Through A Glass Darkly
Part 1
December 8, 1979, 10.00 a.m. It was a typical Honolulu day. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. The mercury stood at seventy-four degrees, and a gentle breeze rustled the fronds of the palm trees. Off Waikiki, the water sparkled and whispered seductively to those who had boats, or surfboards, that this was not a day to stay inside.
Inside the Iolani Palace, it was several degrees warmer. Danny Williams had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. His shirt collar was open and his tie hung loose. There was a sheen of perspiration on his face and, every now and then, he felt a tickling sensation on his back or chest, as droplets of sweat trickled down his body, under his shirt. His office window had been jammed shut for the past three days, and without the redeeming breeze, it was intolerably hot. Whenever he inquired as to when the offending window would be repaired, he was told: "Wait your turn, bruddah. This is an old building. Needs lots of maintenance."
He leaned back in his swivel chair, and hooked the ankle of his right foot over his left knee. Nursing a cup of tepid coffee between his cupped hands, he contemplated his office sourly. It really had no right to be called an office. In fact, it was just a cubicle, separated from the busy main office area by a waist high wooden partition, topped by a glass window. It did not even have a door.
As a concession to the severe lack of space in the tiny compartment, the only items of furniture it contained, apart from Danny's desk, were a large gray filing cabinet and three office chairs. The top of the filing cabinet, and the seat of one of the chairs, were hidden under untidy piles of manila folders.
A large cork pinboard hung on the wall behind the desk. Pinned to its pitted, crumbling surface were several HPD fliers, a couple of wanted posters', a map of the islands and a few notes written in Danny's untidy scrawl.
Another map was pinned to the partition in front of him, which divided his office from the one that had once belonged to Chin Ho Kelly. Danny rarely needed to refer to it, he had been born and raised in Hawaii, and he loved the place intensely. He knew its geography and history by heart.
He had occupied this office since he first joined Five-0, yet apart from the many awards and commendations, bearing his name, which hung on the walls, no personal items adorned the office. There were no family photographs or anything else to reveal what kind of man Dan Williams was.
When he first arrived, he had attempted to brighten it by putting a few posters on the walls, but, in time, they had become torn and tattered. A few years ago, when the Palace was renovated, they had been removed, and he had been too preoccupied with work to worry about replacing them.
Looking at it now, Danny thought that this tiny cubicle had come to represent his life. Functional, but not particularly pleasant.
With a discontented sigh, Danny uncrossed his legs and swung back to his desk. Slamming his coffee cup down in the space between the telephone and his overflowing in-tray', he bent his head over the open folder on his desk.
He shuffled through the sheaf of photographs it contained, and picked one. It showed a young girl in a pose more obscene than Danny's imagination had ever conceived possible. It was obvious, from her glazed eyes and vacant smile, that she was drugged. The girl in the photograph was about eleven years old.
Slowly, Danny spread all the photographs out on his desktop. As he lay each one down, he studied it intently, searching frantically for clues. He knew he was wasting his time. He had examined these photographs so often that each one was etched into his brain. If there was any information to be gained, he would have found it before now.
Not all the pictures were of girls. Some showed boys. In others, pairs or groups of children were shown in sickeningly pornographic poses. Not one of the models' could have been over fifteen. Occasionally, there would be a glimpse of an adult male body, an anonymous arm, or a leg, or genitalia, but no tattoos, no scars and definitely no faces. The perpetrators of this filth were very careful not to reveal anything that could help to identify them.
It had been three months since McGarrett had tossed the photographs onto Danny's desk and commanded him to find the scum who produced them. So far, he had been completely unsuccessful. Though he knew that the photographs had been taken locally, he had been unable to identify the locations. His search for the children involved had been equally fruitless and he suspected that they had been disposed of once they had outlived their usefulness.
Danny wondered at the mindset of the men who obtained gratification from the corruption of children. He found the photographs neither stimulating nor titillating. They revolted him. He was haunted by them, and by his failure to find their source and put a stop to them.
God, I need a drink!' For the hundredth time that day, he pushed the thought away. He rubbed his tired eyes, then, leaning back in his chair, he ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair.
