Alone

Bobby Dodge – #1

He'd put in a fifteen-hour shift the night the call came in. Too many impatient drivers on 93, leading to too much crash, bang, boom. City was like that this time of year. The trees were bare, night coming on quick and the holidays looming. It felt raw outside. After the easy camaraderie of summer barbecues, you now walked alone through city streets hearing nothing but the skeletal rattle of dry leaves skittering across cold pavement.

Lots of cops complained about the short, gray days of February, but personally, Bobby Dodge had never cared for November. Today did nothing to change his mind.

His shift started with a minor fender bender, followed by two more rear-enders from northbound gawkers. Four hours of paperwork later, he thought he'd gotten through the worst of it. Then, in early afternoon, when traffic should've been a breeze even on the notoriously jam-packed 93, came a five-car pile-up as a speeding taxi driver tried to change four lanes at once and a stressed-out ad exec in a Hummer forcefully cut him off. The Hummer took the hit like a heavyweight champ; the rusted-out cab went down for the count and took out three other cars with it. Bobby got to call four wreckers, then diagram the accident, and then arrest the ad exec when it became clear the man had mixed in a few martinis with his power lunch.

Pinching a man for driving under the influence meant more paperwork, a trip to the South Boston barracks (now in the middle of rush-hour traffic, when no one respected anyone's right-of-way, not even a trooper's), and another altercation with the rich ad exec when he balked at entering the holding cell.

The ad exec had a good fifty pounds on Bobby. Like a lot of guys confronted by a smaller opponent, he confused superior weight with superior strength and ignored the warning signs telling him otherwise. The man grabbed the doorjamb with his right hand. He swung his lumbering body backwards, expecting to bowl over his smaller escort and what? Make a run for it through a police barracks swarming with armed troopers? Bobby ducked left, stuck out his foot, and watched the overweight executive slam to the floor. The man landed with an impressive crash and a few troopers paused long enough to clap their hands at the free show.

"I'm going to fucking sue!" the drunken exec screamed.

"I'm going to sue you, your commanding officer, and the whole fucking state of Massachusetts. I'll own this joint. You hear me? I'll fucking own your ass!"

Bobby jerked the big guy to his feet. Ad Exec screamed a fresh round of obscenities, possibly because of the way Bobby was pinching the man's thumb. Bobby shoved the man into the holding cell and slammed the door.

"If you're gonna puke, please use the toilet," Bobby informed him, because by now the man had turned a little green. Ad Exec flipped him off. Then he doubled over and vomited on the floor. Bobby shook his head.

"Rich prick," he muttered. Some days were like that, particularly in November. Now it was shortly after ten p.m. Ad Exec had been bailed out by his overpriced lawyer, the holding cell was washed down, and Bobby's shift, which had started at seven a.m." was finally done. He should go home. Give Susan a buzz. Catch some sleep before his alarm went off at five and the whole joyous process started once more.

Instead, he was jittery in a way that surprised him. Too much adrenaline buzzing in his veins, when he was a man best known for being cool, calm, and collected.

Bobby didn't go home. Instead, he traded in his blues for jeans and a flannel shirt, then headed for the local bar.

At the Boston Beer Garden, fourteen other guys were sitting around the rectangular-shaped bar, smoking cigarettes and nursing draft beer while zoning out in front of plasma-screen TVs. Bobby nodded to a few familiar faces, waved his hand at the bartender, Carl, then took an empty seat a bit down from the rest. Carrie brought him his usual order of nachos. Carl hand-delivered his Coke.

"Long day, Bobby?"

"Same old, same old."

"Susan coming in?"

"Practice night."

"Aye, the concert. Two weeks, right?" Carl shook his head.

"Beautiful and talented. I'll tell you again, Bobby-she's a keeper."

"Don't let Martha hear you," Bobby told him.

"After watching your wife haul a keg, I don't want to think of what she could do with a rolling pin."

"My Martha's also a keeper," Carl assured him.

"Mostly 'cause I fear for my life."

Carl left Bobby alone with his Coke and nachos. Overhead, a live news bulletin was reporting on some kind of situation in Revere. A heavily armed suspect had barricaded himself in his home after taking potshots at his neighbors. Now, Boston PD had deployed their SWAT team, and "nobody was taking any chances."

Yeah, November was a funny kind of month. Wired people up, left them with no defenses against the oncoming gloom of winter. Left even guys like Bobby doing all they could do just to hold course.

He finished his nachos. He drank his Coke. He settled his bill, and just as he convinced himself it really was a good idea to go home, the beeper suddenly activated on his belt. He read the screen one moment and was bolting out the door the next.

It had been that kind of day. Now it would be that kind of night. Catherine Rose Gagnon didn't like November much either, though for her, the real problem had started in October. October 22, 1980, to be exact. The air had been warm, the sun a hot kiss on her face as she walked home from school. She'd been carrying her books in her arms and wearing her favorite back-to-school outfit: knee-high brown socks, a dark brown corduroy skirt, and a longsleeved gold top.

A car came up behind her. At first, she didn't notice, but dimly she became aware of the blue Chevy slowing to a crawl beside her. A guy's voice. Hey, honey. Can you help me for a sec? I'm looking for a lost dog.

Later, there was pain and blood and muffled cries of protest. Her tears streaking down her cheeks. Her teeth biting her lower lip.

Then there was darkness and her tiny, hollow cry, "Is anyone out there?"

And then, for the longest time, there was nothing. They told her it lasted twenty-eight days. Catherine had no way of knowing. There was no time in the dark, just a loneliness that went on without end. There was cold and there was silence, and there were the times when he returned. But at least that was something. It was the sheer nothingness, endless streams of nothingness, that could drive a person insane.

Hunters found her. November 18. They noticed the plywood cover, poked it with their rifles, and were startled to hear her faint cry. They rescued her triumphantly, uncovering her four-by-six earthen prison and releasing her into the crisp fall air. Later she saw newspaper photos. Her dark blue eyes enormous, her head skull-like, her body thin and curled up on itself, like a small brown bat that had been yanked harshly into the sun.

The papers dubbed Catherine the Thanksgiving Miracle. Her parents took her home. Neighbors and family paraded through the front door with exclamations of "Oh, thank heavens!" and "Just in time for the holidays" and "Oh, can you really believe…?"

Catherine sat and let people talk around her. She slipped food from the overflowing trays and stored it in her pockets. Her head was down, her shoulders hunched around her ears. She was still the little bat and for reasons she couldn't explain, she was overwhelmed by the light.

More police came. She told them of the man, of the car. They showed her pictures. She pointed at one. Later, days, weeks-did it really matter?-she came to the police station, stared at a lineup, and solemnly pointed her finger once again.

Richard Umbrio went on trial six months later. And three weeks into that, Catherine took the stand with her plain blue dress and polished Mary Janes. She pointed her finger one last time. Richard Umbrio went away for life.

And Catherine Rose returned home with her family.

She didn't eat much. She liked to take the food and slip it in her pocket, or simply hold it in the palm of her hand. She didn't sleep much. She lay in the dark, her blind bat eyes seeking something she couldn't name. Often, she held quite still to see if she could breathe without making a sound.

Sometimes her mother stood in the doorway, her pale white hands fluttering anxiously at her collarbone. Eventually, Catherine would hear her father down the hall. Come to bed, Louise. She'll call if she needs you.

But Catherine never called.

Years passed. Catherine grew up, straightening her shoulders, growing out her hair, and discovering that she possessed the kind of dark, potent beauty that stopped men in their tracks. She was all pale white skin, glossy black hair, and oversized navy eyes. Men wanted her desperately. So she used them indiscriminately. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't their fault. She simply never felt a thing.

Her mother died. 1994. Cancer. Catherine stood at the funeral and tried to cry. Her body had no moisture, and her sobs sounded papery and insincere.

She went home to her barren apartment and tried not to think of it again, though sometimes, out of the blue, she would picture her mother standing in the doorway of her room.

"Come to bed, Louise. She'll call if she needs you."

"Hey, honey… I'm looking for a lost dog…"

November 1998. The Thanksgiving Miracle curled up naked in her white porcelain tub, her thin, bony body trembling from the cold as she clutched a single razor in her fist. Something bad was going to happen. A darkness beyond darkness. A buried box from which there would be no coming back. "Come to bed, Louise. She'll call if she needs you."

"Hey, honey… I'm looking for a lost dog?"

The blade, so slender and light in her hands. The feel of its edge, kissing her wrist. The abstract sensation of warm, red blood, lining her skin.

The phone rang. Catherine roused herself from her lethargy long enough to answer it. And that single call saved her life. The Thanksgiving Miracle rose again.

She thought about it now. As the TV blared in the background: An armed suspect has barricaded himself in his home after taking numerous shots at his neighbors. Boston SWAT officials consider the situation highly volatile and extremely dangerous.

As her son sobbed in her arms.

"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy."

And as her husband bellowed from below: "I know what you're doing, Cat! How stupid do you think I am? Well, it's not going to work. There's no way in hell you're going to get away with it! Not this time!"

Jimmy stormed up the stairs, heading for their bedroom.

The phone had saved Catherine before. Now she prayed it would save her once again.

"Hello, hello, nine-one-one? Can you hear me? It's my husband. I think he's got a gun."

Bobby had been a member of the Massachusetts State Police Special Tactics and Operations (STOP) Team for the past six years. Called out at least three times a month-and generally every damn holiday-he thought very little could surprise him anymore. Tonight, he was wrong.

Roaring through the streets of Boston, he squealed his tires taking a hard right up Park Street, heading for the golden-domed State House, then threw his cruiser left onto Beacon, flying past the Common and the Public Garden. At the last minute, he almost blew it-tried to head up Arlington straight for Marlborough, then realized that Marlborough was one way the wrong way. Like any good asshole driver, he slammed on his brakes, cranked the wheel hard, and laid on his horn as he sliced across three lanes of traffic to stay on Beacon. Now his life was tougher, trying to pick up the right cross street to head up to Marlborough. In the end, he simply drove toward the white glow of floodlights and the flashing red lights of the Advanced Life Support ambulance. Arriving at the corner of Marlborough and Gloucester, Bobby processed many details at once. Blue sawhorses and Boston PD cruisers already isolated one tiny block in the heart of Back Bay. Yellow crime-scene tape festooned several brownstone houses, and uniformed officers were taking up position on the corners. The ALS ambulance was now on-scene; so were several vans from the local media.

Things were definitely starting to rock and roll.

Bobby double-parked his Crown Vic just outside a blue saw-horse, jumped out the door, and jogged around to his trunk. Inside, he had everything a well-trained police sniper might need for a party. Rifle, scope, ammo, black BDUs, urban camo BDUs, ghillie hood, body armor, changes of clothing, snacks, water, a bean bag, night-vision goggles, binoculars, range finder, face paint, Swiss Army knife, and flashlight. Local police probably kept spare tires in their trunks; a state trooper could live out of his cruiser for a month.

Bobby hefted up his rucksack and immediately started assessing the situation.

In contrast to other SWAT teams, Bobby's tactical team never arrived en masse. Instead, his unit consisted of thirty-two guys located all over the state of Massachusetts, from the fingertip of Cape Cod to the foothills of the Berkshire Mountains. Headquarters was Adams, Mass. " in the western half of the state, where Bobby's lieutenant had taken the call from Framingham Communications and made the decision to deploy.

In this case, a domestic barricade with hostages, all thirty-two guys had been activated and all thirty-two would arrive. Some would take three to four hours to get here. Others, like Bobby, made it in less than fifteen minutes. Either way, Bobby's LT prided himself on being able to get at least five officers anywhere in the state in under an hour.

Looking around now, Bobby figured he was one of those first five officers. Which meant he needed to hustle.

Most SWAT units were comprised of three teams: an entry team, a perimeter team, and snipers. The perimeter team had the primary job of securing and controlling the inner perimeter. Then came the snipers, who took up position outside the inner perimeter and served as reconnaissance-appraising the situation through their scope or binoculars, and radioing in details on the building as well as all people and movement inside. Finally, the entry team would prepare for last-resort action-if the hostage negotiator couldn't convince the suspects to come out, the entry team would storm in. Entries were messy; you prayed it didn't come to that, but sometimes it did.

Bobby's STOP team brought all those bells and whistles to the table, but they didn't specialize. Instead, given that they arrived piecemeal, they were cross-trained on all positions so they could get up and running the second boots hit the ground. In other words, while Bobby was one of the team's eight designated snipers, he wasn't looking at taking up sniping position just yet.

First goal--establish the inner perimeter. The inner perimeter was the area looking in at the scene. Establishing a good inner perimeter solved ninety percent of any tactical unit's headaches. You controlled and contained. It took at least two guys to form a perimeter, each standing on opposing corners, monitoring the diagonals.

Bobby was one guy. Now he was looking for a second. He spotted three other state police cruisers parked across the way, so he had teammates around here somewhere. Then he noticed the white van set up as command center. He jogged toward the van.

"Trooper Bobby Dodge," he announced five seconds later, climbing into the command center, setting down his gear, and thrusting out a hand.

"Lieutenant Jachrimo." The CO took his hand, handshake tight but quick. The thin-faced lieutenant wasn't from the state police, but from BPD. That didn't surprise Bobby; the scene was technically Boston jurisdiction, plus the state police commander was probably still two hours away. While Bobby would've preferred his own LT, he was trained to play nice with others-up to a point, of course.

Jachrimo had a white board up in front of him and was making a Gantt chart in the upper left-hand corner.

"Position?" the CO asked Bobby.

"Sniper." "Can you hold a perimeter?"

"Yes, sir."

"Great, great, great." Lieutenant Jachrimo broke away from the white board long enough to stick his head out of the van and yell at a Boston uniform, "Hey. Hey, you. I need the phone company. Understand? Use your radio, call in to dispatch and get the goddamn phone company, 'cause nothing in this van is working, and you can't really have a command post if it doesn't command. Got it?"

The uniform went flying, and Jachrimo returned his harried attention to Bobby.

"Okay, so what do you know?"

"Domestic barricade, male subject believed armed with a gun, wife and child also on the premises." Bobby repeated the message he'd received on his pager.

"Suspect's name is Jimmy Gagnon. Mean anything to you?"

Bobby shook his head.

"Just as well." Jachrimo finished his Gantt chart, then started an overhead sketch of the neighborhood on the lower part of the white board.

"So here's where we're at. Woman called nine-one-one shortly after eleven-thirty. Claimed to be Catherine Gagnon, Jimmy's wife. Said her husband was drunk and threatening her and their son with a handgun. The nine-one-one operator tried to hold her on the line, but there was some kind of disturbance and the call was disconnected. About sixty seconds later, nine-one-one received a call from a neighbor reporting sounds of gunfire.

"The call came into headquarters, but our guys are already out on a situation in Revere, so I kicked it to Framingham Communications, who contacted your lieutenant. Your unit's serving as the primary, maybe for the whole show, maybe until our guys wrap up the party in Revere. Don't know. As of this moment, we have uniforms securing the external perimeter. There are men posted, here, here, and here, and cars positioned here and here to block off the connecting streets." Jachrimo made a series of Xs on his sketch, and that quickly, one block of brownstones was cordoned off from the surrounding neighborhood.

"The Gagnons occupy the top four levels of unit number four-fifteen. Uniforms have already evacuated the residents below their unit, as well as the residents of the brownstones on either side. We haven't had contact with anyone inside the residence yet, which, frankly, doesn't make me happy. As far as I'm concerned, we should've had the inner perimeter secured ten minutes ago and the hostage negotiators here eight minutes ago. But hey, that's just me."

"Manpower?"

"Troopers Fusilli, Adams, and Maroni are already on-scene. They're scoping the building now, looking to form a very tight perimeter, probably inside the building. I got one officer tracking down blueprints and another-hopefully-getting me the goddamn phone company."

"Intel from the neighbors?"

"According to the first-floor unit owner, the Gagnons did significant work on the place in the past five years. The top level of the brownstone was converted into cathedral ceilings for the fourth floor, where they apparently have one helluva master bedroom, with a walk-out balcony. Level one contains a small, one-bedroom unit, in addition to the lobby, which features an elevator that goes up to the second floor and the entrance to the Gagnon residence, as well as a staircase which reaches every level of the townhouse. The basement has been finished into a two-bedroom unit. We evacuated the couple that lives there and they told us exactly nothing; they have no idea about crawl spaces in the building, fire escapes, nada. It's an old building, though, so there's bound to be a few surprises.

"It would seem that the Gagnons keep to themselves, and whatever parties they've had, they haven't invited their neighbors. Couple has a reputation for its fights and we've been called out before for domestic disputes. First time there's been mention of a gun, though, so that's a fresh kick in the pants. Is it her? Is it him? Hell if I know. Mostly, it just sucks for the kid. So that's where we are and that's what we got."

The lieutenant's spiel ground to a halt just in time. Phone company had arrived. Another one of Bobby's teammates as well.

"Perfect," the lieutenant declared. He stabbed one finger at the new trooper.

"You, inner perimeter. And you," the finger moved to Bobby.

"Find a position. I want intel on that house. Where's the husband, where's the wife, where's the kid? And better yet, is anyone still alive? Because it's been over thirty minutes now, and we haven't heard a thing." stepping out of the command center, Bobby picked up his pace. Now charged with a task, he had choices to make. He ran through them quickly.

First off, proper gear. He went with city camo, a battle dress uniform blended with shades of gray. Solid black provided too much of a silhouette. Camo blends, on the other hand, gave the eye a sense of depth, allowing the wearer to sink into the surrounding environment.

Over the top of his BDUs came soft body armor. The rest of his team would be wearing Kevlar with boron plates, but that kind of heavy body armor was too cumbersome for sniping. Bobby needed to be able to move quickly, while also maintaining an often uncomfortable pose for hours on end. For him, a flak vest and helmet would do.

Next up, rifle, scope, and ammo. Bobby slung his Sig Sauer 3000 over his shoulder, then went with a Leupold 3-9X 50mm variable scope. His scope was already zeroed to one hundred yards, standard setup for a law enforcement sniper, versus military snipers, who zeroed their scopes to five hundred yards. The military guys, however, were running around in ghillie suits and crawling through swamps. Bobby's job rarely got that interesting.

Briefly, Bobby debated night-vision goggles, but given that the area was lit up like the Fourth of July, he passed.

That left ammo. He selected two: Federal Match Grade.308 Remington 168-grain slugs, and Federal Match Grade.308 Remington 165-grain bullets with bonded tips. The 168-grain slugs were standard issue; the 165-grain bullets were better for shooting through glass. Given that it was a cold night and the residence in question seemed buttoned up tight, he'd start with a bonded tip in the chamber. When you only got one shot, you had to play the odds.

Next Bobby pared down his rucksack to three bottles of water, two PowerBars, a bean bag, his binoculars, and a range finder. He closed his trunk and turned immediately to the street.

He had his gear, now he needed a position.

Back Bay was an old, wealthy area of Boston. The tall, narrow brownstones boasted granite arches, elaborate wrought-iron balconies, and expansive bay windows. Broad shade trees, beautiful in the summer but now mere silhouettes, cast their skeletal canopies over BMWs, Saabs, and Mercedes, while in the glow of the police floodlights, gray veins of leafless ivy climbed up redbrick walls and caressed intricate window casings. It was a beautiful city block, grand, self-contained, slightly arrogant.

Bobby could work his entire life and still not be able to afford to park on a street like this, let alone live here. Funny how some people could seemingly have every advantage in life and still be so royally fucked up.

Distance would not be a problem, he determined. The brown-stones sat shoulder to shoulder, with only fifty yards between one side of the street and the other. Angle was more of a consideration. Anything greater than forty-five degrees and the ballistics grew problematic. The brownstone in question appeared to be five stories, plus a daylight basement. The CO had commented, however, that the fifth floor had essentially become a vaulted ceiling for a fourth-story master bedroom.

That would fit what Bobby saw now-lights blazing on the fourth story, where there appeared to be a balcony with an elaborate wrought-iron railing.

He crossed the street, where he could get a better view. Space between the wrought-iron rails of the balcony appeared to be approximately three inches. No problem, given he trained monthly to nail a one-inch kill zone. Angle, however, became tricky; shooting straight through the three-inch gap would be a piece of cake. Trying to shoot up or shoot down more than thirty degrees, however… Bobby definitely had to get off the ground.

