I wanna go to Holland.

Were those the kid's last words before he jumped off the tower and fell to his death? That poor, sick kid. Patoshik—a.k.a. "Haywire."

Alex Mahone couldn't remember now. His mind was fuzzy. But those were the words he would remember until the day he himself died. That much he knew. The words that would come back and haunt him, like the look in Haywire's eyes, that look of terrible fear and loneliness.

He pulled over the SUV as fast as he could, its tires kicking up a plume of dust. Another quarter mile down the road and he could have stopped off at the general store he'd passed on his way to the location Brad Bellick had given him over the phone. Alex was pretty sure he wouldn't make it that far, though.

Staggering around the vehicle, he bent over, held onto the bumper for support, and retched miserably. Great—there went his lunch, a turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee, eaten right before Bellick had told him he had Patoshik cornered. Between throwing up at the hospital after getting shot and now, it didn't seem like he'd ever be able to hold anything down again.

"Oh, God," he whispered to himself, pushing the sunglasses that had slipped down the bridge of his nose back in place.

His hands were shaking. He was shaky. Under his breath he swore as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

A lot of good those two Midazolam tablets he'd taken had done him. It would've been more effective downing some damn breath mints.

A soda. That was what he needed. Preferably a 7-Up or ginger ale, something that would settle his stomach and refresh him. Then he'd get right back to work. That'd get him back on track—work. Make him feel like nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

Getting back in the car, Alex reasoned with himself. This death was no different, after all. First Abruzzi, which wasn't really his fault. The guy wouldn't surrender and be taken in peacefully. Then that other kid, David Apolskis. The one who'd tricked him, said he was turning Scofield and Burrows over to him, then—surprise! A ton of federal agents pounce at the door of Tweener's little girlfriend.

Alex's sense of humor getting the better of him, he chuckled. What was her name again? Debra Jean. Pretty girl. Maybe Alex hadn't found it so funny when Tweener had pulled the stunt, yo—as the kid would say—but in retrospect, it was such a crazy, young guy thing to do that Alex had to laugh.

Except Tweener had died that same day. And he'd died at Alex's hands.

He shook his head, as if that would shake the disturbing recollection from his mind. The point was, he thought, pulling into the parking lot of the general store, that all of the others he'd killed, including Michael's dad, their lives had been just as significant as this last one. Their deaths had meant no less.

So why was Charles Patoshik's death bothering him so much?

"Hi, Officer Joey!"

Alex almost dropped the bottle of 7-Up (and it was one of those little glass bottles, like the ones he recalled from his childhood) when he heard that little kid's voice. Whirling around on his heel, he saw a young boy of around eight or nine, around Cam's age for sure, maybe the shop owner's son. From behind the counter, standing beside a teenage girl, the child greeted the muscular young cop, a patrolman in uniform. The cop must have just walked in, because Alex couldn't remember seeing a cruiser outside when he'd pulled up.

"Hey, how's my buddy?" the cop greeted him, giving the little guy's hair a tussle.

Alex looked on, holding the soda bottle in one hand, his other arm—the side that had been shot—at his side.

Officer Joey. How he reminded Alex of another cop . . . Officer Lou.

But that had been so long ago. In another place, another store, with another little boy around that age. A little boy whose name was Alex Mahone.

That was back—oh, how long ago? Around the early 1960s. Summer day, hot as hell. Talk about apropos: "Heat Wave" by Martha and the Vandellas was playing on the big transistor radio in the store when Alex walked in. A miniature version of himself as a man, slim back then, too, and before he'd shot up in height in his teens. His own hair, without the tinges of silver here and there, was usually an unruly mop back then. Then again, what red-blooded, self-respecting 9-year-old boy had the time for girly stuff like grooming themselves?

He had just enough money left over from the cash his father had given him to buy a loaf of bread and a carton of milk to get some candy. That was a rare occasion, when Dad said he could keep the change or part of it. To prove that he could be good, Alex would buy only one candy bar and proudly return the rest to his father.

Maybe this time he'd hear Dad say something like, "That's a good boy, Alex. You could've kept all of it, though." Hearing his father praise him happened less often than being told he could keep the change.

Like any kid, he had that candy counter memorized. His hand knew the way, just like magic! Straight to the part where the Hershey bars were displayed. That was his favorite candy. Kinda fancy, in its wrapper that read HERSHEY in big letters. One whole, beautiful thin block of chocolate sectioned in these little squares that you could carefully break off and eat one at a time. Alex liked to let each square melt in his mouth, savoring it, making it last. There was no telling how long it would be again before his father sprung for another candy bar.

