Wait and Hope: Chapter Two
John Reese
Gianni Raphael Rissole, Rafe everyone called him, reached across the bed and jabbed the alarm button off. He rarely slept soundly, if at all, even after his shift at the diner and a morning workout at the gym had Rafe climbing into bed exhausted. But this morning was one of the few exceptions; he had showered and crawled into bed expecting to watch the shadows shift across the room, the bright morning sunlight dimming into afternoon. Rafe had watched the dust dancing in a bright beam shooting from the shade-less window and landing at the foot of the bed.
Rafe hadn’t felt his eyes closing and sleep claiming him. Trembling fingers were carding through his hair; an emotionally breaking voice was assuring him everything would be okay. He buried his face into the vibration, his forehead rasped by the stubble of hair on the other’s chin. Sobs were racking his shoulders even as he rutted against the body below him. The torturous pleasure of wiry soft hair rubbing against Rafe's overly sensitive nipples sent shock-wave after shock-wave of needy desire down to his groin. He kissed a neck salty with the mixture of sweat and his own tears, reached between their bodies his hand encircling both their hardness and the voice choked out, “Please?” The trembling hands now caressed his back, as Rafe stroked them both closer and closer to climax. They were right on the edge, their bodies tensing…
Rafe killed the shrilling blast of the alarm and then flipped over on his back. Even though he had been startled awake, the dream still left him painfully hard. He grabbed the old tee shirt he had tossed on the nightstand on his way to the shower this morning and wrapped it around himself. It only took a few strokes before he felt himself draw up and spill into the shirt.
Frustrated, Rafe shot the cum-filled shirt into the hamper across the room, pushed up and off the bed and clumped off into the bathroom to relieve his bladder. He stared into the mirror while washing his hands then shook his head. He hid it well when he was out being Rafe, the handsome friendly cook, the man everyone considered a friend or possibly a romantic catch by the diner's employees or numerous customers.
It being the pain and hopelessness Rafe saw in his eyes when he was alone. He had done his best trying to forget his old life and becoming who he was now. The only thing was he couldn’t nor wanted to completely forget. When he walked out the door he was Gianni Raphael Rissole, please call me Rafe, all my friends do. But back inside the four walls of his tiny efficiency apartment he wasn’t Rafe. He was a sad, lonely, defeated man who only dared when there was no one around to remember the time when things were different. Only in the dreams did he feel loved and that things might be okay. The dreams never came easy because of his inability to sleep, and now they rarely came at all.
Rafe splashed some water on his face then looked at himself in the mirror once more. Would any of the others even recognize him now? The image looking back at him was bearded with longish hair almost reaching the shoulders, both neatly trimmed and cut. Not the shaggy unkempt derelict that had approached the lone figure staring out at the river a few years and forever ago. If by chance they would meet again, would he even recognize Rafe for who he used to be? Was he even alive now? The bullet wound wasn’t serious but it had needed looked at, only they had fled before…
***
John Reese had returned fire, shot after shot, in the direction of Greer and the Decima agents until he felt Harold pulling at his arm. He turned then following Finch back down the alley and around the corner heading in the opposite direction away from the chaos of the explosion’s aftermath. In their effort to get away Reese had smashed the window of a parked car, unlocked the right side doors while getting in and once seated broke off the car’s ignition switch with the butt of his gun. Harold opened the rear door for Bear to hop in, barely having time enough to get in the front passenger seat himself and close the door before John had the car started, tires screeching as they sped away.
Reese had been so intent on making sure they weren’t being followed, turning this way and that, he hadn’t spoken to or even glanced at the man seated next to him. Only when they were miles away and John was certain they’d escaped Decima’s goons, did he slow down and pull the car into an empty parking lot. He turned to make some snarky comment about taking so long to find Harold when the words stalled in his throat. Finch’s eyes were closed tight and his jaw clenched with pain, his left hand clutching his right shoulder. John hadn’t needed to ask, Harold had caught a bullet in the shootout. The safe house was better equipped medically, especially after Simmons had tried to kill him, but the Library was closer.