Bobby eyed the four-story brownstone directly across from the Gagnons' and moments later was banging on the front door. While Lieutenant Jachrimo had told him uniforms had already evacuated area residents, Bobby wasn't surprised when a bright-eyed older man in a dark green robe immediately threw open the old wooden door; it was amazing how many people wouldn't leave their houses, even when surrounded by heavily armed men.

"Hey," the man said.

"Are you a cop? Because I already told the other one I wasn't leaving." "I need access to the top floor," Bobby said.

"Is that a rifle?"

"Sir, this is official police business. I need access to the top floor."

"Right. Top floor's the master bedroom. Oooh." The man's eyes went wide.

"I get it. My balcony's across from the Gagnons'. You must be a police sniper. Ooooh, can I get you anything?"

"Just the top floor, sir. Immediately."

The man was dying to please. George Harlow was a consultant, he informed Bobby as he hastily led the way up a sweeping central staircase. He was almost always on the road, pure dumb luck he'd been home tonight at all to let Bobby in. His brownstone was smaller, not quite as nice as the others, but he owned the whole damn thing. Drove his condominium neighbors nuts speculating what the single-family dwelling must be worth. Why, just last month, a single-family townhouse in Back Bay sold for nearly ten million dollars. Ten million dollars. Yep, George's lush of a father hadn't left him such a bad inheritance after all. Of course, the property taxes were killing him.

Could George please touch the police rifle?

Bobby said no.

They arrived at the bedroom. The vast space bore hardly any furniture, let alone art on the walls. The man must travel a lot, because Bobby had seen hotel rooms with more personality. The front wall was all glass, however, with sliders right in the middle. Perfect.

"Kill the lights," he requested.

Mr. Harlow nearly giggled as he complied.

"Do you have a table I could use? Nothing fancy. And a chair."

Mr. Harlow had a card table. Bobby set it up while his host rounded up a metal folding chair. Bobby's breathing had accelerated. The climb up four flights? Or the adrenaline of a night that was about to officially begin?

He had now been on-scene for sixteen minutes, not bad time, but not great. More guys had probably already arrived. The perimeter was getting fine-tuned. Soon another officer would show up to serve as spotter, providing two pairs of eyes. Then would come the crisis negotiation team, finally making contact.

bobby set up his Sig Sauer on the table. He cracked the sliders one inch, just enough for the tip of his rifle. Then he sat down in Mr. Harlow's metal chair, turned on the radio mounted in his flak vest, and started to talk into the microphone/receiver that was tucked inside his ear and worked off the vibrations of his jawbone.

"This is Sniper One, reporting in."

"Go ahead, Sniper One," Lieutenant Jachrimo answered back.

Bobby put his eye to the scope, and finally met the Gagnons. "I see the back of a white male subject, approximately six feet tall, short brown hair, dark blue shirt, standing approximately four feet inside a pair of French doors on the front side of the building, which I'm going to call side A of level four. The French doors are approximately forty inches across, opening outward, and are the third opening across. Opening one of level four is a double-hung window, approximately thirty inches across and seven feet tall. Opening two is another double-hung window, approximately twenty-five inches across, seven feet tall. Opening four, side A, level four, is a final double-hung window, twenty-five inches across, seven feet tall."

Bobby reported in the details of the Gagnons' fourth floor while keeping his eye on the lone male subject. The man didn't move. Watching someone, looking for something? Both of the man's hands were in front of him, so Bobby couldn't tell if he was armed.

Using binoculars now, Bobby scanned for a woman and child, but came up empty.

The room appeared to be a bedroom with a king-sized bed planted squarely in the middle of the space, lined up parallel to the French doors. The bed was one of those elaborate, wrought-iron affairs with gauzy white fabric draped every which way. Behind the bed he could see a row of white-painted folding doors. Probably a closet. Then, over to the left, he could make out an alcove where there appeared to be another doorway. Master bath? Sitting area?

The room was large, with many hiding spaces. That made life interesting for everyone.

Bobby tried to adjust his binoculars to penetrate the shadows of the left-hand alcove, without any luck. Briefly, he scanned the other lit windows of the brownstone, but didn't encounter any signs of other occupants.

So where were the wife and child? Hidden in the drapes of fabric swathing the bed? Tucked inside a closet? Already dead on the floor?

Bobby could feel his stomach starting to tighten with tension. He forced himself to slowly breathe in, then out. Focus. Be part of the moment, but outside of the moment. Detach.

Do you know the difference between a shooter and a sniper? A shooter has a pulse. A sniper doesn't.

Bobby prepared for the long haul: He fine-tuned his rifle stand, working the stock of his rifle into the bean bag until it achieved perfect height. He moved the chair until he could lean into the table, wedging the butt of his rifle squarely into the curve of his shoulder. When the rifle felt good, tight but comfortable against his body, like another appendage, a third arm, he leaned forward and found the spot weld-the place where his cheek met the stock and his eye met the scope in such perfect alignment that the entire world suddenly seemed to fill the crosshairs. He could see anything, he could shoot anything.

He studied once again the lone male subject, now peering over the edge of the wrought-iron bed.

Bobby chambered a bonded-tip slug and slowly placed the crosshairs of his scope on the back of the man's head. His breathing was shallow, his pulse steady. He lined up his shot without a single tremor in his hand. Police snipers practiced one thing only-to immediately incapacitate a subject who may have his finger on a trigger. Basically, month in, month out, Bobby trained to sever a man's brain stem.

He was satisfied with his position. Angle was easy, distance manageable. He would incur minor deflection from the glass of the French doors, but nothing that couldn't be handled by the 165-grain ammo. With the target stationary, he did not need to worry about inducing lead, and at a distance this short, weather and wind were not relevant factors.

He pulled away from the scope, careful not to disturb the rifle, and with his right hand made notes in his logbook. He detailed his ammo, his scope setting, and his setup. Then he picked up his binoculars, which provided a wider field of view, and again, careful not to disturb his rifle, continued monitoring the scene.

The man had moved slightly toward the foot of the bed. Bobby had a sense of growing tension, a force building to a crescendo. He couldn't place why, but then he got it.

The way the man was standing, his shoulders squared off, his elbows jutting out, his feet slightly apart. It was a dominating pose, a man puffing himself up to appear even bigger and stronger. Bobby bet if he could see the man's face now, it would be wearing an ugly snarl, a red-mottled look of rage.

Again, Bobby searched for signs of the wife and child, and again came up empty. Somewhere in that room, though, or the man would be moving. Bobby wished he could see the man's face.

With nothing immediately happening, Bobby returned to diagramming the building for his team. Following protocol, he labeled each side of the brownstone with a letter, A,, C, or D. Given that the brownstone had adjoining units on both sides and the back, that left only the front, which he labeled A. Then he numbered each level of the townhouse, one through five, plus basement. Finally, he recorded each opening of side A, describing whether it was a window or door, giving its approximate size and numbering it left to right starting with the number one.

This yielded a uniformed chart for everyone to follow. The man was standing in front of French doors, side A, level four, opening three, or in quick shorthand when things got hopping, lone male A-four-three. No sorting through whose left or whose right. In three quick coordinates, boom, you got the job done.

The diagram completed, Bobby did his own personal check, things he'd learned from years on the job. Any sign of advanced preparation in the home? Doors barricaded, slats of wood nailed across windows? Any sign of someone trying to hide misdeeds? Blinds pulled, or furniture blocking the view, etc.? Advanced preparation was a warning sign. So were shots fired out the window or open threats of violence.

So far, everything remained quiet. No one was visible in the entire building except a lone male subject, standing four feet inside French doors, A-four-three.

Bobby took the binoculars away from his eyes and returned to viewing the room through the scope of his rifle.

With the sliders cracked he was getting a cold breeze, chilling his face and stiffening his fingers. When a spotter showed up, he'd have the guy close the sliders, but sit close enough to crack them again at a moment's notice. For now, he was okay, though. His breathing was steady, his muscles relaxed. He was finding that zone. Calm but prepared. Alert but relaxed. Aim small, miss small. He wasn't even really thinking about the card table anymore, or the cold November wind, or the fact that Mr. Harlow still lingered in the doorway behind him, eager for some kind of show.

Soon, the hostage negotiator would arrive, get the subject on the phone, and try to work out a peaceful resolution. If no one was hurt yet, the negotiator would probably convince the man to quit now, while the worst he would suffer was a little embarrassment. If the family was injured, or worse, dead, then things would get trickier. But the crisis management team was good. Just last year, Bobby had watched the lead negotiator, Al Hanson, convince three escaped felons to surrender peacefully, when all three criminals were facing life in prison and had nothing to lose by shooting it out.

Afterwards, Bobby's LT had gone up to each prisoner, clapped them on the shoulder, and thanked them sincerely for giving up.

These situations always started with so much adrenaline, testosterone, and generally nutty hype. Then Bobby's team showed up and worked on toning it all back down. No reason for rash action. No need for violence. Let's just go through the paces, my man, and it'll all work out fine.

Movement. Across the street, the suspect suddenly twisted, walking to the right in an agitated fashion. Bobby finally caught a glimpse of a handgun.

"White male subject, moving in front of French doors, A-four-three. I see what appears to be a nine-millimeter handgun in right hand. White female," Bobby declared suddenly, voice slightly triumphant.

"Long black hair, dark red top, appears to be kneeling or sitting behind bed, fifteen feet inside French doors, A-four-three. White child, dark hair, pressed against the female. Small, maybe two or three years of age."

Lieutenant Jachrimo's voice came over the receiver.

"Is the woman or child moving? Any sign of injuries?"

Bobby frowned. Harder to tell. The man cut in front of his view again, pacing rapidly now, right hand waving his gun. Bobby zeroed in on the man's weapon, seeking more details. Tough, with the man moving. Bobby zoomed back out, trying to get a sense of the lone male subject instead, how he held the nine-millimeter, how he moved around the room. An experienced gun handler? An agitated amateur? Also hard to determine.

The man shifted right and now Bobby could tell that the woman was yelling something. She had the child-a boy, maybe?-held tight against her, his face turned into her chest, her hands covering his ears.

Things were happening. Sudden, fast. Bobby couldn't tell what had sparked the commotion, but now the man was screaming. Through the scope Bobby could see the spittle flying from the man's lips, muscles cording on his neck. It was surreal: to watch such explosive rage and never hear a sound.

The woman stood up, child still clutched against her chest. Now she'd stopped yelling, seeming to have reached some sort of conclusion. The man screamed violently; she simply stared at him.

Abruptly, the man leveled his gun at the woman's head. He held out his left hand, as if motioning for the child.

"Male subject drawing down on female," Bobby heard himself report.

"Male subject pointing a handgun. The man still had his gun aimed at the woman's head, but was now rounding the bed, fast, furious. She didn't say a word, didn't budge a step. Then the man was right there, yelling ferociously and, with his left hand, tugging at the child.

The boy peeled away from his mother's chest. Bobby had a sudden, fleeting glimpse of a small, pale face with dark, wild eyes. The kid was scared out of his mind.

"Male subject has child. Male subject is shoving child across the room."

Away from his mother. Away from whatever was about to happen next.

Bobby was in the now, part of the moment, but outside the moment. He worked the scope, minor adjustments as natural to him as taking a breath. Shifting slightly left, inducing a fraction of lead as the male subject pushed his son to the end of the bed, then stepped back toward his wife.

The child disappeared into the gauze of floating white fabric. Now it was just the man and woman, husband and wife. Jimmy Gagnon was no longer screaming, but his chest jerked up and down, breathing hard.

The woman finally spoke. Her lips were easy to follow in the magnified world of Bobby's Leupold scope.

"What now, Jimmy? What's left?"

Jimmy suddenly smiled, and in that smile, Bobby knew exactly what was going to happen next.

Jimmy Gagnon's finger tightened on the trigger. And from fifty yards away, in the darkened bedroom of a neighbor's townhouse, Bobby Dodge blew him away. Panting. breathing hard. Feeling an unbearable tightness suddenly burst, then deflate his chest. Bobby pulled his finger away from the trigger, jerking back the way a man might release a live rattler. His eye remained on the scope, however. He saw the woman rush to the end of the bed and scoop up the child, saw her turn the boy's head away from the spray of his father's body.

For a moment, mother and son stood entwined, one unit of curving arms and legs, the side of her cheek pressed against the top of his head. Then the woman's head came up. She gazed across the street. She peered into her neighbor's home. She looked straight at Bobby Dodge and he felt a tingle he couldn't explain.

"Thank you," the woman mouthed.

Bobby stood up from the table, realizing for the first time that he was breathing very hard and his face was covered in sweat.

"Holy crap," Mr. Harlow said from the doorway.

Then the rest of the world finally came into focus. Footsteps pounding. Sirens blaring. Men coming. Some for her, some for him.

Bobby tucked his hands behind his back, planted his feet, and waited as he was trained. He had done his job. He had taken a life to save a life.

Now the shit would hit the fan.

The entry team descended upon the house, confirming one male subject, now missing half of his head. Then the entry team beat a hasty retreat. The residence no longer belonged to STOP. It had just become a crime scene.

The call went out to the DA's office, Suffolk County. An ADA got roused out of bed, assembled a task force of investigators, and arrived on the scene. Bobby's Sig Sauer was entered into evidence. His teammates were immediately sequestered and interviewed as witnesses.

Bobby got to sit in the back of a patrol car, technically not in trouble, but feeling very much like a truant kid.

Media was already gathering outside the yellow crime-scene tape. Television lights were blazing, while reporters vied for the best position-So far, the DA's office had everything wrapped up tight. The body had already been transported from the scene; Bobby was sheltered inside the patrol car.

Name of the game was never to provide too many visuals. Denied on the ground, however, the media would soon take to the air. His LT, John Bruni, arrived at the scene. He came over to the cruiser and clapped Bobby on the shoulder.

"How you feeling?"

"All right."

"These things are always lousy."

"Yeah."

"Employee Assistance Unit will be here shortly. They'll explain your rights, give you some support. You're not the first guy this has happened to, Bobby."

"I know."

"Just answer what you feel like answering. If you get uncomfortable, call it a day. The union provides a lawyer, so don't be afraid to ask for legal counsel."

"Okay."

"We're here for you, Bobby. Once part of the team, always part of the team."

Bruni had to go. Probably to check in with Public Affairs, which would soon be making a statement to the press: Tonight an unidentified officer was involved in a fatal shooting. The DA has taken over investigation of the incident. No comment at this time.

And so it would go. Bobby had seen it happen once before. A trooper was ambushed when making a routine patrol stop. Two Hispanic males in a beat-up Honda opened fire on the officer. He fired back, wounding one and killing the other. The officer had gone on immediate paid leave, disappearing from the barracks, disappearing from life, while the press tried his case in the papers and the Hispanic community accused him of racism. A month later, the DA's office ruled that the case didn't merit criminal charges-maybe the fact that the officer had a bullet lodged in his upper arm helped. The press never seemed to notice, though. A brother of the fatally shot man launched a civil suit against the officer, and last Bobby knew, the trooper was dealing with a million-dollar lawsuit.

He never returned to duty. And most people in Boston probably did think he was a racist.

Was it bad to have just killed a man, then sit here worrying about what that meant for your career? Was that totally self-absorbed? Inappropriate? Or was it just the way these things went?

Bobby was thinking of the woman again. Slender. Pale. Holding her child tight against her body. Thank you, her lips had said. He had shot her husband in front of her and her kid and she had thanked him for it.

Fresh knock on the window. Stupid, since the car door was open. Bobby looked up and saw one of his teammates, Patrick Loftus.

"Hell of a night," Loftus said.

"Yeah."

"Sorry I missed it. Just got here a few minutes ago. When all was said and done." Loftus lived on the Cape. Probably only an hour away. So the shooting had happened that fast. Bobby realized for the first time that he had no idea what the hour was. He'd gotten the call, jumped in his car, set up his rifle. The whole thing was already a blur in his mind, a series of actions and reactions. He came, he saw, he did. Holy shit, he had killed a man. Honestly, blown off half a man's head.

Thank you, the woman said, thank you.

Bobby leaned out of the car.

"Cameras?" he asked.

"Got 'em covered."

"Good." Bobby vomited onto the street.

"I'm really sorry," Loftus said quietly.

Bobby leaned back against the seat. He closed his eyes.

"Yeah," he said.

"So am I."

The EAU guys came next. Fellow officers, sort of like a peer support group. They walked him through the process. Investigators from the DA's office would be interviewing him shortly. He should answer the questions truthfully, but as briefly as possible. He had the right to an attorney-the State Police Association of Massachusetts, SPAM, would pay for his lawyer. He had the right to end questioning whenever he felt uncomfortable. He had the right against self-incrimination.

He should be aware that the guidelines for use of deadly force stated that lethal force was appropriate if you felt your own life, or someone else's, was in immediate danger. Something to consider, you know, when the investigators asked their questions. The ADA would probably need at least two weeks to study the events. Bobby's gun would be examined, tapes of the radio conversation between him and the command post analyzed. They would do ballistic tests at the crime scene and take statements from everyone, including Bobby's teammates, the woman and child, and good old Mr. Harlow.

At the end of the investigation, it would be up to the DA's office to decide if the facts warranted criminal charges. If it was a righteous shoot, then Bobby was okay. Public Affairs would issue a statement, the DA would issue a statement, and Bobby would be back in action. If the DA did decide to press criminal charges… Well, let's not put the cart before the horse.

From here on out, Bobby was on paid administrative leave. It wouldn't be a bad idea to use that time to come to terms with tonight. Maybe talk to some other guys who'd been through it-the EAU could arrange it. Maybe even, if he wanted, sign up for some post-critical-incident counseling. The EAU had a shrink they highly recommended and it would look good on Bobby's record.

Killing someone was a big deal, even for a cop. The sooner he faced it, the sooner he could get on with his life.

Then the EAU guys were gone, and the investigators took their place.

It was three-thirty in the morning now. Bobby had been up for nearly twenty-two hours. He followed the investigators to the DA's office, where they all had steaming cups of fresh coffee and sat around a scarred wood table, like old friends shooting the shit.

Bobby wasn't fooled. He was bottomed out and bone tired from buckets of adrenaline dumping suddenly into his bloodstream, but he was still a sniper, a man who could narrow the world down to a single set of crosshairs, and maintain that concentration for hours.

They all began the dance.

Where was Bobby when he got the call?

Boston Beer Garden, he answered, and immediately lost points. He added he'd been drinking Coke, the bartender would verify, and regained some ground.

He'd started work at what time today? He'd ended his shift at what hour? A fifteen-hour shift earned him a frown; the sidebar that he was trained to handle long hours didn't seem to rate him a second chance.

How had he gotten to the scene, how fast was his response time, what could he recall of his conversation with Lieutenant Jachrimo? They were searching here, looking for something, so Bobby's answers grew shorter. He felt the threat in the conversation, but couldn't identify the source. The investigators finally moved on, but the collegia! atmosphere was fast eroding. Questions were sharper now, and answers harshly judged.

He had to explain how he'd determined to access Mr. Harlow's residence. He described his setup on the card table, why he chose to crack the window, why he went with bonded-tip ammo.

What did he see in the house, who did he see in the house?

Bobby did better here. White male subject, white female subject. Didn't give them names, and didn't give them presumed identities such as husband, wife, or child. He was as neutral as possible. He'd shot a man, but it was nothing personal.

Finally, they got to the heart of the matter. Did he know the victim was James Gagnon?

And for the first time, Bobby paused.

Victim. Interesting choice of words. The man was no longer a suspect, someone who had pointed his gun at his own wife and tightened his finger on the trigger; he was a victim. Bobby thought now might be a good time to ask for that lawyer. But he didn't.

He answered as truthfully as he could. Lieutenant Jachrimo had identified the family as possibly being the Gagnons, but at the time or the incident, Bobby had received no verification of those names.

The investigators sat back again. Mollified? Suspicious? Hard to tell. They wanted to know if he'd met the wife, personally, socially. Had he spoken to her during the incident?

No, Bobby said.

Now it was time for the nitty-gritty. What made him decide fire his weapon? Had he been okayed for use of deadly force by the CO?

No.

Had the victim made any verbal threats toward Bobby or another officer? No.

Had the victim made any verbal threats toward his wife? Not that Bobby had heard. But the victim had a gun. Yes.