Danny gathered up the photographs, shoved them back into the folder, and slapped it shut with a grunt of frustration. He opened the top right hand drawer of his desk, put the folder inside and locked the drawer.
He pushed himself away from the desk, and stood up. Rolling down his shirtsleeves, he buttoned the cuffs. Then he fastened the two open buttons at the neck of his shirt and straightened his tie. His jacket was draped over the back of his chair. He retrieved it and put it on. It was time to get out on the street and chase up a few of his snitches. Maybe someone had some crumb of information he could use.
*
Danny managed to hunt down a couple of ex-cons and a hooker who had given him useful information before. They had nothing to report, but the hooker offered him a freebie', whenever he had the time.
Danny studied the girl who had just offered herself to him. This was not the first time she had made such an offer, and he could tell, from the way she looked at him, that it had not been motivated purely by the need to stay sweet' with the cops. She really did find him attractive.
He was unable to return the compliment.
Though she had once told him she was nineteen, he suspected that the girl was at least two years younger. She was a walking skeleton. Her eyes were sunk deep into the sockets, and had dark circles under them, which gave them a bruised' appearance. They held an expression that was far too hard' and calculating for someone so young.
There were no needle marks on her arms, but Danny knew that if he checked behind her knees, or between her toes, he would find them.
He suspected that there were cops around, even men he knew well, who had arrangements' with the girls who worked the streets, but the idea of taking advantage of these girls repelled him. The fact that this one was young enough to be his daughter made the notion even more disgusting. He declined the offer, as tactfully as he could.
Danny moved on. The desire for a drink was now an aching need, burning deep in his gut. He was shaken by the thought that if the girl had offered him a bottle, instead of her body, he might not have been able to refuse.
*
It was almost noon, when he noticed that he was in the vicinity of his favourite Chinese restaurant.
Tourists, who preferred the flashier places, hardly ever visited Mrs. Wing's tiny Chinese restaurant. Mrs. Wing probably couldn't have coped with the tourist trade, anyway. The restaurant' was just one room, with a storeroom at the back. The old lady did all her cooking on a kitchen stove, right there in front of her patrons. Danny was amazed that the Department of Health had allowed it to remain open. He doubted if they actually knew it even existed. Well, he wasn't going to be the one to tell them!
He had found the place by accident, one day, and soon became a regular customer. The food was plentiful and cheap, and tasted as good, to a hungry cop, a few days away from payday, as anything to be had in the dining room of the Royal Hawaiian'.
Mrs. Wing, was tiny Chinese woman of indeterminate age. She ran her restaurant with brisk efficiency, bullying her patrons just as she did her ancient husband, who worked with her. She loved to talk. Having learned his name within five minutes of his entering the place for the first time, she took slightly longer to unearth the rest of Danny's personal history. In return, she did not hesitate to regale him with the details of her own life, or salacious gossip about her friends and neighbours. In the course of time, Danny had grown quite fond of the old lady.
As he opened the door, Danny heard a scream and a gunshot. He saw a flash of movement as someone ran into the back room.
Mrs. Wing was lying on the floor, beside the cash register. Her clothes were soaked with blood, which flowed steadily from a wound in her stomach. Danny glanced at her face, as he passed. She was dead. Her eyes were open and she looked surprised.
Her husband was kneeling beside her. The old man had cataracts, and was almost blind. He peered at Danny through moist, milky eyes. "She's dead!" he quavered. "She killed her!"
"Call the police!" Danny ordered, already moving through the opening, towards the back room. His hand moved purposefully inside his jacket, seeking his gun. His fingers closed firmly on the smooth handle, and he slid it out of the holster.
Holding the gun ready, he burst through the curtain. At the same instant, someone ran out from behind a pile of cartons in the corner, and made a break for it, through the back door. Danny caught a glimpse of a slight figure and long black hair, as he followed.
He found himself in an alley. The usual mess of waste and overflowing garbage cans were strewn about. Danny wrinkled his nose at the stench of rotting refuse.
About a hundred yards in front of him, a figure was running, full tilt, towards the end of the alley.
"Stop!" He commanded. "I'm a police officer! Stop, or I'll shoot"
The figure stopped and turned, raising it's own weapon in response.
Danny studied the young Japanese girl who stood in front of him.
