Saturday, August 17th, 7:00 P.M.

Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum

The gray pre-dusk summer sky had started to drizzle. They stood among the line on the stone walkway, waiting to be frisked before entering the reception. Security at the Isabella Stewart Gardner was, understandably, tight. Still—it was a strange bottleneck before entering a glamorous gallery reopening for an infamously stolen artwork. It was, in all likelihood, the most glamorous event he’d ever be invited to in a non-reporting capacity. Newt wished he owned a nicer suit.

He hummed anxiously to himself, shifting his weight from foot to foot, fiddling with the button on his left sleeve. It was loose. He was feeling okay, overall, actually. He glanced at Hermann, who was looking at the entrance with flat distaste.

“Nervous?” Newt asked.

“No. Why should I be?” Hermann said, not turning.

“Spoken like someone trying to talk himself out of being nervous,” Newt said. “First fancy gallery gala?”

“I suppose so.”

Newt smiled to himself.

“And you?” Hermann asked. “Are you feeling nervous?”

“A bit,” admitted Newt.

“First time?”

“I’ve been nervous lots of times,” Newt said with a smile. Hermann looked at him. He was more dressed up than Newt, who was wearing his only black suit. This reception was black tie, so he had on his blackest tie, which he was pretty sure an aunt had given him in college. But Hermann was wearing a bow tie. Also black. Of course. His hair was combed flat too. Newt hadn’t decided how he felt about the bow tie yet; the jury was still out.

They had come to the event together. Post-recording-incident on Thursday, it had been decided that a conversation was in order. This had led to an uncomfortable pre-reception Swan Boat ride in the humid Public Gardens, where they had sat in the back row and Hermann had questioned Newt haltingly about his insomnia and the teenage boat driver wouldn’t stop whistling.

But it seemed the conversation had gone well. Hermann’s anger about the incident had, apparently, been overwritten by concern for Newt’s health. That was, Newt felt, pretty nice of him.

Security waved them forward and Newt was patted down by a guy who looked more like Secret Service than a bouncer. What were they so worried about? Weapons? Newt thought about the things he could have smuggled in as his guard frisked him. Shoes, Newt thought. Knife shoe. Duh. Ring with poison in the top. Wristwatch bomb. Too easy.

The guard told him he was all set. Newt held the door for Hermann, and they stepped into the dark vestibule.

The first step into the dark, cave-like entrance hall to the Gardener Museum always felt like a step back in time. The entrance opened into a narrow stone foyer, darkly lit by wall sconces. The heavy closing door echoed behind them with finality.

Voices, footsteps, and a distant quartet flowed to them from the courtyard. The party was already underway in the gallery. A black-clad security guard stood impassively at the other end of the hall, in the light from beyond.

Newt touched his loose button. He was still humming quietly. “I have ‘Bicycle Race’ stuck in my head something fierce,” he said in a hushed voice. The stone floors bounced everything back to them like a church, making him feel he should be quiet.

“That’s what the driver was whistling on our boat, earlier,” Hermann said, equally quiet.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“The one with those sunglasses?”

“Yes. Apt song for a pedal boat, I suppose.”

“Guess so,” Newt said. "Frankly, I wouldn’t have expected you to know that song.”

“Of course I know Queen,” Hermann said briskly, giving Newt a look. In a friendly way. A friendly-annoyed way. The way he used to do.

Maybe this awkward talk really had smoothed things over.

“Ready?” Newt said.

“Almost,” said Hermann, glancing down at his chest.

“What?” said Newt, looking down reflexively. “It’s black tie, right? This tie is black. Isn’t it?”

“That isn't what 'black tie' means,” Hermann said as Newt looked back up at him, and then without so much as a warning he was reaching over and fixing Newt’s tie.

Newt froze. Hermann pinched the knot, and with devastating unconcern, took the tail and tugged. The knot tightened around Newt’s neck. Newt stayed still, something rushing in his ears. Then Hermann pulled his hands away, out of Newt’s personal space.

“I understand it’s a matter of your personal ‘style,’” Hermann was saying, “—and I apply that term loosely in this case—but you really ought not to go around with it loose like that.”

“Oughtn’t I?” said Newt, terribly flustered. He adjusted the tie meaninglessly on his chest. “No need to be rude about it.”