Did he fire it?

There were reports of gunfire.

Before Bobby arrived. But what about afterwards? Did Bobby actually see the victim fire his weapon? His finger was pulling the trigger. So he fired his weapon?

Yes. No. Not sure. He was firing, I was firing; it all happened so fast.

So the victim didn't fire his weapon? Not sure.

So possibly, the victim was just pointing his gun? Hadn't he been pointing the weapon for a while?

The man's finger was on the trigger.

But did he squeeze it? Did he try to shoot his wife?

I believed there was an immediate threat.

Why, Trooper Dodge, why?

Because of the way the man smiled. Bobby couldn't say that. He said instead, "The subject stood two feet away from the woman with a nine-millimeter pointed at her head and his finger moving on the trigger. I perceived that to be an immediate and compelling threat."

Do you really think a man would kill his wife with his kid still in the room?

Yes, sir, I believed he would.

Why, Trooper Dodge, why?

Because sometimes, sir, shit like that happens.

The investigators finally nodded, then repeated the same questions all over again. Bobby knew how it worked. More times you made a man tell his story, the more he might trip up. Lies growing more embellished, truth more strained. They were giving Bobby rope and waiting to see if he'd hang himself with it.

At six-thirty they finally gave up. A new day was dawning outside the stifling conference room, and the collegial air returned.

They were sorry they had to ask all these questions, you know. It was just a matter of procedure. Unfortunate night. Bad for everyone. But it looked good for Bobby that he was cooperating. They appreciated that very much. Everyone just wanted to get to the bottom of this, you understand. The sooner they got to the truth, the sooner everyone could put it behind them.

They'd have more questions. You know, don't go too far.

Bobby nodded wearily. He pushed back his chair and, when he went to rise, swayed on his feet. He saw one guy notice, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

And Bobby had the sudden, disconcerting urge to sock the man in the gut. He left the room and found his lieutenant waiting for him in the hall.

"How did it go?" Lieutenant Bruni asked.

Bobby said honestly, "Not that good."

The sun was out, the sky bright, by the time Bobby turned into the building where Susan lived. The morning commute was already on. He heard squawks over his radio, describing congested traffic, motor vehicle accidents, and disabled cars parked in breakdown lanes. Day was happening. City dwellers emerging from their bolt-locked cages to crowd sidewalks and jam coffee houses.

He stepped out of his cruiser, inhaled a deep gulp of city air-cold, diesel-filled, cement-laced-and for one surreal moment, it felt to him as if the night had never happened. This moment was real, the building, the parking garage, the city, but the shooting had been fake, just a particularly powerful dream. He should change back into his uniform now, climb into his cruiser and get to work.

A guy walked by. Took one look at Bobby, standing dazed in his sweat-stained urban camos, and hastily picked up his step. That shook Bobby out of his funk.

He grabbed his trusty rucksack and headed for Susan's unit.

She answered on his second knock, wearing a pink chenille bathrobe and looking flushed from the warm comfort of her bed. Practices had a tendency to run deep into the night, and she often slept late the next morning.

She gazed at Bobby, all sleep-tousled blonde hair, rosy skin, and heavy-lidded gray eyes, and her face immediately softened into a smile.

"Hey, sweetheart," she began, before the last of the sleep left her, and her instant pleasure gave way to immediate concern.

"Shouldn't you be at work? Bobby, what's wrong?"

He walked into her apartment. There were so many things he should say. He could feel the words building in the unbearable tightness of his chest. Susan was a concert cellist with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. They had met, of all places, in a local pub.

Bobby knew nothing about classical music. He was all sports bars, pickup games of basketball, and ice-cold beer. In contrast Susan was billowy skirts, long walks in the park, and tea at the Ritz.

He'd asked her out anyway. She'd surprised them both by saying yes. Days had turned into weeks, weeks into months, and now they'd been seeing each other for over a year. Sometimes he thought it was only a matter of time until she moved into his little three-story row house in South Boston. He allowed himself to think of weddings and babies and twin rockers at the retirement home.

He'd never quite brought himself to ask the question yet.

Maybe because he still had too many moments like this one, when he stood before her sweaty, grimy, and covered with a night's work, and instead of feeling grateful to see her, he was shocked she let him through the door.

Her world was such a beautiful place. What the hell was she doing with a guy like him?

"Bobby?" she asked quietly.

He couldn't find the words. None would move his lips. None would come close to releasing the pent-up emotions tightening his chest.

Oh God, that poor kid. To watch his father die.

Why had the bastard made him do it? Why had Jimmy Gagnon just ruined Bobby's life?

He moved without ever knowing he was moving. His hands were sliding under Susan's robe, trying desperately to find bare skin. She murmured something. Yes, no, he never really heard. He had her robe off, and was skimming his fingers across the thin lace that covered her breasts, while burying his face in the curve of her neck.

She had beautiful fingers. Long, delicate, but shockingly strong.

fingers that could coax a fine wooden instrument into the sweetest sounds. Now those fingers were on his back, finding the knots that corded his muscles. She had his shirt off, was working on his pants.

She was too slow. He was hungry, desperate. He needed things he couldn't name but knew instinctively she could give to him. Funny how he'd always been delicate with her before. Her skin was fine china, her beauty too pure to tarnish. Now he ripped the gauzy nightgown from her body. His teeth sank into her rounded shoulder. His hands gripped her buttocks, pushed her up, lifting her against him.

They went down in a tangle on the hardwood floor. He got the bottom, she claimed the top. Her mouth was devouring his chest, her small, pale body writhing against his broad, dark frame. Light and shadow, good and bad.

She was poised above him, she was pushing down onto him. Her shoulders were thrown back, her breasts thrust out. She needed him. He needed her. Light and shadow, good and bad.

At the last minute, he saw the woman.

At the last minute, he saw the child.

Susan came with a guttural scream. He caught her as she collapsed upon his body, and he lay there withered on the floor, feeling a darkness that went on without end. Dr. Elizabeth Lane was thinking about getting a small dog. Or maybe a cat. Hey, what about a fish? Even a four-year-old could raise fish.

She had this conversation with herself once a year. Generally, right about now, when the holidays were looming and people were talking excitedly about upcoming family gatherings, and she went home each night to an empty condo that seemed much emptier than it did in spring-filled May or hot, sunny August.

It was a stupid conversation, which she of all people should know. For one thing, she had a very nice "empty" condo. Ten-foot ceilings, sweeping bay windows with original bull's-eye molding, rooftop terrace, gleaming cherry-wood floors. Then there was the furniture she'd spent the better part of her professional life acquiring-the low-slung black leather sofa, the bird's-eye maple cabinets, the stainless steel Soho lamps. She was pretty sure puppies and silk rugs didn't make a good mix. Cats and custom woodwork didn't sound like a good match either. Though none of that ruled out fish.

For another thing, if the upcoming holidays were really all fun and games, Elizabeth 's schedule wouldn't currently be so overbooked. In fact, she'd spent the majority of the past four weeks working ten-hour days trying to help her various clients devise coping strategies for just this time of year. She had to get the bulimics prepared to face the groaning Thanksgiving table. She had to get the manic-depressives medicated enough to handle the candy-cane-fueled, festively wrapped frenzy, then the inevitable shattered-ornaments, dying-fir-tree, nobody-loves-me letdown. And finally, she had to get everyone-the self-destructive, the obsessive-compulsive, the neurotic, the psychotic, everyone-in shape to meet their families.

That alone should make Elizabeth grateful for her quiet home. Though again, it did not rule out fish.

Truthfully, Elizabeth had a nice life. She loved her condo, loved living in the city, and most days liked her job. She was starting to approach forty, however, and not even a trained psychiatrist could stare forty in the face without feeling the weight of her baggage. The marriage that had failed. The children she'd never had. The distance she lived from her family in Chicago, which hadn't seemed so much at first, but now they were all so busy and flying was so damn tiring that she made the trip less and less and her parents and sister's family made the trip less and less and now it had been so long since she'd seen any of them in person, it would be awkward to go home. She'd throw them out of their own rituals and routines. She'd be the outsider, looking in.

Maybe she'd get a Siamese fighting fish. Or better yet, a ficus tree. God knows a plant would probably be a lot less offended that she ate take-out sushi almost every other night. It was a thought.

The buzzer sounded out in the front office. Elizabeth ignored it, used to the random sounds of a city office, and the buzzer sounded again. Now she frowned. It was after five, too late for deliveries, and she didn't schedule after-hour appointments on Fridays; she needed at least the pretense of having a life. The buzzer sounded a third time. Shrill. Insistent. Elizabeth finally grew curious enough to leave her office for her receptionist's desk, where she hit a few buttons on Sarah's computer and promptly saw the man from the security camera posted above the outer door.

What she saw surprised her. But then again, maybe it didn't. Elizabeth let the man in. Minutes later, he'd mounted the steps to her second-story office. The weather outside had turned cold-they might have flurries overnight-but that wasn't the only reason this man had a dark blue Patriots cap pulled low and a thick red scarf wrapped tight. Unfortunately for the man, his eyes still gave him away.

Elizabeth had seen the same cool gray gaze just this morning, staring back at her from the front page of the Boston Herald.

"State Trooper Kills Judge's Son," the headline blazed.

"Late Night I Shootout Leaves Family Devastated."

The photo had most likely been taken without the man knowing it. His gaze, peering off in the distance, appeared stark and! grim. Elizabeth had no idea what it must feel like to kill a man, but the officer's expression implied that it wasn't great.

"Good evening," she said evenly, and held out her hand.

"Dr.] Elizabeth Lane."

The man's grip was firm but brief. Then he buried both his) hands back into the front pockets of his jacket.

"Bobby Dodge," he; muttered.

"Lieutenant Bruni said he spoke to you."

"He thought you might be interested in coming in."

"Should I have made an appointment?" Bobby frowned.

"I didn't think about it. Guess I should've called first.

"Course, it's late I now, too. Maybe I should just leave."

Elizabeth smiled.

"Appointments generally help, but it just so happens that you're in luck. My plans have been canceled at the last minute, so as long as you're here, let's meet."

"I don't know how this works," the officer said in a rush.

"I mean, I've never gone to any shrink. I'm not even sure I believe seeing a shrink helps. But the LT said I should come, and the EAU guys said I should come, so, well, here I am."

"What do you think?" "I think I did my job. A woman and her kid are alive today because of me. I'm not ashamed."

Elizabeth nodded, and thought that anyone who asserted that quickly that he wasn't ashamed, probably was.

She gestured to her coatrack.

"Please, hang up your things and follow me."

Bobby shed his jacket, hat, and scarf. Elizabeth gestured him toward the opened door of her office. She followed behind him, already making mental notes as she went.

She'd guess his age to be mid to late thirties. Not a huge guy. maybe five ten, one hundred and sixty pounds. He moved well, though. Tight, controlled, a man who knew his way around. His jeans were well worn, same with his navy flannel shirt. She'd bet his family was strictly blue-collar, and that Bobby had been the first to attend college. Rather than follow his father's wish for a corporate dream, he'd split the difference and joined the state police-still moving up the economic rung from his father, but not drifting too far from his roots. He ran as a hobby and felt most at home when he was in the woods.

She was guessing, of course. It was a game she liked to play with herself whenever meeting new patients. It amazed her how often she got it right.

They entered her office and Bobby immediately spotted the small leather sofa.

"I'm not gonna have to sit there, am I?"

"You could take one of the wingback chairs." Elizabeth 's office contained two hunter green chairs, tucked back from the desk, and not easy to see in the dim light. Most patients spied the sofa first and had their various reactions. Elizabeth often considered rearranging her office to make the chairs more prominent, but then again, a girl had to have some fun.

Bobby took one of the chairs. He sat on the edge, knees apart, long fingers braced in front of him. He surveyed the mahogany-paneled room with his dark gray stare, absorbing all the details-the textbooks lining the shelves, the brass plaques on the wall, the Zen garden that drove the obsessive-compulsives nuts.

There was something about him that niggled at her brain, but she couldn't quite place it. He wasn't just uncommonly self-possessed, he was preternaturally… quiet. No undue noise, no undue movements. She imagined he'd do very well with long stretches of silence. When talking to this man, he didn't come to you, you came to him.

"Comfortable?" she asked finally.

"Not what I was expecting."

"What were you expecting?"

"Something… not quite this nice." By "nice," he meant wealthy. They both understood that.

"You really work for the state?"

"I started working with the state police fifteen years ago. My father's a retired Chicago detective, so let's just say I have a; personal interest in the field." She shrugged.

"Perhaps I've never, changed my rates. Shall I explain to you how this works?"

"Okay."

"I am working for the State Police of Massachusetts, not for you. As such, I have a duty to report back based upon our conversations, which limits the confidentiality of anything you tell me. On the one hand, I never report specific details. On the other hand, I am required to give my conclusions and opinions. Thus, for example, you can tell me you drink three pints of whiskey a night, and while I wouldn't necessarily repeat that, I would have to recommend that you not return to duty. Is that clear to you?"

"Watch what I say." He grunted.

"Interesting approach."

"Honesty is still the best policy," Elizabeth said quietly.

"I'm; here to help you, or if we decide that I can't, refer you to someone who can."

Bobby just shrugged.

"Fine, so what do you want me to tell you?"

Elizabeth smiled again. Opening with blatant hostility. She would've expected no less.

"Let's begin with the basics." She picked up her clipboard.

"Name?"

"Robert G. Dodge."

"What's the G stand for?"

"Given the limited confidentiality, I'm not saying."

"Oooh, that good? Let's see, Geoffrey?"

"No."

"Godfrey?"

"How the hell?"

"Let's just say I also don't give out my middle name. Godfrey. Family name?"

"That's what my father says."

"And your parents are?"

"My father. His name's Larry. Lawrence, actually."

"And your mother?"

"Gone."

"Gone?"

"Yeah, gone. Left. I was four or five. No, maybe six or seven. I don't know. She left."

Elizabeth waited.

"I don't think marriage to my father was going so well," Bobby added. He spread his hands as if to say, What can you do? Indeed, at that young age, what could he have done?

"Siblings?"

"One. Older. Name's George Chandler Dodge, so yeah, the whole family's cursed with rotten English names. Now, what does this have to do with the shooting?"

"I don't know. Does it have anything to do with the shooting?"

Bobby was on his feet.

"No. None of that. That's why people don't like shrinks."

Elizabeth held up her hands in surrender.

"Point taken. Honestly, I'm simply filling in blanks on the form. And for the record, most people like to make a little small talk first."

Bobby sat back down. He remained scowling, however, and those keen eyes of his were narrowed, assessing. She wondered how often he used that stare on people and found them wanting. She added to her mental list: Lots of acquaintances but very few friends. Does not forgive. Does not forget.

And he had lied about his mother's leaving.

"I'd like to keep this simple," he said.

"Fair enough."

"Ask what you gotta ask, I'll answer what I gotta answer, and we can both get on with our lives."

"Admirable goal."

"I'm not thinking of a lifetime plan."

"Wouldn't dream of suggesting it to you," she assured him.

"Unfortunately, this isn't single-sitting work."

"Why not?"

"For starters, you didn't make an appointment and we don't have enough time to cover everything in one night." "Oh."

"So, I'm going to suggest that we talk a little bit tonight, then meet again on Monday."

"Monday." He had to think about it.

"All right," he begrudged the professional headshrinker.

"I can do that."

"Perfect. Glad we got that covered." Her voice sounded drier than she intended, but at least he smiled. He had a decent smile. It softened the hard lines of his face and put bracket lines around his eyes. She was slightly surprised to realize that when he smiled, he was one very handsome man.

"Maybe instead of talking about last night, we can talk about today," she said.

"Today?"

"Today is the first day of your life after you've shot someone. Surely that's noteworthy. Have you slept?"

"A little."

"Eaten?"

He had to think about it, then seemed genuinely surprised.

"No, I guess I haven't. I went out to fetch coffee when I woke up this afternoon, but then I saw the Boston Herald and… I never got the coffee."

"Did you pick up the Herald?"

"Yeah."

"Read the article?"

"Enough."

"What'd you think?"

"Massachusetts State Police officers don't target civilians, not even if they're judges' sons."

"Good piece of fiction?"

"Yeah, based on the three paragraphs I read, I'd agree with that."

"You didn't read more? I would've thought you'd be more curious."

"About what happened? I don't need some reporter's account, I had box seats."

"No. About the victim. About Jimmy Gagnon."

That drew him up short. She gave him credit. She'd caught him off guard, but he took the time to consider her point.

"Information is a luxury tactical units don't have," he said finally.

"When I pulled the trigger last night, I didn't care about the man's name, his neighborhood, his father, or his history. I didn't know if he beat his dog or gave money to orphanages. All I knew was that the subject had a gun pointed at a woman's head and his finger on the trigger. I had to base my actions on his actions. So I did. Now none of the rest matters anymore, so why torture myself with it?"

Elizabeth smiled again. She liked Bobby Dodge. She hadn't seen so many layers of denial and rationalization in years, but she liked Bobby Dodge.

"Exercise?" she asked.

"Have you worked out today?"

"No. I thought about going for a run, but with my photo plastered everyplace…"

"I understand. Okay, this is your assignment for the weekend. You need to start taking care of yourself physically, so you can then tend to yourself emotionally. Is there anyplace you can go, maybe your father's, maybe your brother's, where you can escape and get some rest?"

"My girlfriend's."

"And she's doing okay with this?"

"I don't know. We haven't exactly had time to chat about it."

"Well, given what's happened, you're going to need a good support network, so if I were you, I'd talk to her about it." Elizabeth leaned forward.

"Last night was a big thing, Bobby. It's going to take more than twenty-four hours for you to wade through it, so first things first. Eat three well-balanced meals a day and try to get a good night's sleep. If you're feeling tense and wired, engage in some light exercise to blow off steam. Be careful, though. There's a fine line between running six miles to help yourself relax and running fifty miles to grind your thoughts into dust. You don't want to cross that line."

"I promise not to run more than forty-nine miles," he said.

"All right, then. Have a nice weekend."

"That's it? Eat, sleep, work out, and I'm cured? I can go back to work next week?"

"Eat, sleep, work out, and we'll talk more later," she corrected mildly.

"But not tonight; it's too late and maybe it's even too soon for you to know everything that's on your mind. I'm going to give you my phone number. You can call me if you do feel a sudden urge to talk, otherwise I'll see you on Monday. How does three sound?"

He shrugged.

"They won't let me work, so I guess my day's kinda open."

"Perfect." She rose. He rose. He didn't bolt for the door right away, like she thought he might. Instead, he just sort of stood there, looking adrift.

"Sometimes," he said abruptly, "sometimes when I think about what happened, I get really angry. Not with myself, but with the subject, for going after his wife and kid. For making me shoot him. Is that weird? To kill a man and hate him for it?"

"I'd say that reaction falls within the normal category."

He nodded, but didn't lose that unsettled look.

"Can I ask you another question? A general psychobabble sort of one?"

"By all means, allow me to babble away."

"We get called out for domestic disturbances a lot. Seems three, four times a week I'm standing in someone's yard while the wife yells at the husband or the husband screams at the wife. One thing always strikes me-that we're gonna be back. That no matter how much these people pound on one another, they always stay together. And if you do get a little rough with the boyfriend while you're loading him into the squad car, nine times out of ten, the woman, the same one who called nine-one-one and is wearing the imprint of the guy's fist, will attack us for hurting her man."

"Domestic abuse is very complex," she agreed, wondering where this was going.

"So would it be strange to kill a woman's husband and have her thank you for it?"

Elizabeth paused.

"That reaction would be less common," she said slowly.

"That's what I thought."

"But that doesn't necessarily mean anything."

"It's gotta mean something, Doc, or she wouldn't have said it."

"Bobby, did you talk to Catherine Gagnon? Did you know Jimmy's wife?"

"Nah, Doc. I can honestly tell you, we've never exchanged a word."

Bobby was already out in the reception area, donning his heavy wool jacket and rewrapping his scarf. Elizabeth trailed behind him, her radar working full power but unable to penetrate his screen.

"See you Monday at three. Gee, it feels good to have an appointment." Bobby rolled his eyes, gave her a little salute, headed for the door. Moments later, she watched him walk down Boylston Street, shoulders hunched against the cold, hands buried deep into the front of his jacket.

