LISTED (LISTED #1)➶ THE BLACKLIST

02. FOR RED

It's dark out. A cold gust of wind blows against the apartment, whining and whistling the whole way. Snow hasn't fallen in days, so, during the sunniest parts of the week, the sun has melted the snow into muddy liver spots atop frozen grass.

On the end table adjacent my couch sits a cup of coffee, still steaming. Decaf with sugar, but no cream. I need sleep. On the coffee table in front of me I've laid out all the odds and ends I think should go in a living room- I've never really known. Tom did all the decorating for me. I just think it's important that I organize my life before the meds cause me to lose focus. My eyes shift back to my work. A table lamp, a mismatched set of coasters, a half-burnt candle with a too-long wick, various books on criminology, and a pack of triple-A batteries lay there, mocking me. It's all too much, this stuff doesn't make a living room. Nevertheless, I plug the lamp in and place it on the end table. The books, coasters, and candle stay on the coffee table, but rearranged nicely. The batteries get shoved back in the drawer of the end table.

I feel burned-out. Even small things like organizing one room overwhelm me. I'm not who I used to be. My back finds the couch and my hands find the coffee. I don't drink it, though; it's just nice to feel such warmth so close. Even after all the cold nights spent with Ray in empty theatres, borrowed apartments, and cargo boxes on boats, I've never felt so frozen before.

I jump as someone outside clacks the doorknocker, one, two, three times. I don't move, but I know from experience that whoever could possibly be outside won't wait for an invitation to come in. Slowly, I glide from the couch to the kitchen. I keep a .380 ACP in a drawer in the island, but which drawer? Shaking hands fumble in each of three drawers frantically. The knocking comes again. Third drawer, underneath legal documents. I sift through my Social Security card, insurance documents, a bank statement- finally, the handgun! Click the safety off, inch toward the door. Look through the peephole- damnit, whoever's out there is leaning against the door, blocking my vision. Unlock the door, swing the handgun outside.

It's... It's Dembe.

Why isn't he with Reddington?

"Woah," he says, his hands in the air, "Gun down. Please." His dark, earnest eyes search me intently. "We must speak."

"Come in," I urge him, opening the door just a little wider. I can't help myself, I look for others, for enemies, before shutting the door and deadlocking it. "It's safe here. What's wrong?"

"Mr. Reddington."

All other noise fades out as my ears focus only on his voice. "What about R-"

"He has contacted me. I can only trace it from here."

"Well, what was it?" My mind races. There are a million different places that he could be at and about a billion different plans that he could have in mind. "I mean the form of contact. Phone call? Text? Newspaper protocol?"

"It was a telegram." He hands me a thick, cream-colored paper.

A what?

"There's only a couple of places in the U.S. that still actually send telegrams, that narrows down the search-"

"Not from U.S." His tone is grave. "Haiti." Briefly, his gaze brushes his feet.

I glance at the telegram. The insignia on the top reads Sèvis Postal Karakòl. The message itself reads only Vent shaft STOP. "What's wrong with that? Haiti is a small country, he basically handed us his coordinates."

"No."

Dembe terrifies me when he gets deathly serious in this way. My stomach flips at the tone of his voice. I shake my head wordlessly, not understanding.

"Come with me. I have something to show you."

He leads me to a wall vent in my own home, tucked away in the corner of my sizeable utility room. After unfastening three of the corner screws, he turns the cover upwards and pulls out a small black box shoved about two feet into the vent shaft.

I roll my eyes. Of course I can't have a home that isn't stuffed with Red's secrets. He just has to leave his scent everywhere I go.

Inside the box are documents, folded up to fit its dimensions. Dembe unravels one and hands it to me.

#189: Moun ki mesaj nan mitan lannwit lan

Located in Caracol, Haiti, Those Who Message In The Night is a violent group profiting off the poorest of the 7,015 people living there. Moun ki mesaj exploit paupers and beggars by promising a better life in nearby Okap if they pillage and kill in extremely violent, inhumane ways. The murder servants always end up dead by morning.

"So, what, is he hunting these... Those Who Message?"

"He would not go without either of us. You know this. Something is wrong."

He said what I knew deep down. "Well, I can't just leave. I have... I have obligations here."

"Elizabeth," he says, holding my shoulders squarely, "you know that you are still being watched, even in Raymond's absence. You and I both know that you are on sabbatical."

I have nothing to say. He's right. "Dembe. It's not... that I want to abandon Red when he needs me most. I don't believe that I can. I mean, you've seen my place, I can't even unpack one box-"

"Please, do not try this. I need your help. I need you in Haiti."

"Okay. Okay, I'm coming to Haiti."

Dembe offers to gather my basic necessities if I promised to pack every medication I've been prescribed. I do it.

I do it for Red.