"That's it, right, tiger?" the man behind the counter, whose name was Mike, asked.

Alex liked Mike. Real nice man, with a cherubic face, slightly balding, thick around the middle. He was always kind and sometimes funny, and he had his own nickname—tiger—for Alex.

Why can't Dad be like Mike? he'd often wonder.

"That's it," he replied.

"Okay, buddy. That'll be a nickel."

As he handed over the coin, the bell over the door jingled, announcing the entrance of another customer. Alex turned and immediately smiled. It was as exciting an event as seeing Mickey Mantle stroll in.

"Ah, there he is, there's my buddy, Alex!" Officer Lou said in that big, wonderful voice of his. "Haven't seen you in a few days. Where ya been?"

"I've been here. Where you been?" Alex asked. It was an honest question, no disrespect, no backtalk meant at all. "I missed you, Officer Lou."

The policeman laughed. His laughter had an earthy, fatherly quality to it. Now why couldn't Dad laugh like that, Alex had mused sometimes to himself, like he meant it?

"I missed you, too, son," the man said, nodding. "How're you doing? Everything okay?"

"Yep."

"How's school?"

Alex shrugged. "Okay."

"Love those one-word answers kids give, huh?" Mike said, laughing with Officer Lou.

But then the police officer turned to him again. In a serious tone, with a hand falling gently on Alex's shoulder, he said, "You know, son, if you ever need me for anything, I'd be glad to help you. Any way I can."

Mike chimed in, "And if you can't find him, you come to me, tiger. I'll find Officer Lou for you."

"Thanks," Alex said.

But he was so swept up in his admiration for this man. Officer Lou, in his crisp, royal blue uniform with the shiny badge pinned to his breast pocket. That duty belt that he wore, with the gun in its holster and a small flashlight and other neat stuff he needed to chase the Bad Guys. Courage and safety were embodied in this man, who was bigger than life, more magnificent than Superman, with a twinkle in his eye and a heart as big as the town he diligently guarded like an angel in a brilliant disguise.

"I'd better go," Alex said then, realizing he'd been out for a while. Any longer and the milk would spoil. If that happened, he'd be in big trouble. "See ya, Mike. See ya, Officer Lou."

"See ya, tiger," Mike said.

Officer Lou gave him a salute. "I'll see you around, Alex."

Yet on his way out the door, Alex saw the look the two men exchanged. A worried look was what it appeared to be, and he heard Mike say in a low voice, "That Alex is a good kid."

Alex's face burned with shame as he hurried home, going from walking to a trot. Did they know? Could they somehow tell? Grownups had this weird way of knowing things sometimes. He tried to think back. Once, a few months back, Mike had seen him with those splotchy red marks on his face and asked him about it. His father had told him to tell people it was nothing, just an allergic reaction to something he ate, so that's what he told Mike.

He'd lied to Mike, who was his friend. Like he'd lied to his friends his own age who'd asked him how he'd gotten this mark or that bruise. That was bad enough, lying to the other guys and Mike.

But now he'd lied to Officer Lou. His hero, Officer Lou. Just now, he'd lied when he said everything was okay. Officer Lou, if he ever found out he'd been lied to, would probably never speak to that bad kid, Alex Mahone, again.

At that thought, Alex's heart broke. Frustrated, he shoved open the door to the cramped, dingy apartment he'd been living in with his father. That would hurt him so deeply, if Officer Lou stopped talking to him, if he stopped paying attention to him. Particularly because he liked to imagine sometimes that he was Officer Lou's son. The police officer even called him "son" now and then. It sounded nice when he said it, too. Son, son.

That was an impossible dream, though. It didn't matter that Office Lou didn't have a son, though Alex had heard him tell Mike that his little girl had just started walking. Now wouldn't that be great? A father like Officer Lou who treated him like a real dad should treat his son, and a little sister for Alex to protect and do all those big brotherly things for her and everything.

"Dad, I'm back," he called out. "Dad?"

Alex waited a moment for a response. He set the bag with the groceries on the table, messy with a week's worth of mail on it and the dirty dishes from breakfast. That was a bad sign, when his father failed to answer right away.