Dr. Elizabeth Lane stood at the window long after his figure had passed from sight. Finally, she sighed.

She hated what she had to do next.

Elizabeth picked up the phone.

"Hello." A few moments passed.

"So sorry. My condolences. I realize this is very awkward." And then, "Again, I'm very sorry for the timing, sir, but we need to talk." Turning into south Boston, Bobby tried to figure out what he should do next. The doctor was right; he was tired, hungry, stressed out. He should call it a night, hole up at home and get some rest. He lived on the first floor of a three-family row house-rented out the top two floors for a little income, really little actually, since one of the tenants, Mrs. Higgins, had come with the house. The previous owner had been charging her one hundred and five dollars a month for the past twenty years, and Bobby hadn't the heart to change terms on her. People were like that in Southie. They took care of one another, and even if he was still an outsider, one of the new bloods buying into the old neighborhood, he felt he should live up to the spirit of the place. So he kept Mrs. Higgins and her three cats at a hundred and five a month, and in return, she baked him chocolate chip cookies and told him stories of her grandkids.

Mrs. Higgins was going to be disappointed with him now. She'd liked Susan, approved the way everyone else in Bobby's life approved. Susan was sweet, Susan was kind. Susan was grade-A wife material all the way.

And it was over. Bobby had lied to the counselor earlier, maybe because the knowledge still stung. As of five hours ago, he and Susan were through. It had been a fantasy, and now it was done.

He'd bolted awake shortly after one this afternoon, shaky and disoriented from the sound of traffic pouring through a sun-bright room. Ohmygod, he'd overslept his alarm. He was at the wrong house, he didn't have his uniform, oh shit, he was really in for it now-And then it came back to him. The night, the shooting, the spray of a man's brains across a distant room. He lay in Susan's bed, feeling his heart pound, and for a moment, he was afraid he was having a heart attack. He couldn't breathe, and his arm was tingling, shooting pains going straight to his chest, which continued to heave and gasp.

Then it came to him. Susan's blonde head, warm and heavy on his shoulder. The length of her bare body, pressed against his. Her left leg, crooked over his hip. Her sheets, smelling of lavender and sex.

He'd eased his arm out from beneath her, and she'd stirred, rolling over, sighing deeply, then drifting back to sleep. He'd watched her a moment longer, feeling an emotion he couldn't name. He wanted to touch her cheek. He wanted to inhale the fragrance of her skin. He wanted to curl up against her and cling to her like a child.

And he'd thought, almost wildly, that maybe if he never got up, the day would never happen. He could stay here, she could stay here, and he'd never have to tell and she'd never have to know. His world could remain warm naked skin, tousled blonde hair, and lavender-scented sheets.

He'd never have to face what he had done. He'd never have to be the man who pulled the trigger. God, life was full of shit.

Bobby got out of bed. He made it to the bathroom, where he realized he hadn't had a chance to urinate since eight last night, and pissed for what felt like forever. Then he got dressed, found the lower drawer where he kept his extra things, and as quietly as he could, emptied the contents into his rucksack.

He paused at the doorway of the bedroom. He took in the flush of Susan's cheeks, the rumpled curls of her golden hair. And Bobby felt an ache that went on and on and on. Bobby rarely thought of his mother anymore, but when he did, it was almost always during moments like this one. When he wanted something he knew he couldn't have. When he felt a little unhinged, a little undone, a permanent outsider, always looking in.

He remembered the way the woman had held her child last night, the little boy's head tucked against her chest, her hands tight over his ears. And he found himself wondering, in a dark, foreboding sort of way, if his mother had ever done the same.

Two in the afternoon on a bright, sunny day, when he should've been cruising for speeders or drunks or motorists in need of assistance, when he should've been going through the paces the way he'd been going through the paces for years, Bobby stood in the doorway of his girlfriend's bedroom and felt something inside him tear. A sharp, hard ache. A genuine physical pain.

Then the worst of it was over, and all that was left was an already fading ache, the echo of a ghost pain, a soft mourning for what might have been. He could live with that. He had, in fact, been living with that for years.

Bobby left.

When the front door clicked shut behind him, Susan opened her eyes. She spotted the empty space on the bed. She called out his name, but he was already down the hall and it was too late to hear.

The l street Tavern was a bar's bar, heralding back to the days of smoke-filled interiors and drunken games of darts, the days before bars became smoke-free, family-friendly national chains and the settings of popular sitcoms. Lots of cops hung out here. Locals, too. It was the kind of a place where a guy could finally relax.

It was also crowded on a Friday night. Bobby thought he'd have to stand, but then halfway across the low-lit room, Walter Jensen from Boston PD spotted him and immediately slid off his stool.

"Bobby, my man! Get your ass over here! Have a seat, make yourself at home. Hey, Gary, Gary, Gary. I'm buying this man a beer!"

"Coke," Bobby said automatically, making his way to the wood-scarred bar, where lots of guys were turning now, some Bobby knew, some he didn't. Behind the bar, Gary had already started pouring a Killian's.

"Beer," Walt said sternly.

"Pager can't get you anymore, Bobby. Remember? As long as you're on administrative leave, the four-hundred-pound gorilla is dead. So sit back, loosen that collar, and have yourself a cold one."

"Well, shit," Bobby said with some surprise.

"You're right."

So Bobby had a beer. First from Walt, who had to congratulate him on a job well done.

"I heard it straight from the horse's mouth-Lieutenant Jachrimo himself. You did what you had to do. And through glass no less. Shit, Bobby, that's some serious shooting."

Then Donny, also BPD, wanted in on the glory. He refreshed Bobby's drink and contributed his own two cents.

"Just goes to show, money doesn't buy happiness. Walt, how many times have we been out to that place? Three, four, five? We're just sorry we missed the party."

It occurred to Bobby for the first time that both Walt and Donny were also part of Boston 's SWAT.

"How'd it play in Revere?" he asked.

"Same old, same old," Donny said.

"Guy shot up the roof of his own house. Drank a six-pack. Shot up his house some more, and then, just when the LT was getting really pissed off at the lack of progress, passed out cold. We went in and wrapped him up tight while he snored. Kind of boring really. We didn't even get to yell."

"But you've been to Back Bay?"

"Sure, Jimmy and his lady liked to spark the fireworks. He'd get drunk, she'd get mad, and off they'd go."

"He beat her?"

Donny shrugged.

"We never saw and she never said. They're not the ones who called it in anyway. It was always the neighbors who complained."

"Didn't like fighting in their neighborhood?"

"Jimmy liked to throw things," Walt said.

"Once he hurled a chair off the balcony and onto his neighbor's Volvo. The neighbors really didn't like that."

"When you were called out, what'd you do?" "Not much. Couple of uniforms would go by, talk to the happy couple. I caught the call once. Jimmy apologized and, being of a generous sort, offered me a beer. The wife never said much of anything. Cold fish, if you ask me, though maybe if you're married to a guy like Jimmy, you learn to keep your mouth shut."

"He was violent?"

"Time I was there, I saw a hole punched through the wall," Walt said.

"Wife didn't say anything, but it looked to me the exact same size as a man's fist."

"And the kid?"

"Never saw him. I think they had a nanny. Probably better for the kid."

Bobby's second beer was getting low. Donny flagged Gary down for a refill and Bobby didn't complain.

"You'd think a judge's son would know better," he said tersely.

Walt shrugged.

"Way I hear it, Jimmy gets in a little trouble and the judge makes a little call, and it all goes away. If only we were all so lucky."

"Didn't go away this time," Bobby said sharply.

"Nope. Fine piece of shooting, Bobby. Honestly, if it wasn't for you, that wife and kid would probably be dead right now. That was some really serious shit."

More guys were coming up. Someone clapped him on the back. Someone else bought him another beer. Bobby could no longer feel the rim of the glass coming to his lips. He was aware of sliding a little, disappearing into a vortex inside the loud, overheated bar. But at the same time, he was hyperaware-of the guys who didn't come up to him, of the eyes that peered at him from across the room, of the way some people looked over, saw his face, then quickly shook their heads.

And now he noticed something he hadn't before: the way both Walt and Donny regarded him. With respect, yeah, and awe, maybe, but also with genuine pity.

"Cause he was a cop who'd killed a man. And at the end of the day, it probably didn't matter what the DA's office finally ruled or what the department issued as its official finding. They were living in the media age, and in the media age, cops didn't get to fire their weapons. Cops were honored if they got themselves killed in the line of duty, but they were never supposed to draw their guns, not even in self-defense.

Another beer arrived. Bobby picked up the glass. He was well on his way to being completely, shit-faced drunk, when his LT found him and gave him the news.

Jesus shitting bricks. What the hell are you doing, Bobby? Half this city is watching you and you go and get drunk?"

Lieutenant Bruni was dragging him around the corner from the tavern. He had one finger crooked around the collar of Bobby's jacket and was literally pulling him down the street.

"Not… on the… clock," Bobby managed to slur out. Christ, it was cold outside. The raw November night slapped him across the face, making him blink owlishly.

"Camera crews are coming. Someone leaked to the goddamn press that you were holding court in a pub. But by God, you must have a guardian angel somewhere, because the chatter got picked up on the scanner and I was sent to bail you out. Bobby, listen to me."

Lieutenant Bruni suddenly jerked to a halt. He was panting, his breath coming in frosty clouds that floated across Bobby's vision. He had both hands on Bobby's collar, shaking him.

"Bobby, you're in trouble."

"No… shit."

"Listen to me, Bobby. Today's been a busy day downtown. Judge Gagnon is not happy his son is dead, and he's not about to listen to reason or circumstance. The judge is gunning for revenge, Bobby, and he's got you in his sights."

Bobby couldn't think of anything to say. The world was swimming around him. Air cold upon his cheeks. The stench of beer ripe in his nostrils. He needed to shower. Christ, he needed to sleep.

Thank you, the woman had said. Thank you.

And then it came to him: What a fucking bitch! Thank him? She shouldn't be thanking him. She should've left her drunken husband years ago. Or she should've said something to calm the man an hour earlier. Or never let go of her son. Or never taunted her husband in such a way to make him smile that cold, vengeful smile. She'd been the one in that room talking to Jimmy. She should've done a million and a half things differently, so Bobby would never have had to pull the trigger. So Bobby would never have had to kill a man and ruin his own goddamn life. So Bobby wouldn't be here now, drunk and exhausted and ashamed. What the hell kind of man killed a guy in front of his own kid anyway? Oh God, what had he done?

The bitch, the bitch, the bitch.

He pulled away from his lieutenant. He walked in small, random circles, still feeling crazy with rage. He wanted to take a bat and smash every fucking window in every fucking car on this street. And then he'd take a tire iron to every door and a blade to every tire. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted… Oh Christ, he couldn't breathe. His chest had locked up. His lips were open, gasping, but nothing was coming, no air would draw in. He was having another heart attack. He was dying in South Boston because it was November and he'd always known it would happen like that. The summer was safe, fall not too bad, but November… November was a killer month. Shit, shit, shit.

"Head between your knees. Come on, Bobby. Bend over, deep breath. You can do it. Just concentrate on the sound of my voice."

Bobby felt hands on his shoulders, hands forcing his head down. Stars were building in front of his eyes, brilliant white spots blooming in a sea of black. The stars would burst soon, fade away, and then there'd be only the black, rushing to greet him.

Then, as quickly as it started, his chest unlocked, his compressed lungs suddenly gasped to life and inhaled a rush of oxygen. He staggered into the middle of the street, barely missed a passing car, and gulped a deep lungful of icy night air.

Bruni was still beside him, dragging him out of the traffic and talking low and fast.

"Pay attention to me, Bobby. Pull yourself together and pay attention."

Bobby found a streetlight to cling to. He wrapped his arms and legs around the cold metal. Then he hung his head and fought to get a grip.

"All right," he said.

"I'm together."

Bruni looked skeptical, but he grunted in acquiescence.

"Do you know what a clerk-magistrate hearing is?"

"A clerk what?"

"Clerk-magistrate. The clerk-magistrate reports to the Chelsea District Court of Suffolk County. That's the civil side of the county's judicial system, versus the criminal side. You probably didn't know-hell, I sure didn't know-but any person can seek a clerk-magistrate hearing for probable cause that (a) a crime has been committed, and (b) that the defendant did it. If the clerk-magistrate finds in favor of probable cause, then the clerk-magistrate can issue criminal charges against the defendant, even though it's a civil court. Basically, any civilian can run around the DA's office and, using the clerk-magistrate, pursue their own criminal case, with their own personal lawyer and their own personal funds. You might want to ask, Bobby, what this has to do with you."

"What does this have to do with me?" Bobby asked wearily.

"At four forty-five this evening, Maryanne Gagnon, wife of Suffolk Superior Court Judge James Gagnon and mother of Jimmy Gagnon, filed a motion for a hearing with the clerk-magistrate. She's arguing there's probable cause that a murder was committed, and that you did it."

Bobby made the mistake of closing his eyes. The world promptly spun sickeningly.

"Judge Gagnon's not waiting for the DA's office, Bobby. He doesn't give a damn what their investigators find, he doesn't give a damn what the hell our department finds. He's gunning for you himself."

"I thought… I thought as Massachusetts state employees we were protected from all that. The Mass. Tort Claims Act. As long as we're on the job, someone can only sue the state, not us."

"Yeah, nobody can bring a civil suit against you specifically. But this isn't a civil suit, Bobby. This is a probable cause hearing to Press criminal charges. This is a. felony. This is, if you're found guilty, you go to jail. This isn't some guy looking to ease his bereavement by collecting cold hard cash, Bobby. This is a guy looking to destroy your life."

Bobby's legs gave out and he went down hard, tilting wildly to the left, before Bruni caught his arm and brought him back to center. The lieutenant joined him on the curb. They sat, tucked hidden between two cars, and for a while, neither of them spoke. "Jesus," Bobby said at last.

"I'm sorry, Bobby. Honest to God, I've never heard of anything like this. Do you have a lawyer?"

"I thought the union provided a lawyer."

" Union can't help. This is a case brought against you personally not the State of Mass, or the department. For this, you're on your own."

Bobby placed his head in his hands. He was too tired, too drunk for this. He felt as if November had leached all the fight out of his bones, and he had nothing left.

"It was a righteous shoot," he said.

"No one I know is saying otherwise."

"The man was going to kill his wife."

"I listened to the tape of the command center's conversation this afternoon. You followed procedure, Bobby. You documented events, you detailed what was happening, and you did what you were trained to do. Maybe no one else will ever say this, but I'm proud of you, Bobby. You had a job to do, and you didn't back down."

Bobby couldn't talk anymore. He had to pinch the bridge of his nose to quell the moisture suddenly stinging his eyes. God, he was tired. Worse, he was drunk.

"Will it work?" Bobby asked at last.

"Guy's a judge. He's got money, he's got influence. Shit, I can't afford a real suit on what I make. Does that mean he wins?"

"I don't know," Bruni said, but he sighed heavily, which meant he knew enough.

"I don't understand. Jimmy had a gun. Jimmy was pointing it at his wife and child. Doesn't that mean anything to anyone? To even his parents?"

"It's a little complicated."

"Why, because he's rich, because he's got a house in Back Bay? Beating your family is beating your family. I don't care how much money you got!"

The lieutenant grew quiet.

"What?" Bobby demanded to know.

"For God's sake, what?"

Bruni sighed heavily.

"In the court papers, the Gagnons aren't denying that Jimmy had a gun. And they're not denying that he pointed it at his wife. But they're saying… "They're saying the wife's the problem in that house, Bobby. According to the court papers, Catherine Gagnon's been abusing her son. And if Jimmy was threatening her, it was only because he was trying to save his son's life." Nathan had been throwing up all day. He was finally asleep now, a pale, exhausted form that looked much too fragile against the pile of soft blue blankets. His eyelashes formed dark smudges against his cheeks. His sunken face appeared both too small and too old for a child who was only four.

When Maryanne and James had arrived first thing this morning, allegedly having bolted out of bed the minute they saw the news, but appearing strangely well groomed for a couple who had been wrenched from sleep by word of their son's death, they had eyed Nathan carefully.

Maryanne had been performing her favorite damsel-in-distress act, of course. All oversized blue eyes, pale face, and trembling hands.

"I simply can't bear it," she'd said again and again in her overwhelming Southern lilt. Forty years of living in Boston, and the woman could still sound as if she'd stepped straight out of a Tennessee Williams play.

In between all the theatrics, however, Catherine could see both Maryanne and James making mental notes: Boy is thin, lethargic, and obviously stressed. Boy does not move toward his mother, but clings to his nanny. Boy has fresh bruise on forehead.

Twice Maryanne tried to pull Catherine aside for "a quick word." Both times, Catherine held her ground. Prudence, the English nanny, was well trained and had been imported by Catherine for her dutiful nature and inherent sense of discretion. She was still new, however, so while Catherine had given her strict orders never to leave Nathan alone with his grandparents, she had no idea how the girl would hold up under pressure. James could be very charismatic when he chose. For all Catherine knew, he'd convince the girl to fetch him a cup of tea, and that quickly, the war would be lost.

Catherine couldn't afford that kind of risk. Not these days.

Maryanne and James had offered to let her and Nathan stay with them, of course. After the "terrible events" of the night before, surely they needed someplace to stay, somewhere far away from this "tragic scene." For God's sake, Catherine, think of the boy. Surely, he doesn't look well.

Finally, James had lost his patience. The minute Prudence escorted Nathan from the room-most likely to throw up again-the judge had turned on Catherine in a terrible rage.

"Don't think you're going to get away with this. Jimmy told us what was going on. Do you think you won last night? Do you think killing Jimmy solved your problems? Because I'm telling you now, they're just getting started."

And for a moment, Catherine had honestly panicked. She thought wildly of Jimmy's new security system, installed six months earlier. The power light had gone off. She swore she saw the power light off. Then she realized that the silence had dragged on too long, that James was still regarding her with that cold accusing stare, so she drew herself up to her full height and said as regally as she could, "I don't know what you're talking about, James. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to plan a funeral for my husband."

She'd swept out of the room, heart pounding, hands trembling, and a few minutes later, heard her in-laws storm out the door. Then the house was quiet again, except for the sound of Nathan dry-heaving down the hall.

Nathan hadn't cried. Not last night, not today. He probably wouldn't. In that way, he was Catherine's son. He faced everything-the doctors' appointments, the endless needles, the horribly invasive tests-dry eyed and solemn browed. The nurses loved him, but even when they touched him, he flinched.

He would have nightmares tonight. Horrible dreams where he would thrash wildly, then wake up screaming of pain and needles and demanding that the doctors leave him alone. Sometimes, more rarely, he cried out against the darkness, complaining of suffocating and needing every light to be turned on in the house. It both fascinated Catherine and frightened her that her personal nightmare had become her son's own.

Prudence would tend to him. As had Beatrice before her, and Margaret, Sonya, Chloe, and Abigail before that. So many faces, Catherine barely recalled them all. Of course she remembered Abby, who had been the first. Jimmy had hired her when Nathan was only one week old. Catherine hadn't wanted a nanny. Catherine had thought she'd care for her son herself, even nurse. But a week later, she roamed the house in a sleepless daze, the baby continuously vomiting on her milk-stained breast. She couldn't sleep, she couldn't eat. She compulsively turned on lights.

She held this creature, so small and helpless he mewed more than he cried, and she was overwhelmed by his sheer vulnerability, by all the things that could go wrong. Babies died. They starved, they were beaten, they died of the flu. They fell out windows, they died of SIDS. They were snatched out of cars, they were lured away from playgrounds, they were abused by priests. And there were fates worse than that. She knew of those, too. How some adults were actually excited by the cries of small children. How even a baby, a weak, helpless baby, could fall into the wrong hands and through no fault of its own, become a predator's toy.

How many babies were crying of hunger right now and being beaten for their trouble? How many babies were looking up hopefully into the eyes of their caretakers and receiving a smack to the side of the head? How many infants were born each day, innocent, boundless, sweet, only to be ruined by the very people who had given them life?

She wasn't going to be able to handle this. The world was too evil and Nathan too small. He would need her and she would fail him and that would destroy her once and for all.

She couldn't bear to hold him, but she couldn't stand to put him down. She couldn't bear to love him, but she couldn't stand to be apart. She was disintegrating into a million and a half tiny little shards, a sleep-deprived new mother, roaming the halls with her newborn son and quietly falling apart.