They ditched the car in an underground parking structure several blocks from the Library, and the three walked the rest of the way. John had slipped off his coat and draped it over Finch’s shoulders to conceal the blood stained hole in Harold’s suit, so by the time both men were in the main room of the Library each man was shaking. John had been trained not to feel it, but fear for Harold had overridden that and the cold had seeped into his bones. Finch was trembling violently from cold, exhaustion and pain and dropped heavily into his swivel desk chair, not having the strength left to make it to their crash room.
Reese had instead grabbed the medical kit and brought it back into the main room. He helped Harold out of the bloodied suit jacket, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned the top buttons of Finch’s dress shirt. John cut the undershirt six inches below the neck with the surgical scissors from the bag until he could get a good enough look at the wound without Harold having to remove the shirt.
John gently probed around the wound feeling the edges of the piece of metal still lodged in the wound tract. He told Harold the bullet needed to come out right away and he would have to do it because neither man knew when Shaw would make it back to the Library. John sterilized the wound before giving Finch a shot to locally anesthetize the shoulder.
Even after Reese had given the anesthetic time to take effect, Harold still ground his teeth together and grabbed the chair so hard his knuckles whitened as John probed around with the forceps for the bullet. It had torn through the soft tissue below Finch’s clavicle before flattening when its progress was stopped by the thick bone of his shoulder blade. Reese had to use some force to turn the mangled metal enough to be able to grasp and pull it out the way it had entered without causing more damage to Harold’s shoulder.
While Reese was poking around in the wound he would glance up every few seconds to watch Harold’s face for signs of shock, but all John saw were eyes, although filled with pain, looking back at him full of trust and strength. John finally retrieved the bullet and both men let out held breath. After cleansing the wound once more and taping a thick gauze pad over it, he let Harold sit up in the chair.
John draped his coat over Finch’s shoulders, while telling him Shaw needed to check him out later. Of course, Harold rarely one for overly emotional admissions, in his roundabout way admitted he admired Reese for choosing to be what he was.
Of course John Reese wasn’t overly emotive either but let Harold know that he had become lost somewhere along the way and was ready to give it all up, until some jackass had come along and gave him a purpose and a reason to live again. ‘I need you so much, I couldn’t go on if I lost you, don’t you know that?’ the words unspoken in John’s half-smile.
There had been a moment of relief and thankfulness in that they had weathered another storm; together they would face what was coming. However, one phone call from Samantha Groves had shattered all that.
They had to get out of the Library. It had been compromised. Greer, Decima had won. Samaritan was online. The only thing that they could do now was to hide in plain sight under new identities and wait. And hope.
Harold changed into a spare shirt, jacket and coat kept at the Library. The bloodied clothes, any evidence of Harold having been shot and then treated John stuffed in his bag. While Harold shut down his beloved computers, John opened the locked bookcase and removed all the fake IDs, passports, anything that had been created for either man or Shaw that could be used to lead Decima to them and tossed the paper in the bag too. He only took one handgun, its silencer and ammo from his ordinance in the Library and stuck them between the folds of his spare suit before placing them on top of everything else then zipped the bag closed.
Harold had clipped the spare leash on Bear and followed John out the gate before pulling it closed after one last look at what had truly been their home the last three years. All three descended the stairs for possibly the last time. John had asked for Harold’s new name, but Finch had said it was probably for the best if they didn’t know and had quieted John before Reese could tell him his before they walked out the door.
They walked in silence together for several blocks before parting without saying another word. John turned his head to look back once to see Harold’s face. John had to quickly turn his head away not trusting himself to not change his mind and run after Finch, after seeing the totally lost and defeated look in the man’s eyes. Reese walked a few steps ahead. Not being able to keep going like he knew he should, he turned to look back once more and Harold Finch once again had disappeared into a crowd.