A shiver ran through him as he watched his father slowly lumber into the kitchen. Dad hadn't showered and he was in the same sleeveless shirt he'd worn for the past couple of days. Worse, Alex could smell the unmistakable stench of liquor on his father. And if that wasn't proof enough, there was an open, half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey on the kitchen counter.

Officer Lou never smelled of alcohol. He smelled woodsy, which was pleasant, with a touch of peppermint.

Alex tried not to tremble with fear when his father's icy stare fell on him.

"You left the light on in your room again," he told Alex in a monotone. "I don't know how many times I gotta tell you, you little retard, not to leave the damn lights on."

"I'm s-sorry, Dad."

"Yeah, you're sorry. You're always sorry."

This was going to be a bad day. Alex could sense that. Nervously, he fidgeted and wiped his nose on his sleeve. His father inspected the milk and bread and then, with a violence that made his son jump, flung the loaf against the wall.

"It's crushed," his father said through clenched, yellowed teeth. "Damn, boy! I can't trust you to do anything right, can I?"

"It's not that—well—well—we can still eat it," Alex stammered.

His father ignored him, snatched the chocolate bar from his hands, and tossed it at the garbage bin, which was overflowing, and missed.

"You know how to take care of what's yours, don't you?" Dad demanded. "I notice the candy bar's not crushed. Why didn't you screw that up, too?" His hand delivered a sharp, stinging slap to Alex's face. "C'mon, stupid. Answer me!"

Again his father raised his hand, making him stagger back a few steps, shielding his face with his arms.

"No, Dad, no, please!" he screamed, unable to hold back a sob.

"Shut up! And stop your cryin', you worthless piece of crap. I'm not raisin' some sissy girl, I'm raisin' a man. You hear me?"

"Yes. I'll go back to the store, okay?" Alex cowered, choking back more tears as he watched his father snake his belt from its rungs. It was the thin belt, the one that stung like a whip. "No, no, please. Please, Daddy, please, please. I'll go back to the store—"

His father slapped him so hard, his teeth chattered and he was knocked down onto the floor. In the fall, Alex hit his elbow against the edge of the cabinets and instantly saw stars. Before he could stop himself, he let out a long, howling wail.

Again and again that belt was lashed at him, with heartless accuracy, scorching a trail of fire wherever it landed. And there were words that sliced him in places that neither his father's belt nor his closed fist could reach. That beating seemed like it would go on forever. That day it felt like his father would kill him, like he wouldn't live to see another day.

"Sir. Sir, are you all right?"

Alex blinked hard. He looked up and realized it was no longer the 1960s; he was a man, no longer a boy. He was in that general store, with a 7-Up in his hand . . . and this young patrolman was addressing him.

"I'm fine. Thanks." He cleared his throat.

"You sure?" Officer Joey offered a friendly grin. "You don't look so good, sir."

"I—I think I'm coming down with a cold," Alex fibbed. In a hurry to leave, he pulled a ten-dollar bill from his pocket.

"Well, as long as you're all right," the cop said.

"I am. But thanks for asking."

Then Alex spotted it. There, in the candy counter.

A Hershey bar.

"This, too, hon," he told the teenaged girl, taking one of the chocolate bars and the soda. He nodded at the patrolman. "Candy. That's good for a cold, right?"

Officer Joey laughed. It was a good laugh, eerily familiar. "If you ask me, candy's good for anything that ails you!"

Then the young officer did something so unsettling: Smiling, he gave Alex a little salute.

"Sir? Your change," the girl said, holding out the money.

"Oh—oh, that's okay, honey. You keep it," Alex murmured.

Back in the car, he tossed the candy bar in the console. He'd have it later, when he was calmer and could enjoy it . . . one square at a time. Alex drank half the soda, letting it coat his throat with its cool, lemony taste, before he started up the engine. He stared at the Hershey bar, wondering how many candy bars Haywire's abusive, brutal parents had thrown away on him before breaking his spirit and his fragile young mind.

This death had been different. This one had been worse than the others, if that was possible. The memory of this one would torment him worse than the others.

Alex steered the car out of the parking lot and back onto the road. His old friend Mike, he'd heard, had sold the store and moved away with his family. A travel agency now stood where the candy store had once been. Officer Lou—the story had been in the newspaper—had died a few years later in the line of duty. He was killed, shot by some punk with a .45 during a robbery at a gas station.

Alex again pulled the car over. He cut the engine. Took off his sunglasses. And then he cried like a baby.

If only tears could wash away every ounce of pain and shame locked in his heart.

THE END