On the seventh day, Jimmy appeared with a young girl in tow. He explained it to Catherine gently, speaking slowly and using small words, which was about all she could understand. Abby would take Nathan now. Abby would feed him. Abby would tend to him. Catherine should go to bed. Jimmy had a glass of juice for her. And two pills. All she had to do was swallow and things would be better.

So that's how it happened the first time. Catherine traded her baby for a dose of Valium. After that, it wasn't so hard to spend a few days at a spa, then a week in Paris, two weeks in Rome.

The first nanny arrived, and Catherine had been visiting her child ever since.

Abby had done well by Nathan. Gotten him on a soy-based formula that briefly settled his finicky stomach. She read him his first story, earned his first smile, watched him take his first step. In the evenings, Catherine would hear them down the hall, Abby reading Goodnight Moon in her soft lilting voice, Nathan making small, snuggly murmurs as he curled up against her chest.

At Nathan's first birthday party, he'd fallen down. When Catherine tried to scoop him up, he'd screamed harder and, in front of all the parents, demanded his nanny. Then he'd flung his arms around Abby's shoulders and buried his face against her neck.

Catherine fired the woman the very next day. And Nathan had cried for a month.

After Abby had come Chloe, another one of Jimmy's choices.

She was a petite, generously curved Frenchwoman, and Catherine hadn't even been surprised to come home and find her and Jimmy in bed. What did you expect when your husband brought home a nanny" who by her own admission had never changed a diaper?

Catherine took over the hiring after that. She stuck to older, true professionals who knew the ropes and could maintain a certain distance from their young charge. They were too mature to appeal to Jimmy, too respectful to comment on how much time Catherine spent away from her son, and too self-righteous to ever know of the nights Catherine stood in Nathan's room, watching her frail son sleep and feeling her heart beat wildly in her chest.

Nathan had made it all the way to four years old now, and still sometimes in her mind's eye, Catherine would see a beat-up blue Chevy turning down their street: Hey, boy, I'm looking for a lost dog.

Of course, Nathan didn't need a stranger to haunt his dreams. The danger for Nathan had come from right between these four walls.

Two a.m. She should go to sleep. She already knew she wouldn't. The press remained parked outside, impatient vultures still digging for dirt. From time to time, squad cars passed as well. Checking the scene, monitoring the press, staring up at the fourth floor.

She had given her first statement to the police within hours of Jimmy's death. She'd been proud of herself, cool, calm, and collected. My husband has a temper. He drinks, he gets angry; this time, he found a gun. What had we fought about? Does it matter? Does anything justify a man aiming a gun at his wife? Yes, I was afraid. In all honesty, Detective, I thought I was dead.

They had wanted to talk to Nathan as well. She'd put them off. My son is too tired, too traumatized, too sick. It had bought her some time. For now.

The investigators had spent most of last night and this morning in the master bedroom. Now the room was cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape. Parts of the carpet had been removed. Shattered glass gathered. Bedding whisked away. Plastic sheeting covered the hole where the sliding glass door used to be. The cold wind sliced effortlessly through the plastic, however, and carried a host of smells to the rest of the house.

Blood. Urine. Gunpowder. Death.

Her neighbors probably thought she was crazy to stay. The press and police, too. Maybe she was traumatizing Nathan. Or maybe she was insane. Truth of the matter was, where else did they have to go? Her father didn't know how to handle these kinds of situations; arriving at her in-laws would be akin to stepping into the lion's den.

Or maybe there was something more sinister at work. Maybe she just wasn't ready to leave. This house, this room, it was all of Timmy she had left. And though no one would believe her, least of her in-laws, in her own way, she had loved Jimmy. She had hoped, she had prayed with what little faith she had, that it would not come to this.

Now she ducked under the crime-scene tape. Now she entered the master bedroom, a chill, ghostly chamber of black and white. Gauzy curtains stirred, while the plastic over the shattered slider heaved and sighed. The smells were richer here. A pungent rusty odor that made her nose recoil even as it triggered memory.

She crossed to the bed, running her hand over the bare mattress and staring at the darker splatters of blood. She lay down in the middle of the vast empty space.

Jimmy seeing her for the first time and flashing that crooked grin in the middle of the crowded department store.

"Hey, perfume lady. What's a guy gotta do to get a little spritz?"

Jimmy making love to her, then, afterwards, realizing that she hadn't felt a thing and trying to be kind about it.

"Hey, honey, you know what? We'll just have to practice more."

Jimmy fumbling the ring as he got down on one knee to propose. Jimmy staggering wildly as he carried her over the threshold. Jimmy promising her nine, ten children. Jimmy deliriously happy when she became pregnant with their first. Jimmy showering her with diamonds and pearls. Jimmy taking her on whirlwind shopping blitzes where he bought out half the city.

Jimmy sleeping with the maid, the nanny, her friends. Jimmy heading to the bar the first time she had to rush Nathan to the emergency room. Jimmy putting his fist through the wall when she dared to say he should drink less. Jimmy slamming his fist into her ribs when she dared to say something might be wrong with Nathan.

Then, six months ago, Jimmy coming upon the cache of letters written to her from her lover. He'd entered their bedroom at four a-m. He'd flipped her onto her stomach. He'd pinned her to the Mattress, and then he'd sodomized her.

"Maybe I should've tried that in the very beginning," he'd said he was done.

"Maybe you would've felt something then." Hours later, they'd sat across from one another at the breakfast table and made small talk about the weather.

Catherine curled up on the bare mattress now. She put her hand on the empty spot where her husband used to lie. And she remembered the last look on his face, during that instant right when the bullet found the tender spot behind his ear and right before it came shattering out the hard bone at his temple-an expression that was not handsome, not dashing, not charming, but totally, utterly betrayed.

And she wondered now, what had disappointed him most-his own imminent death, or the fact that he hadn't been able to kill her first?

A crash sounded from Nathan's room. Prudence started calling her name and Catherine scrambled down the hall, as surprised as anyone by the tear stains on her face.

At the hospital. Orders hastily shouted and promptly obeyed. One sharp needle and a nurse had drawn blood. Another sharp poke and the IV was in place. A third probing stab and Nathan had been catheterized.

Nathan's twenty-six-pound frame writhed in the middle of the hospital bed, jerking continuously as he fought to sit. His cheeks were on fire, sweat rolling down his limbs. His abdomen protruded painfully while his chest appeared concave as he gasped and heaved for breath.

A resident was reporting, "Severe epigastric pain-" A nurse was shouting: "Temp one-oh-two. Heart rate one fifty, BP one fifteen over forty-" Dr. Rocco was already barking out commands: "I need two milligrams morphine, cold compresses, TPN nutrition. Come on, people, MOVE!"

The first time Catherine had been through this drill, she had trembled uncontrollably. Now, she was grim-faced as a combat veteran as two people pinned Nathan's writhing body to the bed and two others sliced off Nathan's cowboy-print pajamas and slapped on wires for the heart monitor. Nathan screamed in pain; they held him harder.

So it went, on and on and on, Nathan fighting for his life and the hospital staff fighting with him.

Afterwards, when the worst had passed, when the nurses and residents had moved on to more pressing cases, when only Nathan remained, unconscious, breathing strained, a tiny form lost in the middle of the metal-framed hospital bed, Dr. Rocco took her aside.

"Catherine… I know things must be difficult at home right now."

"You think?" The words came out too harshly. Catherine regretted her tone almost immediately. She turned her head away from Dr. Rocco and stared at the walls, which were really much too white. She could hear the beep of Nathan's monitor, faithfully counting out the rhythm of his heart. Sometimes, she heard that sound in her sleep.

"Jimmy, we have to do something about Nathan."

"Jesus, Catherine, can't you leave the poor boy alone?"

"Jimmy, look at him. He's sick. Really, really sick…"

"Is he? None of these fancy tests you order ever prove anything. Maybe the problem isn't with Nathan, Cat. I'm beginning to wonder-maybe the problem's with you."

"Catherine, he has pancreatitis again. That's the third time this year. Given his heart and the rest of his health, he can't keep battling these kinds of infections. His liver is enlarged, he's still showing signs of malnutrition, and worse, he's lost a pound since I saw him last. Have you been following the special diet we discussed? Lots of small meals, only soy products?"

"It's hard to get him to eat."

"What about favorite foods?"

"He likes the soy yogurt, but even then, after a bite or two, he's done."

"He's got to eat."

"I know."

"He must take his vitamins."

"We're trying."

"Catherine, four-year-olds don't get anorexia. Four-year-olds don't starve themselves to death."

"I know," she whispered helplessly.

"I know." And then, more tentatively, "Isn't there anything else you can do?" "Catherine…" The doctor sighed. Now he stared at the walls, too.

"I'm recommending you to Dr. Lorfino," he said abruptly.

"You're sending me to another doctor?"

"He can see you on Monday. Three p.m."

"But another doctor will mean more tests." She was flabbergasted.

"Nathan is tired of tests."

"I know."

"Tony…" The word came out as a plea. She was sorry the instant she said it.

Dr. Rocco finally looked at her.

"The head of Pediatrics has formally asked me to remove myself from this case. I'm sorry, Catherine, but my hands are tied."

And then finally, Catherine got it. James. Her father-in-law had gotten to him, or had intervened with the higher-ups in the hospital, or maybe both. It didn't matter anymore. As a doctor for Nathan, as an ally for her, Tony Rocco was done.

She rose steadily, careful to keep her chin up and her back straight. As gracefully as she could, she held out her hand.

"Thank you for your assistance, Doctor," she murmured.

For one moment, he hesitated.

"I'm sorry, Cat," he said softly.

"Dr. Lorfino, he's a good doctor."

"Older? Balding? Fat?" she asked bitterly.

"A good doctor," Tony repeated.

She just shook her head.

"I'm sorry, too."

She left the room, went down the hall where she could stand outside the window of I.C.U and watch Nathan's skinny chest rise and fall amid the sea of wires. In the morning, if his temperature was down and the worst of the inflammation past, she would take him home. He would sit in his own room, surrounded by his own toys. He would not ask many questions, this somber child of hers. He would simply wait, as they always waited, for the next crisis to occur.

She would have to think of a good time to tell him about the new doctor. Maybe she would have Prudence take him to a movie first, or make him some kind of treat. Or maybe it was better to wait for when he was already in a bad mood. She could layer on the misery and let him deal with it all at once.

prudence would be there. Prudence would hold his hand if he finally cried.

Catherine couldn't stand being in the I.C.U anymore. She headed for the families' lounge, desperate for brighter lights, fresher air People didn't make eye contact here or worry about some infamous widow whose husband had just been shot; they were too busy with problems of their own.

She was halfway right.

A man walked up to her the minute she appeared. He wore a brown suit and bad hairpiece and moved with a single-minded focus.

"Catherine Rose Gagnon?"

"Yes."

"Consider yourself served."

She took the sheaf of paper in bewilderment, barely noting the surprised glances of the other families. The man disappeared as quickly as he'd come, an intruder who knew he didn't belong. Then it was just her and a room full of strangers, all with loved ones battling for their lives down the hall.

Catherine unfolded the thick legal document. She read the heading, and even though she thought she'd considered everything, she was still stunned. Her stomach went hollow, she swayed on her feet.

And then she started laughing, the hysteria building like a bubble in her throat.

"Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy," she half laughed, half sobbed. What have you done?"

An a darkened room of a darkened house, the phone rang once. The call was expected, but that didn't stop the recipient from feeling rather nervous.

"Robinson?" the caller asked.

"Yeah."

"Did you find him?"

"Yeah."

"Do we have a deal?" "Keep up your end of the arrangement and he'll keep up his."

"Good. I'll wire you the money."

"You understand what you're doing, don't you?" Robinson blurted out.

"I can't control him. He was a killer before he went to jail, he was a killer while he was in jail, and now-" The caller cut him off.

"Trust me: that's exactly what I'm hoping for."

Bobby woke up blearily to the sound of a phone ringing. For a moment, he lay there, blinking his eyes at the ceiling and feeling the pounding in his head. Jesus, he stank of beer.

Then the phone rang again and the next thought flashed across his mind as a small hopeful flare: Susan.

He grabbed the phone.

"Hello?"

The woman on the other end of the phone was not Susan and it amazed him how much he was disappointed.

"Robert Dodge?"

"Who's this?"

"Catherine Gagnon. I believe you shot my husband."

Jesus Christ. Bobby sat up. The shades were drawn, his room was dark, he couldn't get his bearings. His gaze scatter-shot around the room, finally finding his bedside clock and reading the glowing red numbers. Six forty-five a.m. He'd been asleep what, three, four hours? It wasn't enough for this.

"We can't talk," he said.

"I'm not calling to blame you."

"We can't talk," he said again, more emphatically. "Officer Dodge, I wouldn't be alive right now if you hadn't done what you did. Is that what you need to hear?"

"Mrs. Gagnon, there are lawsuits, there are lawyers. We can't be seen talking."

"Point taken. I believe I can make it to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum without being followed. Can you?"

"Lady-" "I'll be there after eleven. In the Veronese Room."

"Have a nice tour."

"Haven't you ever heard, Officer Dodge? The enemy of your enemy is your friend. We have the same enemy, you and I, which means now we're the only hope either of us has left."

Eleven-fifteen a.m." Bobby found her in front of a Whistler portrait awash in vivid shades of blue. The artwork featured a lounging woman, nude, voluptuously curved and swathed in bright oriental fabrics. In contrast, Catherine Gagnon stood out as a stark silhouette. Long black hair, tailored black dress, skinny black heels. Even from the back, she was a striking woman. Slender, self-contained, oozing pedigreed wealth. Bobby decided she was too skinny for his tastes, too rich-bitch, but then she turned and he felt something tighten low in his gut. Something about the way she moved, he thought. Or maybe it was the way her dark, oversized eyes dominated her pale, sculpted face.

She looked at him. He looked at her. And for a long moment, neither took a step.

First time Bobby had seen her, he'd had the impression of a dark Madonna, a slender mother wrapping herself protectively around her young son. Now, with the allegations of child abuse fresh in his mind, he saw a black widow. She was cool. Ballsy, to call him up out of the blue. And probably, most likely, he decided, dangerous.

"You can relax," she said quietly from across the way.

"It's an art museum. No cameras allowed, remember?"

"Clever," he acknowledged, and she flashed him a fleeting smile before returning her attention to the artwork.

He finally crossed to her, standing in front of the Whistler display, but leaving plenty of distance between them.

The room wasn't crowded yet; early November was off-season? Boston. Too late for leaf-peeping, too early for holiday shopping. Bobby and Catherine shared the opulent room of the mansion-museum with only four other souls, and those four didn't appear to be giving them a second glance.

"Do you like Whistler?" she asked.

"More of a Pedro Martinez fan, myself."

"Believe in the Red Sox curse?"

"Haven't seen anything to prove otherwise."

"I like this Whistler study," she said.

"The long sensuous lines of the woman's body against that opulent blue fabric. It's extremely erotic. Do you think this woman was merely a model for him, or after posing for this, did she become Whistler's lover?"

Bobby didn't say anything. She didn't seem to require an answer.

"He had a reputation for being a dandy, you know. In 1888, however, just a few years after painting this piece, he supposedly married the love of his life, Beatrice Godwin. She died eight years later from cancer. What a pity. Did you know that Whistler's a local artist? Born in Lowell, Mass-"

"I didn't come for the art."

She merely arched a brow at him.

"Shame, don't you think? It's a wonderful museum."

He gave her another look, and she finally relented.

"Let's go upstairs. Third level."

"More Whistler?"

"No, more privacy."

They mounted the wide, curving staircase to the top level of the museum. They passed by more people, then several guards standing stony-faced in designated rooms. Fourteen years ago, two thieves disguised as Boston police officers had stolen thirteen works of art from this museum. The theft gave the museum a certain level of notoriety that the security guards didn't forget. Now they scrupulously studied each person walking by, causing Bobby to avert his gaze. When they finally arrived on the third floor, he found that he was breathing harder than necessary. Catherine Gagnon wasn't as cool as she'd like to pretend either. He could see both of her hands trembling at her sides. As if sensing his gaze, she stopped the motion by curving her fingers into fists.

She walked all the way to the back and he followed, noting things he didn't want to note. Like the smell of her perfume, rich, almost cinnamony, like barely suppressed heat. Or the way she walked, lithe, graceful, like a cat. She worked out. Yoga or Pilates would be his guess. Either way, she was stronger than she looked.

In the back room of the third floor, no one was around. Bobby and Catherine positioned themselves at random, close but not too close, and Catherine started to talk.

"I loved my husband," she said softly.

"I know that must sound strange to you. When I first met Jimmy, he was… amazing, generous, sweet. He took me on whirlwind weekends to Paris and grand shopping tours. I… I had some trouble earlier in my life. Some sadness. When I first met Jimmy, for the first time, things felt right. He entered the picture and literally swept me off my feet. He was my knight in shining armor."

Bobby wondered what some sadness meant. He wondered, for that matter, why Catherine Gagnon was telling him any of this. He'd killed Jimmy Gagnon; he didn't want to hear stories about the man now.

"I was wrong about Jimmy," Catherine said abruptly.

"Jimmy wasn't a knight in shining armor. He was drunk and abusive, a manipulative, charismatic man who would smile at you when he got his way, and go after you with a knife when he didn't. He was everything I swore to myself I knew better than to marry. But I didn't see it. I didn't understand until it was much too late, and then I could only wonder-I knew better. How had I still ended up married to the likes of him?"

She stopped abruptly, a person biting off an unspoken curse. She turned away again, but her steps were hard now, agitated as she paced the tiny room.

"He beat you?" Bobby asked.

"I can show you bruises." Her hands moved immediately to the belt of her dress. He held up his palm to stop her.

"Why didn't you tell the cops?"

"They were Boston cops. Jimmy's father, Judge Gagnon, had already handed down an edict: If Jimmy was in trouble, cops were to call him and he'd personally take care of it. Jimmy liked to brag about that. Shortly before he'd knock me unconscious."

Bobby frowned. He didn't like these kinds of stories, cops turning a blind eye, yet it fit with what two BPD cops had already told him. Jimmy Gagnon was a wild one, and he used his father as his own personal get-out-of-jail-free card.

"And your son?"

"Jimmy never touched Nathan. I would've left him if he had." She said the words too quickly; Bobby knew she lied.

"Seems to me a man knocking you around should be reason enough to grab the kid and run. Of course, life on the road wouldn't involve so much money."

"Oh, Jimmy didn't have any money."

"Yeah? What do you consider a home in the heart of Back Bay?"

"Jimmy's father bought it. His father bought most of the things we used. Jimmy's money is still tied up in a trust. His father is the executor and he doles out the money at will. It's from a clause dating back to Jimmy's great-great-grandfather on his mother's side. He hit it big in oil, then grew obsessed that future generations would squander the family fortune. His solution: he tied up the assets in trusts that don't dissolve until the inheritor turns fifty-five. Each successive generation has kept it that way. So the family has money-Maryanne inherited a positively filthy amount of money when she turned fifty-five-but Jimmy… Jimmy didn't have any wealth of his own yet."

"And now that Jimmy's dead?"

"The money goes straight to Nathan, also in a trust. I don't receive a cent."

Bobby remained skeptical.

"But there are provisions for the guardian, I'm sure."

"Nathan's guardian will receive a monthly allowance," she acknowledged.

"But you're assuming I'm his guardian. This morning, I was served with court papers. James and Maryanne are officially suing me for custody of Nathan. They claim I'm trying to kill him. Can you believe that, Officer Dodge? A mother trying to harm her own son?" She moved toward him, coming to a halt closer to him than strangers normally stand. He became aware of her perfume again and the pale curve of her slender neck and the way her long, dark hair draped down her back, a rich, black curtain as erotic as the blue fabric in the Whistler portrait had been.

She made no other move, said no other word, and yet there was something about her that invited touch. Something about her that reached out to him as a man, and begged him to conquer her as a woman.

She was playing him. She was using her body as a weapon, deliberately trying to befuddle the brains of the poor, stupid state cop. Funny, even knowing that, he was still tempted to step forward, to press his body against hers.

"My son is in the hospital," she murmured.

"What?"