Reese walked to the nearest subway entrance, hopped the gate and got into the first car that stopped in front of him. He had been standing a distance away from the crowd of workers awaiting the train on their morning commute. John rode with no destination in mind for hours. People had entered the car and left, no one particularly paying any attention to him except for a few women who had smiled his way.
It probably wasn’t the best idea to go to the loft; definitely. Reese realized he was not being very rational. Nevertheless, after several hours of riding aimlessly and deciding he wasn’t being watched John changed routes on the subway. He took the one where he could get off close to Baker Street. When Reese entered the apartment building the first thing he did was go down to the basement where the tenant’s storage areas were located along with water heaters and the building’s furnaces. At one end there was also an old incinerator; John shoved Harold’s bloody clothing in along with all the fake paper. Reese lit everything on fire and made sure nothing was left but ash before he went back upstairs to his unit.
It seemed like it had been years but it was only several weeks since John had packed a bag and then rented a car to drive to DC to meet up with Harold. Nothing seemed to be out of place, everything the same as he had left it before going to the nation’s capital. Reese didn’t think even Samaritan could trace Harold’s purchase of the apartment and Finch was too good to leave any financial trail leading back to him.
The loft more than likely would not have another tenant for years if ever once John walked out the door. He figured he had plenty of time but still hurried covering the furniture with sheets or strips of plastic sheeting from a roll he had found in the basement. He especially took care in covering things that had been delivered to the apartment, which Finch had claimed he never sent but John believed otherwise. There was the desk, the chess set on the coffee table, the lamp on the nightstand next to the bed and of course the bed.
That done, John pulled down a plastic tote about the size of two shoe boxes from his closet shelf. In it were hundreds of photographs Reese had taken of Harold, some when they were working cases or early on when his new boss was really an unknown, but most of them were ones John had taken of Finch for no reason at all except John liked how Harold had looked that day, or the suit he wore, and after he’d given Bear to Harold, the two of them together.
Next to the space where the tote had been, John had stored the case containing his favorite camera and its assortment of lenses. Maybe it had been some kind of premonition but John had decided at the last moment to put the case on the shelf and take a different camera and lens. Reese had to leave that one behind in their hunted flight from D.C. So by luck or fate John hadn’t lost this one. It was just a camera but this one had been a gift to him by Harold, nothing personal-just for the job, but special because Finch had given it to him.
John didn’t know if he’d be wearing them again, but he couldn’t leave behind the bespoke suits Harold had bought for him in Italy, one for the job and the other he only wore on special occasions; plus the Glen Check Harold had altered by hand himself. John changed from the jacket and slacks he still wore then folded them and put both in the bag he’d emptied in the basement along with the other three suits. The box of photos and the camera case John put in the bag on top the clothes. The last thing John packed in amongst the suits was a silver framed photo Shaw had been coerced into taking of John, Harold and Bear together last fall.
John - dressed now in jeans, black tee, and brown leather jacket - took one last look around and left the loft, maybe never to return again. Reese went to his parking area and took the tarp off the Ducati he’d left in his reserved space, strapped the bag to the back of the motorcycle and rode away. Reese found a storage facility with climate controlled units and paid for a year’s rental fees with cash for one big enough for the bike. John left the bike and the bag in the unit. With only the coat on his back and the manila envelope containing his new life tucked in an inside pocket, Reese left the building and walked to the closest bus stop making his way to his new home.
John Reese’s new home was just like the by-the-week-or-month dumps he had chosen to stay in before gifted the loft. This place was cleaner, more maintained than most but it was still just a stop off on the way to something better, nothing permanent, and nothing like a home.
Reese had stayed in worse before, a lot worse. The tiny apartment and its furnishings were clean, even if well-used, but John couldn’t stop the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach when he walked in the room. And only one room and a small bath off to the side bigger, but not by much, than his clothes closet at the loft.
John hung his coat on a wooden hanger and hid it towards the back of the all-purpose closet, walked over to the battered old wooden dining table/desk and dumped the remaining contents of the envelope.