But he couldn’t control his own eyes which for a moment leveled on Hermann’s mouth as he spoke. Then down to his throat, neatly tied with his neat bow tie. Newt resisted the urge to “fix it” in retribution, but there was nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all. He swallowed. The jury had come back in with the bow tie decision. They elected not to fix it, but to seize it by the tab and pull, yanking the tight knot undone. He quickly looked away and turned to the corridor.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

The security guard eyed them as they walked together towards the party.

The party spanned the whole second floor of the villa, in the galleries and stone walkways overlooking the beautiful courtyard below. At the center of it was the newly restored and re-framed oil painting, Landscape with Obelisk.

Inside the galleries, Newt found himself lost between the backs of dressed-up people, all either too tall and glamorous, or too old and bejeweled for Newt to converse with. He felt less like a guest of honor and more like a schlubby reporter. Hermann said something about drinks and disappeared. He found himself standing next to a window in a half-empty side gallery, staring at someone’s green shoes from across the room. The sky had cleared and the sun had almost set. Hadn’t they just arrived?

Newt looked at his hand to make sure he hadn’t drunk anything, but it was empty.

He checked his sleeve button. Still attached. But looser.

“Newt?”

He turned and saw Mako coming towards him through the uncrowded room. She was wearing a dark blue evening gown and simple silver jewelry. Newt beamed at her.

“Mako! You look so beautiful,” he said. She smiled.

“And you look very charming.”

“That’s what the mayor said!”

“Is he really here?” she said. “I thought I saw him, but Raleigh wouldn’t let me say hi.”

“Is he actually?” said Newt. “I was kidding. Raleigh, is Menino here? I would think it’s past his bedtime.”

Raleigh was coming up next to Mako and handing her a glass of champagne.

“No, he’s definitely here,” Raleigh said. “We saw him by the painting.” He took a sip of his champagne and threaded his arm through Mako’s casually. Newt took notice. “First time I got a good look at it. This whole party is for that painting, but, and I gotta say it... It’s a pretty boring painting.”

“It is,” Newt agreed, tearing his eyes away from their linked arms. Were they together again, or was this just a you’re-here-for-a-week thing? Why hadn’t she told him? Stop. It’s fine. You can ask her later.

Newt looked up at Raleigh, whose eyes were on the elaborate stonework fireplace, and then at Mako. He winked at her. She smiled back wryly.

“Come on. Let’s go see the painting, huh?” she said. “We did find it, after all.”

“I suppose we did,” said Newt.

The museum director, whom they had met a few times before, was standing by the restored painting talking animatedly to every guest who came to look. She kissed them each on both cheeks and shook Raleigh’s hand excitedly, then introduced them to everyone in the vicinity. It didn’t feel like much time to Newt, but it must have been long, because as they walked off, Mako was saying, “My God, I thought she was never going to let us go.”

“I need another drink,” said Raleigh.

“I don’t think I want a drink,” Newt said. "Do you guys know where the Caravaggio used to hang?"

"Third floor," Raleigh said.

"But it's closed off," Mako said.

"You could probably still get up there, though," said Becket. "If you wanted."

"Raleigh!" said Mako. "Don't encourage him!" 

"I might..." Newt began to say, watching a pair of crocodile-green dress shoes walk by. He followed the pants up to a face, a surprising distance from the feet. A tall, bulky man looked back at Newt as they passed, his expression blankly displeased.

The man was frowning, but when Newt made eye contact, his expression seemed to change. He watched the three of them as they walked past.

“What was up with that guy?” Newt asked Mako, who was talking to Raleigh. Raleigh intercepted two glasses from a passing tray.

“You want one?”

“What guy?”

“That guy.”

“I didn’t see him.”

Newt turned. The man was turning and going into the adjacent gallery. Without a word to the others he turned and followed. 

"Newt?"

Newt followed him into the crowded gallery. There he was—green shoes. The man edged between two knots of people and then...

What happened next happened quickly. It was so fast, Newt could not be quite sure of it. But there was a waitress, holding a tray of champagne flutes, walking by the man in the other direction. He raised his hand to let the tray go by. But as he did, he did something with his wrist—touched it with his other hand—as it passed over the glasses. His arm came down, and Newt saw him touch his thick ring—snap it shut.