"He's in the I.C.U. Pancreatitis. Maybe that doesn't sound life-threatening to you, but for a boy like Nathan it is. My son is sick, Officer Dodge. He's very, very sick and the doctors don't know why, so my in-laws are blaming me. If they can make his illness my fault, they can take Nathan away. Then they'll have their grandson-and the money-all to themselves. Unless, of course, you help me."

Bobby let his gaze drift down the length of her body.

"And why would I help you?"

She smiled. It was a fully feminine smile, but for the first time, Bobby also saw a spark of emotion in her eyes-she was sad. Catherine Gagnon was deeply, horribly sad. She reached up a hand and delicately splayed her fingers across his chest.

"We need each other," she said quietly.

"Think about the clerk-magistrate hearing-" "You know about the hearing?"

"Of course I know about it. The two motions go together, Officer Dodge. The custody battle is the foundation of the probable cause hearing. Basically, if I'm abusing Nathan, then you committed murder."

"I didn't commit murder."

Her fingers fluttered across his chest.

"Of course. Just like I'm not the kind of woman who would ever dream of harming her son."

She leaned closer, her breath whispering across his lips.

"Don't you trust me, Officer Dodge? You should, you know. Because I have no choice but to trust in you."

Bobby had to get some air. He left the museum, cabbed it home, and stood like an idiot in the middle of his family room. Fuck it. He went for a run.

Down G Street to Columbia Road. Heading into the park, where traffic roared by on his left, and there was nothing but ocean on the right. Exchanging the Heights for the Point, passing by the historic L Street Bath House, and watching the homes go from tidy three-levels to full-fledged mansions. He hit Castle Island, where the wind gusted into his face and the ocean pounded the shore. Weather was wild here, the wind a physical force, shoving against him as he strained forward. He muscled his way around the stone walls of the old lookout, watching jets from Logan climb slowly into the sky, looking as if they were barely going to clear the island. Playground was here. Kids out on the slide, bundled up against the weather.

He ran around again, picking up the sounds of kids laughing as the notes danced across the wind. Lots of families were moving into South Boston. Used to be working-class kids, walking up from the various housing projects to Castle Island. The families were more white-collar now, but the kids played just as rough.

He headed home, his lungs working hard and finally clearing the fog from his head.

Back in his house, he got out the yellow pages and, still dripping with sweat, started his calls. He found who he was looking for on the third try.

"We have a Nathan Gagnon admitted into the I.C.U," a hospital nurse responded to his query.

"Brought in last night."

"Is he okay?"

Well, we don't generally put the healthy ones in intensive care." The nurse sounded droll.

"I mean, what's his condition? I'm with the Massachusetts State police." He rattled off his badge number. Serious but stable," the nurse reported. "Pancreatitis," Bobby recalled.

"Is that life-threatening?"

"It can be."

"In this case?"

"You'd have to talk to his pediatrician, Dr. Rocco."

Bobby made a note.

"Has the boy been in before?"

"Few times. Again, Officer, you should talk to Dr. Rocco."

"Okay, okay. One more question, if you don't mind."

The nurse seemed to think about it, then must have decided that she didn't mind.

"So?"

"Does the kid ever come in with other conditions? You know broken bones, unexplained bruises?"

"Does he fall down the stairs a lot?" the woman asked dryly.

"Exactly. How's he doing with stairs?"

"Two broken bones in the last twelve months. You tell me."

"Two broken bones in the last twelve months," Bobby murmured.

"No kidding. Thanks. You've been very helpful." He hung up the phone.

Bobby sat on the edge of his chair. Yellow pages were open on his lap. Sweat trickled down his nose and dripped onto the thin paper. He could feel the darkness inside himself again, murky and deep. And he thought what he'd really like to do today, more than run, more than sleep, more than even speak with Susan, was go to a firing range and shoot the living daylights out of something.

So what did that say about him?

A smart man would forget about his encounter with Catherine Gagnon. He'd done his job, the best an officer could do. Now he should wash his hands of everything and walk away.

Of course, a smart man didn't meet a woman like Catherine in a very public museum. And a smart man didn't worry so much about a kid he barely knew.

Bobby snapped the yellow pages shut.

"Dr. Rocco," he repeated to himself. He headed for the shower.

Bobby's cell phone rang the minute he left the house. He didn't feel like driving into Boston -just the parking would bankrupt him, and frankly, without flashing red lights to back him up, he wasn't stupid enough to brave the traffic. So he walked to the bus stop with his head down and shoulders rounded, feeling conspicuous in broad daylight, like a felon from America 's Most Wanted.

Thank God Jimmy Gagnon had been white, Bobby thought, or he'd never be able to leave his home.

His phone bleated again. He flipped it open suspiciously, the wind already ripping the words from his lips.

"Yeah?"

Bobby? Thank God. I've been trying to reach you since last night."

Hey, Pop." Bobby relaxed, but only a fraction. He continued running, his legs eating up the six blocks to the bus stop.

"I called you this morning, but couldn't get through."

Had to take the phone off the hook. Damn reporters wouldn't stop bothering me."

"Sorry 'bout that." "I didn't tell them anything. Good-for-nothing sons of bitches." Bobby's father hated journalists almost as much as presidents from the Democratic Party.

"You okay?"

"Working on it."

"On paid leave?"

"Till we hear from the DA."

"I did a little calling around," Pop said. Once upon a time Bobby's father had gone by his real name, Larry, but then he'd set up shop as a custom pistolsmith to augment his retirement income. So many of his customers were Bobby's fellow police officers. They'd started calling him Pop, too, and now it had stuck. Bobby'd been surprised by the evolution, sure his gruff, hard-assed father would hate the familiarity. But Larry didn't seem to mind. Sometimes, he even appeared flattered. Things changed, Bobby supposed. In his own way, Bobby was trying to change, too. It was just a longer time coming.

"I'm hearing good things," Pop said quietly.

"You did what you had to do."

Bobby shrugged. Saying "Thanks" would sound too cavalier. Saying anything else would be ungrateful.

"Bobby-" "I know I should've tried harder to call you," Bobby cut in.

"I shouldn't have left you so long to worry."

"It's not that-" Bobby rushed on, quickly now, before he lost his courage.

"I guess it all just hit me harder than I thought. I mean, I don't doubt taking the shot. I could only act on what I saw, and what I saw told me to shoot. But still, the guy's kid was in the room. Right there, not five feet away, and I blew his father's brains out. Now the boy has to live with what I did, and I have to live with what I did, and I…" Bobby's voice broke off, sounded more ragged than he would've liked. Jesus, how did he get into this mess?

Pop didn't try to say anything this time.

"It gets to me, Pop," Bobby said more quietly.

"I didn't think I would. But it gets to me. And last night… last night I had a beer.

His father didn't speak right away. He said finally, heavily, "I heard it might have been more like half a dozen beers."

"Yeah, yeah, you're right. It was probably closer to five or six.

"Did it help?"

"No."

"How did you feel this morning?"

"Like shit."

"And tonight?"

"I'm done. I slipped, I learned my lesson, I'm done." Bobby couldn't quite resist adding, "And you?"

"I'm good," Pop said.

"One asshole in the family is enough, don't you think?"

Bobby had to smile.

"Yeah, one asshole is enough."

"And Susan?" his father asked gruffly.

"Now you got some time off, maybe you can bring her out for a visit."

"I don't know."

"What don't you know, son?"

"I don't know… a lot of things."

"Come visit me, Bobby. It's only a thirty-minute ride. You could spend an afternoon. We could talk."

"I should do that." Which they both knew meant that he wouldn't. Pop was trying, Bobby was trying, but there were still things both couldn't forgive and neither could forget.

"Hey, Pop, I gotta go." Bobby could see the small cluster of three people at the bus stop. An older woman stared at Bobby. He stared right back.

"Have you talked to your brother at all?"

"No."

"I'll give him a call. I'd hate for him to catch it on the news."

"Pop, George lives in Florida." Yeah, but these kinds of stories… they have a life of their own."

At the hospital, ironically enough, Bobby couldn't catch anyone's attention. He stood for ten minutes at the registration desk growing impatient and heading for the hospital directory next to the elevator. He found a listing for Anthony J. Rocco, MD." on the third floor. Bobby took the stairs.

Arriving at the top, he was breathing hard. He found a glassed-Waiting room filled with children's toys and snotty-nosed toddlers. Two kids were crying. One was trying to cram a metal car down her throat. Greater Boston Pediatrics, the sign said. Bobby decided it must be the place to start.

The receptionist at the counter barely glanced at him. She slid him a sign-in sheet and a chewed-up pen while cracking her gum and talking on the phone. Bobby had to wait until she hung up to inform her he wasn't a patient; he simply wanted to talk to Dr. Rocco. This confused her greatly. He flashed his badge, said he was with the police, and finally got a response. The girl flew out of her chair and trotted down the hall in search of the infamous Dr. Rocco.

Bobby didn't know whether to feel triumphant or vaguely ashamed. He'd put on a pair of khakis, a button-down shirt, and his best sports jacket for this occasion. He was doing his impression of a homicide detective, which probably only proved that even state troopers could watch too much TV.

Earlier in his career, six or seven years back, Bobby had debated making the transition from uniformed patrol officer to investigative detective. Uniformed officers were considered the grunts of the operation, the front-line troops even in an organization as elite as the state police. Detectives were smart; patrol officers, good at doing what they were told. Bobby had the brains, his sergeant had urged, why settle for driving a Crown Vic for the rest of his life?

Bobby had still been debating his options when he'd learned of an opening on the STOP team. He'd submitted his resume and begun the rigorous selection process. He had to pass oral boards, prove proficiency with special weapons, and endure intense physical fitness requirements. Then came the special drills: scenarios involving swinging from ropes to see if the applicant was afraid of heights; scenarios involving a smoke machine to test how well the applicant functioned under extreme stress. They were tested with cold, tested with heat. Made to crawl through mud carrying eighty pounds of gear, required to hold a pose for up to three hours.

Always it was drilled into their heads: Tactical teams deployed anytime, anywhere. They could be called upon to enter any sort or situation and all kinds of terrain. You had to think fast on your feet, thrive under pressure, and be fearless. Survive the application process, and you received the honor of training four extra days a month while surrendering all your nights and weekends to be on call twenty-four seven. All this, for no additional income. Men joined the tactical team purely for the sake of pride. To be the best of the best. To know that as a team-and as an individual-you could handle anything.

Bobby'd survived the selection process. He'd won the open slot, and he'd never looked back. He was a good cop, serving with the best cops. At least that's what he'd thought until two days ago.

The receptionist was back, cheeks flushed, and breathless.

"Dr. Rocco will see you now."

A toddler screeched a fresh round of protest from the waiting area. Bobby pushed gratefully through the connecting door.

He found Dr. Rocco sitting in a small office halfway down the hall. The desk was buried under heaps of files, and the walls were covered with children's drawings and immunization schedules. A few things struck Bobby at once. One, Dr. Rocco was younger than he'd pictured, late thirties to early forties. Two, the doctor was a lot more attractive than Bobby'd imagined: thick dark hair, trim athletic build, and an oozy sort of country-club charm. Three, Dr. Rocco obviously read the Boston Herald and knew exactly who Bobby was.

"I have some questions about Nathan Gagnon," Bobby said.

Dr. Rocco didn't say anything at first. He was eyeing Bobby up and down. Wondering where Bobby got the gall to show his face in public? Preparing to cite doctor-patient confidentiality? Dr. Rocco finally glanced up again and Bobby saw something unexpected in the man's gaze: fear.

Have a seat," the pediatrician said at last. He gestured to a file-covered chair, then belatedly grabbed the stack of papers.

"How can I help you?"

"I understand you're in charge of Nathan Gagnon's care," Bobby said.

"For the past year, yes. Nathan was referred to me by another Pediatrician, Dr. Wagner, when she failed to make progress on his care."

"Nathan has an illness?"

"Officially, he's listed as FTT."

FTT?" Bobby asked. He took out a small spiral notebook and a pen. "Failure to thrive. Basically, from birth, Nathan's been behind the curve in size, weight, and key developmental benchmarks. He's not developing in a 'normal' manner."

Bobby frowned, not sure he was getting it.

"The boy's too small?"

"Well, that's one element. Nathan's height of thirty-four inches puts him in the lowest one percent for a four-year-old boy, and his weight-twenty-six pounds-doesn't make the curve at all. His condition, however, has to do with more than just size."

"Explain."

"From birth, Nathan has struggled with vomiting, diarrhea, and spiking fevers. He seems constantly malnourished-he's had rickets, his blood phosphate levels are too low, same with blood glucose levels. As I said before, he's lagged behind almost all traditional benchmarks for development-he didn't sit up until he was eleven months old, he didn't cut teeth until he was eighteen months old, and didn't walk until he was twenty-six months old. None of that is considered good. And then, in the past year, his condition appears to have worsened. He's had several attacks of acute pancreatitis as well as two bone fractures. He's failed to thrive."

Bobby flipped a page in his notebook.

"Let's talk about the bone fractures. Isn't it unusual for a four-year-old to have two broken bones in one year?"

"Not for a patient such as Nathan."

"What do you mean?"

"Nathan suffers from hypophosphatemia-low phosphate. Combined with the rickets, his bones are unusually brittle and prone to fracture. For the record, he also bruises quite easily."

Bobby looked up sharply.

"Why do you say that?"

"That's why you're here, isn't it? To find out if Nathan was being abused. To prove to yourself you killed the right man." Dr. Rocco added quietly, "For the record, I think you aimed just fine."

Bobby scowled. He hadn't expected this turn in the conversation, to be called head-on. He felt overexposed and it pissed him off.

"Do you think Nathan was being abused?" Bobby asked tightly-"There are a lot of ways to harm a child," Dr. Rocco replied.

"Did someone break Nathan's bones?"

"No. Rickets broke Nathan Gagnon's bones. I can tell from the Xrays."

Bobby sat back. Dr. Rocco's assessment didn't please him. In fact, it left him more confused than ever.

"So what's wrong with this kid? Why does he have all these problems?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"That's essentially what a diagnosis of FTT tells you-we don't know. We can't pinpoint an exact cause, so the boy remains under the catchall umbrella of failure to thrive." "Well, Doc, you must have explored some options?"

"Sure. We conducted initial tests-complete blood count, lead levels, urinalysis, and a set of electrolyte values. We've tested him for diabetes, reflux, malabsorption, and cystic fibrosis. One of the best endocrinologists in the country has examined Nathan for thyroid diseases, metabolic disorders, and hormonal imbalances. Then a nephrologist studied Nathan's kidneys and did more tests related to electrolytes, diabetes, and anemia. I've tested Nathan, I've studied Nathan, and I've sent him to the best experts I know. And I still don't have a diagnosis for him. Medically speaking, there's nothing majorly wrong with Nathan Gagnon, except for the fact that he's very, very sick."

Bobby was starting to hate this conversation. He twirled his pen between his fingers, then put it down and picked it up again.

"You didn't like Jimmy Gagnon," he said bluntly.

"Never met the man."

"Never?"

"Never. Nathan's been in my office two or three times a month. For that matter, he's been rushed to the emergency room four times in the past six months. And not once have I ever met Jimmy Gagnon. That tells you something right there."

Bobby regarded the doctor's country-club looks.

"So when did you start sleeping with Catherine?"

The man didn't bother to appear shocked.

"She deserved better than him," he answered evenly.

"A neglected wife?" "Worse." The doctor leaned forward, his face growing intent.

"You're not asking the right questions yet. Maybe Nathan had a medical reason to bruise easily, but Catherine didn't."

"Jimmy beat her?"

"I saw the bruises myself."

"Black eyes?"

"Give the guy some credit. He never hit her where just anyone could see. I used to go to school with guys like Jimmy. They figured if they beat their girlfriends in private, it gave them some class."

"You could've reported it."

"Really? So some cop could look at me the way you're looking at me right now? I didn't even need to be sleeping with her. As long as I simply wanted to be sleeping with her, none of you uniforms would've taken me seriously."

"Ever consider dealing with Jimmy yourself?"

"I thought about it."

"And?"

"I went to the house once. When I knew Catherine and Nathan were away. I knocked on the door, but no one was home."

"And you never returned? Man's beating the woman you love, so you show up at an empty house and that's action enough?" Bobby's voice was cold.

"What would you have me do?" Dr. Rocco said tightly.

"Threaten him with a gun?"

The barb was meant to hurt. Bobby merely shrugged and told the man honestly, "That's what I would've done."

Dr. Rocco finally flushed. He leaned away from Bobby, crossing his arms in front of his chest and staring at a spot on his desk.

"I told her to leave him," he said at last.

"You'd take care of her?" Bobby glanced meaningfully at the doctor's left hand where he was wearing a gold band.

Again, the good doctor refused to be cowed.

"I would've been honored."

"But she didn't do it. She stayed."

"She said I didn't know what I was saying. She said if she ever left Jimmy, he'd destroy her life and anyone else who tried to help her. She said my career would go down in flames."

"Did you believe her?"

"Yes. I don't know. I'd never met Jimmy Gagnon, remember? I'd just heard the stories. But then, six months ago, Jimmy found out about our… relationship. I had written some letters. I guess Catherine hadn't the heart to destroy them. Things were rough for her. The notes, I wrote them to give her hope."

Bobby waited.

"Next day, a private investigator was in my office, asking all sorts of questions about Nathan. He had a signed affidavit from Jimmy demanding release of his son's medical records. Within ten minutes, the investigator's strategy was clear. He wanted to know if Nathan's condition could be the result of prolonged starvation or some other form of parental abuse. Basically, he suggested that Nathan's illness had been caused by Catherine-that she was starving her son to death."

"Is that possible?"

"I don't believe so."

"You don't believe so?" Bobby arched both brows.

"You just told me the kid has some kind of hard-to-diagnose disease. Now you're saying she could've done it?"

"Look, without having pinpointed a specific cause for Nathan's condition, medically speaking I can't rule anything out. Sure, one or more of his parents could be physically starving him. Or someone could be tampering with his food, or someone could be mentally manipulating him not to eat. As a doctor, I've followed up with Catherine, Nathan, and the various nannies about his eating habits. We gotten answers assuring me that the boy is receiving plenty of food and plenty of the right kind of food. But at the end of the day, I'm still just the doctor. I go home to my family, and Nathan goes home to his."

"So someone could be abusing him?"

"It's possible'" Dr. Rocco said it impatiently.

"But I don't think it's probable. And that's what I told Jimmy's investigator. Anyway, didn't matter. I stopped seeing Catherine, she made nice with Jimmy, and all the questions went away. That's what it was about. It was Jimmy making a point. If Catherine left him, she could kiss her son goodbye and say hello to the criminal justice system.

Catherine's a smart woman. She did what she had to do. And for the record, I don't know what the hell else Jimmy did to her, but the day Catherine came to my office to end things, she could barely walk. That's the kind of man Jimmy Gagnon was. So I said it once and I'll say it again. From where I sit, Officer Dodge, you aimed just fine."

Bobby narrowed his eyes.

"With Jimmy dead, do you think Nathan might magically start to get better?"

"I don't know. And frankly, it's no longer my responsibility. As of this morning, I formally ended my relationship as Nathan's doctor. I referred him to Dr. lorfino, as I was instructed to do by Dr. Gerritsen, the head of Pediatrics."

"You were fired as Nathan's doctor?" Bobby asked. surprise.

"By your own boss?"

"You'd be amazed by the kind of power Judge Gagnon wields," Dr. Rocco said quietly. Then he got an odd smile on his face.

"But don't worry, Officer. I'm not quite as helpless as you think. Dr. lorfino is a geneticist. Call it a hunch, but I think I'm going to have the last laugh yet."

Bobby was just leaving the hospital when he became aware of the footsteps behind him. He picked up his pace, hands jammed in his jacket pockets, head down as if staring at the sidewalk, though in reality the angle gave him a peek at the traffic behind him. Dress shoes, high-gloss black, he determined. Pimp shoes, his father would call them.

He rounded a left-hand corner sharply and gained a better view of his tail when the man belatedly tacked out wide. Long trench coat, beige, nicely tailored. Black dress pants, perfect cuff. Lawyer, Bobby thought. Then suddenly… He drew up short, ramming his back against a storefront and catching his follower off guard. The man, older, heavy-set, with a scrap of neatly combed silver-brown hair brushing the top of his ears, promptly stopped, threw up his hands, and offered a beaming smile.

"Ah, you caught me."