Most of the cash he’d spent on the storage unit, there was maybe a few hundred left, a California driver’s license, a tattered social security card, the address of this place scribbled on a scrap of paper, and a set of truck keys on an old Ford key fob. Reese couldn’t help but groan inwardly, he’d seen an old beat up grass green Ford pickup parked out on the street, California plates. Nothing in the envelope gave John a clue to who Gianni Rafael Rissole was. Of course Reese frowned; Root wouldn’t make this easy for him.
There was a folder from a temp agency propped between an old cafe style sugar dispenser and the section of wall under the only apartment window. Apparently Rafe had been taking temp work since arriving in New York City three weeks ago. There was an order made out for him to start work as a night cook at Perry’s Diner in three days.
John had to search the apartment for anything that could let him know who Rafe was; what Rissole had been doing for forty some years and where. Why had he left California and lastly why had he come to New York City?
Under the bed he’d found a plastic folding file holder in an old suitcase. The folder contained a birth certificate and custody papers along with some legal documents including an order of parole for good behavior and a release form signed by a state criminal judge for complying with the terms of his parole, giving Gianni Rafael Rissole his freedom to go anywhere he pleased.
Gianni’s parents, Antonio and Lizbeth Rissole, had been killed by an intruder in their home when the boy was only ten. He had been sent to live with an uncle who’d only taken the boy in for the deceased’s dependent child social security benefits. Rafe had grown up unwanted and angry, in trouble off and on until at the age of twenty-two he had been convicted of accessory in the commission of a felony in the robbery/murder of a convenience store clerk. Rissole had been sentenced to two twenty year terms to be served consecutively with eligibility for parole only after the first term had been served. Rissole had done his time, was a model citizen during probation and bolted from California once he was a free man again.
John stood up and looked out the window and mouthed a satirical ‘Thanks’ to The Machine if it was still watching, then flopped down on the single bed three strides from the table. John stretched out his long frame on the too short mattress and put his hands behind his head.
Reese showed up three days later at Perry’s Diner and met with the manager. He shook hands with the jovial older man, “Hi my name is Gianni Rissole, but please call me Rafe…”
***
The job had become permanent. Rafe really did love cooking, had tweaked some of the menu items and came up with new desserts. It was his job during the slow hours of the night to bake breads and desserts for the busy day shift. Business during the day and evening had started booming because customers had spread the word about the delicious food and the hunky new cook.
Rafe and Tom, the manager, had become good friends. But like an overbearing father Tom had worried Rafe was too young to stay a lonely bachelor and never missed an opportunity to set up his friend, ‘he is like my own son,’ with a niece or a friend of one of his married daughters.
Rafe had ended up dating every female his age Tom sent in his direction even if most of those dates were technically blind dates. It was kind of a relief when he had met Tom’s niece Sherry. They were both getting tired of Tom’s well-meaning interference and had agreed to keep seeing each other with the understanding that this was a friends only relationship.
****
Rafe really wasn’t in the mood to do anything after waking from the dream. Especially not to pretend to be Mr. Happy but he had agreed to take Sherry to dinner at her favorite restaurant before his shift started. She hated riding in his bucket of bolts so they were meeting at the diner to take her car.
He was running a bit late and was driving as fast as he could without breaking any speed limits and really didn’t pay much attention to the old blue Taurus sitting along the side of the road with the hood up or several blocks up ahead the older gentleman walking with a dog. He was limping actually. Limping!
It couldn’t be. Rafe pulled over to the left turn lane and watched the pair through his rear view mirror while waiting for the light to change. The dog was black and was it that odd for it to be with a man that limped? When the light changed he drove the truck back around and pulled alongside the man and dog, rolled down his window and asked the man if they needed a ride.
Rafe’s heart jumped into his throat. The dog might be black now and the man’s hair and glasses were different but no matter the outer trappings you placed on the pair Rafe would know that prominent nose anywhere.
~~*~~
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Epilogue