. Upended packing crates supported boxes of crackers, dog biscuits, and dried fruit. A flat pink carton with its lid flipped open revealed that only two of the original dozen glazed doughnuts remained.

Joss recalled her melancholy visit to the vast chef’s kitchen of Harold’s townhouse, with its glowing stainless steel appliances and sumptuous marble counters stretching as far as the eye could see.

To make herself laugh instead of cry at these sad memories, she thought of Harold’s dour housekeeper whose snooty manners rivaled those of a Downton Abbey lady’s maid.

“Danvers must just hate this sorry excuse for a kitchen!”

“Oh, he’s never seen it!” Harold chuffed at the idea. “And you’re right; he would have an apoplectic fit if he ever did!”

She noted that Danvers had acquired a definitive pronoun, but chose not to comment on the successful outcome of that long desired transition.

When the pause extended, Harold filled in with a few details.

“I gave Danvers - Joe, as he now is - a shaving kit for Christmas and a year’s membership in Apthorp’s Club for Gentlemen. Just small things, really. But I wanted to do something to mark the occasion.”

“I’m sure he’ll like that, Harold.”

The virtual tour continued as several more dusty rooms sprang across the screen in rapid succession, their floors littered with piles of moldering books and paintings curling out of their frames.

She saw a cage filled with shelves of leather-bound volumes. Its single greasy window and wire-framed walls lent the space the air of a sinister basket, an impression compounded by the padlock as large as a man’s fist which gripped the cage door.

On a small rectangular table in the middle of the room was a hair brush clotted with fine brown strands and a bottle of black nail polish.

“Is this where Shaw bunks?”

The room didn’t fit Shaw’s esthetic, but Joss asked anyway.

“No. She has her own apartment uptown. Ms. Shaw has never expressed an interest in staying over at the Library and I doubt she ever will. She’s an independent spirit, to be sure.”

Nodding, Joss noted that he offered no explanation for the feminine items in the caged room. A puzzle for a future conversation, she decided.

After all these tumultuous years together and all the trauma of the past few weeks, Joss thought she had earned the nosiness she indulged in next:

“Show me where John stays.”

The room Harold revealed then was dim and so crabbed it reminded her of a cell. Two thin blankets were folded neatly at the foot of the narrow cot, but the bare mattress lacked sheets or a pillow. A black cord for recharging a cell phone was coiled on top of the blankets.

Along a wall brass hooks bore wire hangers, three black suits arrayed there like a faceless jury delivering a verdict. Underneath the bed a pair of black boots gleamed from the shadows. On the floor next to the boots a small tin of shoe polish sat on top of a paperback, Mickey Spillane’s Kiss Me Deadly.

Before Harold could summon the next screen shot, Joss glimpsed a long white cloth draped over the brass door knob.
Her silk head wrap. The one she had kept in John’s room at Pooja’s, the one she believed lost a year ago. Finding her white scarf here - stolen, saved, cherished -- made her eyes sting with tears.

John could pretend to the solitary life, claim a hard stoicism that daunted her and often shut her out, but this flimsy scarf was proof to the contrary.

She had touched him as much as he touched her.

Joss wanted to shudder at the sight of this lonely room, with its simple tokens of a personal life reduced to its transitory minimum.

But since she was pressed against Harold’s shoulder, she clamped down on the shivering inside. This sadness enveloping her wasn’t a feeling she wanted to burden him with now. Or ever.

As if sensing the dreariness of her thoughts, he interrupted them with phrases wrapped in soothing tones.

“You know, he doesn’t stay here all that often anymore. But I suppose it does offer a convenient landing spot, when he needs it.”

She turned her face toward him so he could see the gentle frown that accompanied her next words.

“This place is so much more than just a convenience to him, Harold. You must know that.”

He removed his glasses and, sighing, rubbed them against the frayed quilt on his knee.

“Yes, I think I do now.”

His eyes, milky blue irises focused on a secret horizon beyond the darkening windows, startled her with their intensity.

“Thank you for that, Joss.”

When the lenses were polished and shining again, he held them aloft to catch the last light from the bleached winter sun.

She felt the mood lift with that simple gesture.

Now it was on her to guide the conversation into a brighter path.

“So enough of this tour of the boys’ super-secret clubhouse!”

She wrinkled her nose in mock horror.

“You guys need to hire a good cleaning service for that place: shovel the dust out, wipe down the mold, and let the fresh air in once in a while, why don’t you?”

She laughed until he did too.

“Now let me see that evidence board again, Harold. Up close this time! Chop-chop!”

She clapped her hands together as if summoning a genie from an oil lamp.

“No hiding your master work from me anymore. I want a peek under the hood now. Let me work a case from the inside with you.”

And so they did.