And now's the part when I throw you back." Bobby took a menacing step forward, but the man merely smiled again. What are you gonna do, Officer Dodge? Assault me in the middle of a street filled with people? We both know you're not the type to go head-to-head. Now, give you a rifle, fifty yards' distance and a darkened room, on the other hand…"

Bobby grabbed the lapels of the man's coat. Three pedestrians noticed the byplay; they promptly scattered.

"Try me," Bobby said.

"Now, Bobby-" "Who the hell are you?"

"A friend."

"Well, friend, start talking, or in thirty seconds, I'm going to rip off your nuts."

The man laughed nervously. He'd tried calling Bobby's bluff once. He didn't look so certain about trying it a second time.

"Just want to talk," the man said.

"Why?" ~" "Because I know things you should hear."

"Lawyer?"

"Investigator."

"For whom?"

"Come on, Bobby, you know for whom."

Bobby thought about it, and then he did.

"James Gagnon."

"Technically, Maryanne Gagnon; the lawsuit's in her name. I'm Harris, by the way." The man tried offering his hand. Bobby ignored it.

"Harris Reed, with Reed and Wagner Investigations. Perhaps you've heard of us?"

"Not a word."

"Touche. Would you mind letting go of my coat for a moment? Perhaps we could take a short walk. You look like a man who appreciates exercise. Then again, I imagine your meeting with Catherine Gagnon has already left you short of breath."

Bobby slowly released the man's collar.

"You've been following me."

"More like taking an intense interest in your activities. Shall we?"

Harris gestured down the sidewalk. Bobby thinned his lips, but after a moment, grudgingly resumed walking. He was curious and they both knew it.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" the investigator observed.

Bobby didn't reply.

"Would it be easier if she were ugly?" Harris asked.

"I imagine it has to be disconcerting to meet the wife of the man you killed and already be fantasizing about fucking her."

"Get to the point."

"You've been asking questions, Officer Dodge. As long as you're asking questions, I thought you should hear all of the answers. May I?"

Bobby didn't protest; the investigator launched into his spiel.

"She was working at the perfume counter in Filene's," Harris began.

"Did she tell you that? Yes, the fine, beautiful Mrs. Gagnon was a perfume spritzer for a living. She'd not only flunked out of college, but she had no marketable skills to her name. She peddled perfumes and lived in a rat-infested apartment in East Boston, wearing the same dress every other day. Until she met Jimmy, of course."

"Was Jimmy eighteen?"

"Actually, he was twenty-seven at the time."

"Then he was a big boy. He knew what he was doing."

"You would think so," Harris agreed mildly.

"But with a woman like Catherine, looks can be deceiving."

"She's the devil in angel's clothing, yada, yada, yada. Get on with it."

"Jimmy Gagnon was a bit of a playboy. I'm sure you've heard stories. He was a good-looking man, fun-loving, free-spirited, and of course, extremely generous. Lots of women had come and gone in Jimmy's life. His parents, I confess, were actually starting to worry a little, wonder if he'd ever settle down. Then he met Catherine. He grinned, she spritzed, and the rest, as they say, was history.

"My employers, James and Maryanne, were delighted at first. Catherine seemed lovely, quiet, perhaps even a little shy. Then, of course, Jimmy told them all about her tragic life."

"Some sadness," Bobby muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing."

You should look up Catherine's name sometime. See 1980, any stings under Thanksgiving Miracle. That's what they called Catherine back then. After she'd been kidnapped by a pedophile as his personal sex slave for twenty-eight days in some pit he'd dug in the ground. Hunters found her by accident. Otherwise God knows what would've happened to her.

"Jimmy found this story riveting. You had to see Catherine six years ago, when they first met. A little too thin, hollow-eyed, in a threadbare dress. She was not only beautiful, she was tragic, a regular damsel in distress. She told Jimmy he was the only chance at happiness she'd ever had, and Jimmy ate it up, hook, line and sinker. In a matter of months they were engaged, then married Catherine Gagnon came, she saw, and she conquered."

They'd already covered one city block and were rapidly eating up the second. " "So Jimmy gained a beautiful wife and Catherine gained a bank account." Bobby shrugged.

"Sounds like half the marriages of the rich and famous. What's the problem?"

"Their son. Catherine and Jimmy had Nathan just a year later, and Catherine literally had a nervous breakdown. Frankly, she just couldn't cut it as a mother. And for the first time, James and Maryanne grew afraid. Not just of what Catherine was doing to Jimmy, but of what she might do to Nathan."

Harris abruptly switched gears.

"Catherine was only twelve years old when Richard Umbrio snatched her off the street. I used to be a cop, you know, worked homicide in Baltimore. No matter how many cases you've seen, child kidnappings are the worst. Here's this poor girl, just walking home from school. Next thing she knows, she's being yanked into a car, probably screaming at the top of her lungs, but nobody hearing a thing. And Richard wasn't a small guy, not one of those sissy-looking child molesters you often see, the type who have to victimize children because they obviously couldn't handle anyone their own size. No-at the tender age of twenty, Richard Umbrio was six foot four, weighed two hundred twenty pounds. His neighbors were already in the habit of crossing to the other side of the street just so they didn't have to make eye contact with him. Catherine, on the other hand, probably weighed eighty pounds. What was a little girl like her gonna do against a guy like him? Let me be the first to say, there isn't a hell big enough for some of the assholes we have walking here on earth.

"Richard took her out to the woods not far from his house. Set her up underground, where he could visit her as much as he like and no one would hear a thing. She got a coffee can to use as a toilet a jug of water, and a loaf of bread. That was it. No flashlight, no cot, no blanket to keep her warm. He kept her down there like an animal. And then for nearly a month, he did to her whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

"You have to wonder what that level of systematic abuse does to a child. You have to wonder how she must have felt. Left alone in the dark for long periods of time, then to finally have companionship in the form of a serial rapist. Makes you mad just to think about it, doesn't it?"

Bobby still didn't reply, but his jaw had gone tight and his hands were fisted at his sides. He had a feeling Harris hadn't gotten to the bad part yet. This was merely foreplay; Harris was still warming up.

"Maybe Catherine got lucky when she was found," the investigator said now.

"Or maybe not. How does a person really recover from something like that? Is it ever possible for a girl to put all that behind her, to return to normal?"

Harris waited a heartbeat. Then he announced, "Catherine stopped sleeping the minute Nathan was born. Jimmy would find her pacing the house, frantically turning on lights. He'd bring her to bed, she'd spring out the other side. He'd turn off lights, she'd hunt them down again, including the one in the oven. And it wasn't just her strange compulsions. When she went to pick Nathan up, she'd hold him stiffly, away from her body. The more the baby screamed, the more she carried him around like a soup can she didn't know where to set down. The third day, Jimmy found her standing over the crib, holding a pillow. When Jimmy asked her what she was doing, she said Nathan had told her he was tired and needed to sleep. Jimmy called his parents, panicked. The Gagnons agreed he shouldn't leave Nathan alone with Catherine anymore, and they went to work finding a nanny.

"Now, granted, things calmed down a little once the nanny was hired. Mostly because Catherine handed over her son and never looked back. Literally. The nanny took the baby and Catherine for the local spa. Jimmy got a little frustrated, as you can imagine. He'd thought he'd married this lovely young lady, rescued her even, and this is how she repaid him, abandoning their child, Jetting around Europe and consorting with a bunch of guys she liked to call her 'fellows." For the sake of honesty, maybe Jimmy wasn't the most faithful of husbands, but this sure as hell isn't what anyone would call a happy marriage."

"So why didn't Jimmy just leave her?" Bobby asked.

"Or was beating her much more fun?"

"Ahh, the infamous beatings. So you've already heard. Well let's just say rumors of spousal abuse can be greatly exaggerated Find me a police report. Find me a safe-deposit box filled with photos, or at least one corroborating witness. Stories are easy to tell-let's stick to the facts."

"Fact one." Bobby ticked off a finger.

"If Jimmy was so unhappy in his marriage, why didn't he get out?"

"He did. That's the first time Nathan became 'sick." "What?"

"You got it. Jimmy tried to leave Catherine, and Nathan became magically ill. Nathan was very sick, Catherine claimed. He needed special tests, he needed medical attention. She lined up the best experts money could buy, and Jimmy immediately returned home. His son was deathly ill, for crying out loud. He couldn't leave his wife at a time like that.

"And that was the pattern. Catherine would get caught sleeping with Jimmy's tailor, he'd get mad and Nathan would wind up back in the hospital. Sick, definitely-vomiting, feverish, malnourished-until the minute Jimmy toed the line. Then, Nathan would make a miraculous recovery. As you can imagine, James and Maryanne grew very concerned. Not only was Jimmy becoming a nervous wreck, but they couldn't bear to think what was going on with their grandson."

"And they started alleging child abuse," Bobby filled in. He stopped walking, looking Harris in the eye.

"Got any facts to back up that story, Harris? Because Nathan's own doctor insists there's a medical basis for what's going on."

"Dr. Lancelot?" Harris snorted, also coming to a halt.

"Ask him to say hello to his wife and kids. Catherine's got that poor sap so wrapped around her finger, he'd say the moon was made out of blue cheese if he thought it would make her happy. Six months ago, Jimmy found out she'd been sleeping with the fine doctor. that's when I entered the picture. To start keeping tabs Catherine. To try to figure out what was really going on with Nathan, and better yet to protect Nathan Gagnon, if it came to that. Because Jimmy had had enough. Six months ago, he started making plans for divorce."

They were at a street corner. Traffic picked up, the noise becoming loud. But all of a sudden, it didn't matter. All of a sudden, Bobby knew exactly what Harris was going to say next.

"James and Maryanne were right to be suspicious," Harris told him quietly.

"Unfortunately, they underestimated how clever Catherine can be. They focused their attention on Nathan, never worrying about poor Jimmy.

"Tuesday morning, Jimmy Gagnon formally filed for divorce from Catherine Gagnon. And just, what, sixty hours later, he was dead. You tell me, Officer, is that too much for coincidence?"

"Come on, Harris. It was a domestic disturbance call. She had no way of knowing what would happen next."

"Did you watch TV Thursday night, Officer Dodge? Hear the reports of how the Boston PD were already called out on a job, the same Boston PD officers who knew Jimmy and Catherine and might have shown a little more finesse in handling the situation? It makes me wonder if Catherine watched TV that night, too."

"She still couldn't have known that Jimmy would come home drunk, that Jimmy would get mad, that Jimmy would grab a gun-" "Really? Because I know a lot of wives who know exactly how to push their husbands' buttons, the best way to pick a fight, the fastest way to burn his balls. Surely you've seen it before, Officer Dodge. There isn't a wife out there who can't make her husband fit to kill."

Harris gave him a meaningful look. This time, Bobby wasn't so quick to reply.

"She's going to call you again," Harris stated.

"She's going to tell you her son is desperately ill. She's going to tell you that you're the only hope she has left. She's going to beg you to help her. It's what she does, Officer Dodge; she destroys men's lives."

"You honestly think she'd kill her own child just to get back at her husband?"

Harris merely shrugged.

"Men may be violent, Officer Dodge, ut let's face it-women are cruel." The man sat at a table outside a coffee bar at Faneuil Hall, frowning first at his double mocha latte, then at the scenery around him. What the hell had happened to this place? The Faneuil Hall of his memory had cutsey little boutiques, old Irish pubs, and lots of cheesy souvenirs. Now he was staring at The Disney Store, Gap, and Ann Taylor. The historic market had become a fucking suburban mall. There was progress for you.

The man grunted, sipped his double mocha latte, and promptly grimaced. For the record, he'd been waiting a decade to try this drink-watching TV characters, rock stars, and movie actresses sip double-soy this or tall nonfat mocha that while hanging out in chic little coffee shops. You wore tight clothes, sipped your super-caffeinated beverage, then drove off in your Eddie Bauer SUV, Jennifer Aniston-looking wife sitting next to you, golden retriever panting in the back. Welcome to the American Dream.

Well, all these years of wondering later, the man had his answer-double mocha lattes tasted one step above cat piss. He was not picturing SUVs, soccer games, or perfectly mowed lawns. He was thinking how the hell had he gotten suckered into paying so much money for something that tasted so positively bad? It was tempting to return to the coffee counter. He would stand right in front of the black-haired cashier with her numerous facial piercings and sullen attitude. He'd never say a word. Just stand. Stare. She'd give him his money back in sixty seconds or less.

Then she'd hustle out back for a desperately needed smoke, rattled without being one hundred percent certain why.

He would like to see her face then. More than anything else in the past quarter century, he'd missed the look of a young girl's face filling with fear. The way her eyes would dilate, pupils growing dark as the rest of her face turned to ash. And then that moment, that sublimely erotic moment, when the true horror would wash across her features, when she would realize it was no longer a vague, unidentified sense of fear. When she would realize that he really was going to kill her. That she belonged to him now and there was nothing she could do.

The man had been locked up eight thousand three hundred and sixty-three days. He'd gone into the slammer barely a day over twenty. Sure, he'd been oversized, freakishly strong, and, as his neighbors had testified at his trial, "frighteningly strange." But, he'd still been a kid.

Now, as of a few hours ago, at the ripe old age of forty-four, he'd become a bona fide civilian again. He knew the parole board assumed that age would mellow him, just as quality time within concrete walls had supposedly eradicated his baser instincts. Surely, after nearly twenty-five years in prison, he'd be a good boy now.

He thought about it. Nah. Truth be told, he mostly felt like killing someone.

Two girls walked by. Eighteen, nineteen years old. One of the girls caught him watching. She flipped him off, then gave a little twitch of her hips as she sauntered by, jeans so low and tight they appeared painted on her ass. He muttered a single word under his breath, and the girl suddenly picked up her pace, dragging her started friend behind her. Smiling, the man let them go. It almost made up for the bad coffee.

He'd started his Walpole stint in PC, protective custody, for Pitches and bitches." It was a double-bunked dorm-room-like Situation, technically medium security. "Don't screw this up," his court-appointed attorney had told him sternly.

"For a guy like you, this is as good as it's going to get."

First night, his bunk mate had curled up in the corner and begged him not to rape him. The man had stared at the sniveling mass in disgust. He did not jitterbug.

Second night, the bunk mate started crying and the man gave in to his baser impulses and beat the little shit unconscious. That at least shut him up. It also gained the man an infraction. And a reputation.

He didn't know it then, but the hawks were already watching, the prison scuttlebutt working overtime. His act of hostility got him kicked into general pop, then the real adventure began. A white guy had two choices in prison: join the Aryan brotherhood for protection against the blacks and the Hispanics or find God. God's protection was a little less certain inside the cement walls of Walpole. The man (boy) became a neoNazi.

He got an education. How to poke holes in the drywall of his cell, then patch them up with toothpaste and modeling paint to hide the drugs. How to pass off cigarettes, cocaine, heroin, you name it, using the rolled cuffs of his pants. How to fasten razor blades to the metal frame of his bunk, or inside the tank of his toilet, to catch the fingers of inexperienced guards.

How to live surrounded by dirty, filthy, angry men. How to piss in front of an audience. How to take a dump in front of an audience. How to sleep through certain half-realized screams, while knowing to wake for others. How to pass day after excruciating day inhaling stale, overprocessed air that stank of urine and Windex.

He still didn't learn quite enough. They caught him the second year. Boston Red Sox were trying to make the World Series and the guards were glued to the TV. The Hispanics came out of nowhere and "bungled" him good. Guards said they never saw a thing. So did his two fellow neo-Nazis, who never took their eyes off the game.

He was big, he was strong, he was mean. He managed to break various ribs, noses, and wrists of his eight attackers. They got his kidney with a homemade shank, dropping him like a stuck rhino and leaving him to bleed out on the floor.

One of the white guys came over then.

"Baby rapist," the neo-Nazi said and spat on the man's face.

He began his plotting, lying twisted on a cement floor, his blood pooling up around his face.

The prison officials weren't stupid. Put him back in general pop and he was as good as dead. Put him back in PC and someone else was as good as dead. So what to do?

Stick him in solitary confinement, the only place left. It took the man only one week to realize his sack-of-shit lawyer had been right after all-medium security had been as good as it was ever going to get for a guy like him.

Now he passed his time alone in a six-by-eight cell. He was allowed out one hour a day, to exercise in a penned-in yard the size of a dog kennel or attend to personal hygiene. From a rectangular window about the same size as his face, he could watch leaves turn from green to gold to brown. Watch trees go from full to bare to covered with snow. Watch the seasons pass painfully slow, month after month, year after year.

Best he could look forward to now was to become a "runner," a prisoner who tends to the housekeeping for the cell block, in return for a slightly larger cell. Yeah, it was the goddamn glamorous life for him. Biggest thrill in the world was turning on the TV to stare at Britney Spears.

So much time. To sit. To brood. To plot what should happen next.

Prisons were about power. Power was about money. He was hated, he was feared, and now, he was patient. Hoarding cigarettes, building his stash. Waiting for new blood to enter the cement walls, someone who would care less about what he did and more about what could be done.

It took him eight years. The lucky candidate was a kid, not much older than the man had been in the beginning, except this kid was all skinny limbs and acne-spotted face. Turned out he'd been making indecent movies starring the little girls in his mother's day-care. The kid went straight to PC, where he sat bug-eyed each night, knowing he didn't stand a chance and waiting for the bogeyman to get him.

The man got to him first. Slipped some money to a guard who in turn slipped the kid the man's note, signed by "Mr. Bosu." A bit more money, a few more notes, and the kid was greased and ready to go. Mr. Bosu had convinced him. If the kid was planning on surviving, he needed to strike first and strike hard. Build a rep, now these first few weeks, and everyone would leave him alone.

The kid bought the preaching; Mr. Bosu graciously offered more mentoring. How to make a shank, how to conceal it. How to extract the sharpened piece of metal quickly and strike with surprise. Oh, and how to pick a target.

The man didn't care about the Hispanics. Fuck 'em, they'd kill any white guy just for sport. Mr. Bosu had bigger game in his sights It went down on a Thursday. In the cafeteria. Porno Kid was serving the meal to the other maximum security inmates. The right two white guys got in line. Kid said wait, he needed to get fresh food. He went around, no one really paying attention.

He dropped the first neo-Nazi before the guy ever made a sound. Second had just brought up his tray in bewilderment and the kid was at his throat.

The man heard stories later. How the kid, one hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet, was surprisingly strong. How he sprung on the two white supremacists like a spider monkey, teeth bared, eyes feral while he slashed away at their necks. The arterial spray shot eight feet. Guys already sitting down didn't know if the red on their shirts was from the two flailing white guys or the marinara sauce on their overcooked spaghetti.

Pandemonium ensued. Fellow neo-Nazis springing from their tables and, like the thick-headed Neanderthals they were, going after the nearest Hispanic, versus doing anything about the long-armed kid still carving up their fellow gang members.

Guards burst into the cafeteria, wielding heavy mattresses and firing knee knockers at anyone stupid enough to stand. Place went to full lockdown, alarms screeching, sirens whirling while the kid stood up in the middle of the carnage, held up the metal shank in his bloody fist, and shrieked, "So don't you buttfuckers ever think about touching me!"

It was a glorious moment, the man thought. He was shocked and pleasantly pleased with his prodigy. Two days later, the kid disappeared of course. Lot of blood in the laundry room, but no sign of a corpse. Word on the street-don't eat the meat loaf.

The state assembled a task force to look into "gang issues" at the prison after that. And the warden made them sit through a video on "racial sensitivity." Afterwards, everyone made a real point Of saying, "No, it's really about you, not your fucking race," right before they beat the shit out of someone.

The man got to feel good for a few days, before going back to his exciting life of watching paint dry.

Now, however, there were whispers and rumors about the mysterious Mr. Bosu. He had friends, he had connections. This Mr. Bosu, no one was quite sure who he was, but even behind bars, he could get things done.

The man was satisfied. From within the harsh recesses of solitary confinement, he had done something special-he'd become every prisoner's bogeyman.

The man knew now, as he ran each day around the exercise yard, as he passed his time doing push-ups and pull-ups and ab crunches and butt squats, that there would be life after this. He was going to get out. He would return to the world. Harder, smarter, tougher than ever before.

And it would be good.

Once, he'd been a boy. He'd obeyed his impulses, but he'd made mistakes. Now, he was a man. He was seasoned. He understood the value of patience. And he knew the legal system inside and out.