He had opened the top.

Newt stopped dead as the waitress came towards him and then passed him by, tray in hand, eyes on the door. Follow her, or follow him? His wide eyes followed the man, disappearing into the crowd, as his body turned to follow the waitress—and how could he ask her to stop, tell her that someone had just put something into one of the—

“Thank you,” leaked into his consciousness from behind him. He finished turning.

Hermann was taking a glass from her tray.

“No!”

Newt lunged.

The cry and the crash leveled the noise in the gallery to nothing. Silence rang out as everyone turned towards the epicenter.

Silence.

Newt stared at the shattered glass on the flagstone. He had knocked the whole tray to the floor. Frothy champagne from six destroyed glasses snaked down the cracks towards his knees. He realized he was on the flagstone too. On his knees.

Slowly, full of adrenalized dread, he turned to look up at Hermann.

Hermann was staring at him in muted disbelief. Newt could see that he was trying to keep his face impassive but in a too-late flash of interpersonal intimacy, Newt understood what his face was saying against its will. That was not restrained anger. That was fear.

For Newt.

Things are much worse than I thought, that face said.

“I...”

Hermann shoved a hand under his arm and pulled him to his feet. Still everyone stared silently.

“Your clumsiness has caused a scene, once again,” Hermann said loudly. His voice was shaky and not quite the timbre of a joke. It got a few equally nervous laughs.

Covering. So improv wasn’t the doctor’s strong suit. Not very surprising.

“Come on, Newt,” he said, voice still loud and untrue.

“But—”

He yanked Newt’s arm. Newt went.

Hermann hurried him out into the hallway. A tide of murmurs rose behind them, but they walked fast, away, through an adjacent gallery, down the stairs, into the dark periphery of the courtyard. Hermann led him quickly around a corner, then abruptly stopped under an archway. Newt's mind was racing in fifty different directions. By the arm, Hermann pushed him up against the pillar. Mako and Raleigh were behind him. 

“Newt! What the hell happened?” Raleigh was saying.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I’m f—I’m sorry, I don’t know what—”

“What happened?”

“What was the crash?”

“Newton, what the hell was that,” Hermann was demanding in a low voice, talking like the others weren't there. His hand was still clamped around Newt’s upper arm, and Newt could feel his blood pounding there.

“I’m sorry I—I thought I saw someone put something in your drink—”

Newt’s eyes widened as he spoke. Hermann’s face was close, far too close in the low light, but his ears were roaring, and his pulse was pounding in the tourniquet grip on his upper arm. He squirmed, trying to get loose. “Please—” he said breathlessly. His head felt light and heavy at once.

“In my drink?” Hermann hissed. “As in an attempted poisoning?”

Newt twisted his arm— “Please let go, I’m sorry, maybe I imagined—”

Hermann stopped. His grip slackened.

“Newton?”

His voice sounded so far away.

Newt pulled his arm free. Finally. He leaned his head back on the pillar, trying to breathe—but it wasn't getting easier. He felt dizzy, like he had just stood up too fast. But instead of fading, the vertigo was getting worse. “What,” he whispered.

Mako gasped, somewhere behind.

Hermann did something, and then put his hand on Newt’s face.

He was pressing a handkerchief to it.

“What?” Newt said again, dumbly.

“Your nose is bleeding,” Hermann murmured.

Newt put his hand over Hermann’s and took the handkerchief. He looked. Blood.

“Oh.”

Blood was pouring out of his nose.

He grabbed Hermann’s arms, falling forward, dizzy. Hermann started forward, catching him.

“Hold the—”

“I think I’m—”

“Oh my god.”

“Tip your head back!”

“I can’t s...”

“Call a cab,” someone was saying.

“We drove here,” someone else was saying. “It will be faster if we just take him.” Newt’s head was against someone’s chest, the handkerchief uselessly on his nose, his eyes shut. Even the darkness seemed to swim. “I’ll get the car...”

The last thing he remembered was the orange streetlights above the Fenway as he lay, head in Hermann’s lap, in the backseat of Mako’s car. Someone was running a hand gently through his hair, again and again, a welcome pressure on his pounding skull.