There would be no working at McDonald's for the glorious Mr. Bosu. There would be no life of drudgery, showing up every day for some menial job where he was supposed to be eternally grateful just to have his sorry, felonious ass employed.

He'd served his time. And he was not planning on ever going back to prison.

Oh no, he had quite a vision for himself. A whole career plan, in He'd thought of it even before he'd been contacted by his Mysterious Benefactor X, the one who'd arranged his timely parole, the one who'd passed along a certain list of chores.

Mr. Bosu was going to make himself a boatload of money. And Mr. Bosu was going to make it doing what he did best: randomly destroying lives. The man smiled. He crunched up his disposable coffee cup in a single fist and rose from the table. Now people turned. Now people stared. Then, just as quickly, people turned away.

Mr. Bosu had made one mistake twenty-five years ago. He had let her live.

He did not plan on making that mistake again.

Catherine drove toward her father's house. Light was failing, another day meeting a premature death as winter reared its ugly head. She was tired. Bone-deep weary in a way that made her grip the steering wheel too tight and twist about in her seat. Jimmy had always teased her when she drove, how she'd be horrible on a road trip, probably falling asleep and killing herself before ever reaching her first stop.

Thinking about him now made her feel a sharp, stabbing pain somewhere-deep. How long had it been since they'd said a kind word to one another? How many years since they'd even bothered to pretend they were in love? She guessed it didn't matter. He'd been a constant in her landscape and she missed him now the way other people might miss a limb. Once she'd been whole. Now she 'felt curiously incomplete.

She arrived in her father's neighborhood. Her neighborhood.

Her parents had bought this house when she was five years old. The split-level ranch sat on a quarter acre, surrounded by other modest homes on other modest lots. Little had changed over the years. Her father maintained the same white siding with Colonial red shutters. Tuesday was garbage day. Saturday, people worked in their yard And every Wednesday night, her father got together with the McGlashans and Bodells to drink beer and play cards. He'd have stories for her now of their children and grandchildren. Kids she had grown up with who'd gone on to manage grocery stores or work at banks, who drove minivans and now lived in split-levels of their own with tow-headed children and big bouncy dogs. Kids she'd grown up with leading normal happy lives.

She had wondered sometimes, right after it had happened, why it hadn't been one of them. Why couldn't they have seen the blue Chevy? Why couldn't they have been enticed to stop and help look for some mythical lost dog?

God, she hated turning down this street.

She parked her Mercedes in the driveway. Her father had the porch lights on, illuminating the tiny brick walk and four front steps. She took a deep breath, reminded herself to stay on task, and got out of the car.

The cold hit her hard. She shivered uncontrollably. She looked up the street, where night gathered just beyond the trees, forming a dark tunnel from which there would be no escape. She looked down the street and saw the same. And suddenly, passionately, she hated this damn place. The house, the yard, the 19705 neighborhood. It had been an act of unkind fate that had brought her parents here. And as far as she was concerned, it was a bigger act of conscious cruelty that made them stay.

"It's not the neighborhood," her father had told her mother again and again right after it happened.

"It was one man. We move now, and what will Catherine think?"

"I would've thought you cared.

She drew in her shaky breath, realized she was close to losing it, and forced her hands into fists. Think of a happy place, she told herself a little wildly. Then thought, Fuck it, and headed for the door.

Her father was already waiting for her. She came up the steps and he opened the wooden door, leaving her to manage just the screen while he stood patiently to the side.

Inside, he took her coat and, as was his custom, said, "How was the drive?"

"Fine."

"Traffic?"

"Not bad."

He grunted.

"Heading in, though, getting back to the city on a Saturday night…"

"I'll manage."

He grumbled again about traffic-he didn't like where she lived any more than she liked where he lived-then gestured weakly to the small living room. Carpet was still gold shag, the sofa a brown floral print. Catherine had offered to replace the furniture for him once. He'd shaken his head. The sofa was comfortable, the carpet durable. He didn't require anything fancy.

Catherine moved to the edge of the tiny love seat and sat perched with her hands upon her knees. Entering this room always felt like entering a time warp; she never knew where to look or how to feel. Today she chose a spot on the carpet and fixed her gaze there.

"I need to talk to you about something," she said quietly.

"Are you thirsty? Want something to drink?"

"No."

"I have some soda. Root beer, right? That's what you like."

"I'm not thirsty, Dad."

"What about water? Long drive like that, you must be parched. Let me get you sortie water."

She gave up arguing. He shambled into the kitchen, then returned with two glasses of water in daisy-printed plastic cups. He took the brown La-Z-Boy. She remained on the love seat. She drank some of the water after all.

"You know what happened," she said at last.

Her father couldn't seem to look at her. His gaze was ping-Ponging around the room. He finally found the portrait of her mother, hanging over the mantel, and she thought his face looked old and sad.

"Yeah," he said at last.

"I'm sorry it ended like this. I'm sorry… I'm sorry Jimmy's dead."

"He hit you," her father said, the first time she'd ever heard him acknowledge it. "Sometimes."

"He wasn't a good man."

"No."

"You liked his money that much?" her father asked, and she was shocked by the sudden anger in his voice.

She faltered, her hands shaking harder. She tried another sip of water, but the cup trembled in her grasp. She wished she could just bolt from the room.

"He was good to Nathan."

"He never cared a rat's ass for either of you."

"Dad-" "You should've left him."

"It's more complicated-" "He beat you! You should've left him. You should've come here."

Catherine opened her mouth. She didn't know what to say. Her father had never made that offer. He'd never even commented on her marriage. He'd attended her wedding, where he'd shaken Jimmy's hand and told her new husband good luck. After that, he'd been busy with his card games and veterans' groups and routines. He'd appear every Thanksgiving and Christmas at her in-laws', eat some turkey, hand Nathan a present, give her a kiss on the cheek, and that was it, he was gone again, back to the neighborhood that he loved and she abhorred. Sometimes she wondered if things might have been different if her mother had lived. They would never know.

"It doesn't matter anymore," she said at last.

"Guess not." Her father drank some water.

"There's an issue though. The Gagnons, Jimmy's parents, are suing me for custody of Nathan." She brought up her chin.

"They claim I'm abusing him."

Her father didn't say anything right away. He drank more water, then twisted the cloudy plastic cup in his hands, then drank some more. The silence dragged on. Catherine grew bewildered. Where was the wild denial? Where was the leap to his daughter's defense? Sixty seconds ago he'd been claiming she could've turned to him for help for her broken marriage. Now where was he?

"The illnesses?" her father asked at last.

"They claim I'm doing something to Nathan, tampering with,. food, I don't know what. They think I'm intentionally making him sick."

Father looked up.

"Are you?"

"Dad!"

"He's in the hospital a lot."

"He's sick!"

"Doctors never found anything."

"He has pancreatitis! Right now. Call Dr. Rocco, call anyone in that damn place." She was on her feet.

"He is my son! I have jumped through every hoop I know trying to do right by him. How can you… How dare you! Goddammit, how dare you!"

She was yelling now, literally yelling, like a wild woman, with the veins bulging in her neck, and it occurred to her in the back of her mind that this was what she'd wanted to do for days. Ever since Tuesday morning, when she had picked up the phone and heard Jimmy casually discussing with some lawyer his plans to divorce her.

"You're sure she won't get any thing?" he'd asked the lawyer.

"I don't want her touching one red cent. " "No Nathan, no money," the lawyer had assured him.

"It's all taken care of. I can file the paperwork within the hour. " "I love my son!" she screamed at her father now.

"Why doesn't anyone believe that I love Nathan?"

And then she broke. Her legs gave out. She collapsed on the horrible brown sofa, her shoulders heaving, a strange hiccupping sound coming from her throat. She couldn't find herself. She was lost, drowned in some would-be moment, where Jimmy had left her and Nathan had left her and she was back in her rat-infested apartment, no family, no money, all alone. A blue Chevy would turn down the street. A hole would open in the ground. There would be nothing to save her anymore.

Her father was still sitting across from her. He had his gaze locked intently on the portrait of her mother. That finally gave her strength. She pulled herself together, wiping the back of her hand across her dry eyes.

"Will you support me?" she asked quietly. "You need money?" "No, Dad." Her voice grew terse again. She forced herself to speak calmly, as if explaining to a child.

"There's going to be a hearing. A custody hearing. I met with my lawyer this afternoon. The Gagnons will bring in witnesses to testify that I'm a bad mother, I need my own witnesses who will say I'm a good mother. Or at least," she amended, "that I'm not a threat to Nathan."

"Where is Nathan now?"

"He's in the hospital. He has pancreatitis."

"Shouldn't you be there?"

"Of course I should be there!" She tried taking another deep breath.

"But I'm here, Dad, talking to you about Nathan's future because despite what anyone might think, I don't want to lose my son."

"The Gagnons aren't bad grandparents," he said.

"No. In their own way, I'm sure they love Nathan."

"He's all they have left now."

"He's all I have left, too."

"I think they would provide for him," her father said.

Catherine blinked her eyes, feeling slightly delirious.

"I would provide for him, too."

Her father finally looked at her. She was startled by the anguish she saw in his face.

"You used to be such a happy child."

"Dad?"

"I got out the home movies. I was cleaning out the attic, going through some stuff. I'm getting some arthritis, you know; it's tough to mount the stairs. So I thought I'd better get to those boxes, get them cleaned out while I still can. I found the old reel-to-reels. Watched them last night."

She couldn't say anything. Tears glistened in her father's eyes.

"You were so pretty," he whispered.

"Your hair back in a pony-tail, tied with a big red bow. Your mother used to comb it out for you every morning and you'd pick a ribbon for the day. Red was your favorite, followed by pink.

"You were in the backyard. Your birthday, I think, but I didn't see a cake. Other kids were over and we had filled the kiddie pool' You were laughing and splashing in the water, shrieking when I turned on the hose.

"You were laughing," he repeated now, almost helplessly.

"Catherine, I haven't seen you laugh in over twenty years."

Her chest went tight. She thought she should say something. She ended up shaking her head, as if to deny his words.

"Your mother loved you so much." He stood abruptly and turned away from her.

"I'm glad she's dead. I'm glad she didn't live to see what would happen next."

"Dad-" "You're not right, Catherine. You came back to us; God knows we considered ourselves grateful to get you back from that hell. But you're not right. In the end, our little girl died that day, and I don't know who's standing in front of me now. You don't laugh anymore. Sometimes, I'm not sure you feel anything at all."

She shook her head again, but he was nodding emphatically, as if arriving at some destination at the end of a very long trip. He turned back around. He looked her in the eye.

"You should let them have Nathan."

"He's my son."

"They have a lot of money, they'll take good care of him. Maybe they can even find him the right doctor."

"I've been trying to find him the right doctor!" Her father spoke as if he'd never heard her.

"They can get him counseling. That's probably what we should've done."

Catherine rose to her feet.

"You're my father. I'm asking for your support. Will you give it?"

"It's not the right thing to do."

"Will you give it!"

He reached out as if to take her hand. She frantically snatched it back. And he smiled at her sadly.

"You were a happy child," he said quietly.

"Maybe it's not too late. Maybe if you get the right help, you can be happy again. That's all your mother wanted, you know. Even once she got cancer. She never prayed to live. She always prayed just to see you smile once more. But you never did, Catherine. Your mother was dying, and you still couldn't grant her that tiny little curve of the lips."

"You're mad at me? Is that what this is about? You're pissed off at me because I couldn't smile while my mother was dying?

You… you…"

She couldn't speak. She was beyond words, stupefied by shock and rage. If she could just find the mantel, she could get a grip on the wooden trim and anchor herself. In the next instant, however she had a clear image of her hand wrapping around the brass candelabra there and using it to bash in her father's head.

In her own detached way, she wasn't sure what surprised her more: the depths of her grief or the strength of her fury.

"Thank you for your time," she heard herself say. She brought her hands to her sides. She forced them to open. She breathed in, breathed out. The calm returned to her. Icy, yes. Barren. But better for her, better for her father, than any genuine emotion could ever be.

Catherine got her coat and very carefully moved toward the door.

Her father stood in the doorway behind her, watching her go down the steps, watching her walk to her car. He raised a hand in parting, and the sheer casualness of the gesture made her dig her teeth into her lower lip to keep from screaming.

Moving with practiced precision, she put her sedan in reverse and slowly backed out of the driveway. Put on the brake, shift to drive, find the gas. She took off down the street, driving too fast and still pursing her lips into a bloodless line.

She needed support. Her lawyer had been very clear. Without some kind of help, the Gagnons would win, they would take Nathan from her. Most likely, she would never see him again. She would be all alone. And she would be broke. Oh God, what was she going to do?

She was scattered. Distracted. Desperately searching for answers. That's why she didn't see it, of course. Not until the third or fourth intersection down. Then she finally glanced up, finally looked into her rearview mirror.

Someone had used her own lipstick to do it; she'd left it lying on the console between the seats. It was her favorite OPI color, a deep crimson, the color of a Valentine's Day rose, or fresh-spilled blood.

The message was simple. It read: Boo!

Bobby went home. He had about thirty messages on his answering machine. Twenty-nine were from bloodsucking reporters, each and every one promising to tell his side of the story in return for an exclusive-did I mention exclusive?-interview. The thirtieth was from his LT, inviting him over for dinner.

"Come on over," Bruni extolled into the answering machine.

"Rachel's roasted half a cow and is serving it with ten pounds of mashed potatoes. We'll eat too much, make rude bodily noises, and shoot the shit. It'll be fun."

Bruni was a good guy. He looked out for his team, kept them all together. He meant the invitation sincerely and Bobby should go. It'd be good for him, get him out of the house, keep him out of further trouble. He already knew he wouldn't.

He walked away from the blinking machine, into his tiny kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door, eyed the empty interior.

He wanted to call Susan. Say… what? I'm a jerk. I'm an ass. worse, I'm a killer. None of it sounded promising. None of it changed anything. Pizza, he thought. He'd walk to the local pizza parlor, order himself a pie. But thoughts of pizza made him think of beer and thoughts of beer suddenly had his heart racing and his mouth salivating.

Yeah, that was it. Screw his kindhearted LT. Screw too-perfect Susan. Screw even dark and dangerous Catherine Gagnon, who'd raked her nails across his chest and made him pant like an overeager lap dog. Fuck ' em all. He didn't need people.

He needed a beer.

It occurred to him, in the last functioning spot in his brain, that if he didn't do something now, right now, he was going to end up at a bar. And once he did, he was going to drink……

Bobby picked up the phone. He made a call. Then, before he had time to regret it, he headed out the door.

dr. lane buzzed him straight up to her office. Last time he'd seen her, she'd been wearing a suit. Tan pants, squarish jacket, some kind of ivory blouse. Expensive clothes, he'd guessed, but he hadn't cared for the outfit. Looked too mannish, like what a corporate woman with a chip on her shoulder might wear to board meetings. The outfit hadn't gone with her smile.

Tonight, called out on a Saturday to rescue an officer in distress, she wasn't wearing business clothes at all. Instead, given the frigid cold, she'd donned dark brown leggings and a warm, cable-knit Irish sweater that curled up around her neck and set off her long, chestnut-colored hair. She looked like she should be lounging in front of a large stone fireplace with either a good book or a good-looking man.

The image momentarily discomfited Bobby and he found he couldn't make eye contact as he unwound his scarf and hung up his jacket.

"Can I get you something to drink?" she asked, from the doorway of her office.

"Water, coffee, soda, hot chocolate…"

He went with Coke, refusing her offer of a glass. She took a seat behind her desk. He returned to the wingback chair he'd used on Friday night, balancing on the edge.

"Thanks for the Coke," he said at last.

"You're welcome."

"Sorry if I messed up your plans."

"Not a problem."

"Did you have plans?" he found himself asking.

"I was thinking of going to a nursery and buying a ficus tree."

"Oh," he said.

"Oh," she agreed.

"What about during the day?" he continued like an idiot.

"Do anything then?"

She regarded him with open amusement. After his complaint during their last session, he was now using small talk as a stall tactic and they both knew it. For a moment, he thought she might call his bluff, force him to cut to the chase, but then she answered his question.

"Honest to God, I did nothing interesting today. Thought about running, decided it was too cold. Thought about cooking, decided I was too lazy. Thought about reading a book, decided I was too sleepy. So mostly, I spent the day contemplating life, then ignoring it. All in all, I'd say it was a perfect day. And yourself?"

"I spent the day ignoring your advice."

"Ah well, not the first time. What did you do?"

He decided he might as well get to it.

"Last night I went to a bar."

She regarded him expectantly.

"I ended up drinking."

"A lot?"

"Enough." He took another breath.

"I'm not supposed to drink."

"Are you an alcoholic, Bobby?"

"I don't know." He had to genuinely consider her question. He wasn't sure he liked the answer.

"Life is better when I don't drink," he said at last.

"I take it you've had some experiences in this area."

"You could say that." He spun the soda can between his fingers, from the distance, her carpet appeared a rich, dark green. He could see now that it wasn't one color, however, but a mixture of many, many threads. Not just green, but giving the appearance of green.

"My father used to drink," he said.

"A lot. Every night. Came home from work and headed straight to the fridge to grab a cold one. He said it helped him unwind. What's a few beers after all? Nothing hard-core. My brother and I were just kids. We believed what he said. Though after a while, we all knew it wasn't just a few beers anymore.

"After I joined the Academy, I started doing the post-shift bar scene. Hanging out with the guys, having a few laughs, drinking a few beers. You know, because it helped me unwind. And maybe at one point, I wasn't having just a few beers anymore. Maybe I was having a lot. So many I was showing up late for my shifts the next day. Then one night, I got a call. A buddy of mine had just arrived at the scene of a single-vehicle accident. It involved my father and a tree. In the bad-news department, my father had nailed the sucker going a good forty miles an hour, wrapped his GM truck right around the beech tree. In the good-news department, my father walked away with just a lacerated scalp. Truck was totaled, but he survived."

Bobby glanced up from the carpet.

"My father was drunk. Blew a point two on the breathalyzer. No way he should've been behind the wheel of a vehicle; he was goddamn lucky a piece of wood was the only thing he hit. That night scared him shitless. Scared me, too. Kind of like one of those TV commercials: Here's your life. Here's your life with too much booze.

"So we made a pledge. I told him I wouldn't drink anymore if he wouldn't drink anymore. I figured I was doing it to help him. I'm kind of guessing he felt he was doing it to help me."

"And it worked?"

"As far as I know, for nearly ten years we've both stuck to it. Until last night."

"So why last night, Bobby?"

He said levelly, "I could say it was because guys were buying me beers. I could say it was because for the first time in years, I wasn't on call, so I was allowed to have a drink. I could say because after ten years, how much could one beer really hurt? I could say a lot of things."

"But you'd be lying?"

"I keep seeing his face," Bobby whispered.

"Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. I did my job, dammit." He hung his head-"Jesus, I didn't think it would be this hard."

She didn't say anything right away. The words just hung there gathering a weight of their own. He finally brought the Coke to his lips and swallowed. Then he looked up at the ceiling, above the dark paneling of mahogany wood trim, and there was Jimmy Gagnon as clear as daylight. One white male subject holding a gun on his wife and kid. One white male subject appearing genuinely surprised as Bobby's 165-grain bullet slammed into his skull. Do you know how a dead man looks? Startled.

Do you know how other people regard that man's killer? With admiration, pity, and fear.

"Are you thinking of drinking again?" Elizabeth asked quietly.

"Yeah."

"Do you think joining an AA group might help?"

"I don't like talking to strangers about my problems."

"Do you think talking to your father might help?"

"I don't like talking to my father about my problems."

"Then who can help you, Bobby?"

"I guess just you."

She nodded thoughtfully.

"There is something you should know," she said after a moment, "before we go any further… I have some previous involvement in this case. I've met with Judge Gagnon."

"What?"

"He wasn't my patient."

"The hell you say." Bobby flew out of his chair. He gazed at her wildly; he couldn't believe this.

"Isn't that a conflict of interest? How can you do that? One day you're listening to one guy's problems, the next you're counseling the guy who's suing him?"

Dr. Lane held up a hand.

"The judge came to me for a professional opinion. I met with him for thirty minutes. Then I referred him to an associate who I felt would be better able to assist him."