She was very young, probably not more than fifteen, and he guessed that she was about five feet tall. She was dressed in the uniform of her generation: jeans, a grubby t-shirt and sneakers. To Danny, she looked just like every other girl of her age and race, until he looked into her eyes. What he saw there chilled him to the bone.
Her pupils were dilated, and her eyes were overly bright. She had difficulty focusing, and she seemed to look straight through him. Danny's heart sank. The girl was high'. This meant that she was unstable. It was almost impossible to reason with someone in that condition.
When she spoke, her fear and loathing were obvious.
"Go ahead, pig!' she spat, "Make my day!"
Danny thought, irrelevantly, This kid watches too many movies!'
The girl laughed, nervously, and her finger twitched on the trigger.
"Drop the gun!" Danny ordered. "I don't want to have to shoot you. Please, drop the gun!"
The girl giggled again, and her finger moved again, more purposefully this time.
Danny heard the report, and squeezed the trigger of his own gun as he felt the bullet from hers brush the hair on the top of his head. His own bullet found its target. The Japanese girl dropped to the ground.
He knew, before he reached her, that she was dead.
*
When Steve McGarrett arrived, HPD officers were moving around searching for evidence. White coated paramedics waited patiently for permission to remove the body. Danny was standing, alone, about fifty yards from the corpse, staring blankly into space.
"What happened?"
"I heard gunshots and a scream," Danny replied woodenly, still staring into thin air. "Mrs. Wing was dead, the shooter ran out here. I followed. I identified myself as a police officer. She turned and aimed at me. She fired. So did I. She missed. I didn't."
An HPD officer came over. "She's been identified, Steve. Kimi Toshiro. Age – thirteen. That's her mother over there." He pointed to a Japanese woman, kneeling over the body, weeping.
"Thirteen." Danny said, tonelessly, "That's too young to die, Steve."
"It's too young to kill, Danno", McGarrett replied, quietly. He turned away, and began to walk towards the body, deep in discussion with the HPD cop.
The mother of the dead girl stood up, and began to walk towards Danny. He waited patiently, watching impassively as she approached.
The woman was tiny, barely reaching to his chin. They stared at each other, wordlessly.
Danny knew he should tell her how very sorry he was, but he couldn't. It wasn't true. The child had slain a harmless old woman, and then had tried to kill him. He had merely defended himself. He did not feel sorrow, or anger, or guilt, or relief or joy. He just felt – nothing.
He saw the suffering and fury in her eyes, but could not speak. He saw the working of her throat and tongue, and knew what was coming, but made no effort to avoid it. He continued to stare at her, expressionlessly, and did not even flinch when she spat in his face.
They stared at each other in silence, for several seconds, then she turned away from him.
Danny watched dispassionately as she walked away. Her spittle ran slowly down his cheek. He made no move to wipe it away.
After some time, he began to walk away, in the opposite direction. No one seemed to notice him, or if they did, they didn't try to stop him.
On the way home, he stopped at a liquor store, and bought a bottle of Scotch.
***
It was 9.30 p.m. Danny sat alone, in the living room of his apartment.
The room was dark, except for the faint glow from one small lamp, which stood on a side table next to his chair. A shiny black telephone sat beside the lamp. Propped against the telephone was an envelope, addressed to Steve McGarrett. The table also held Danny's gun, his badge case and the bottle of whisky he had bought on the way home. It was half empty.
Muffled traffic noises drifted up from the street below. Danny had not bothered to turn on either the TV or hi-fi, and as he lived alone, there were no other sounds to disturb the quiet.
He slumped back into the chair. His jacket had been discarded as soon as he got home and his unknotted tie hung loosely around his neck, under his collar. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, and his shirtsleeves were rolled back. In his left hand, he held an empty whisky glass.
He fumbled for the whisky bottle, and refilled his glass, wondering, idly, when the occasional drink after work had become a regular thing. He couldn't remember. Nor could he recall when it had become a necessity, rather than something to be enjoyed, slowly savoring the taste and texture of the liquor on his tongue and throat as he swallowed it. When had he begun to crave the fuzzy feeling of relaxation it gave him? Indeed, he asked himself, when had he stopped being able to relax without it?
Gradually, without his realizing it, that single, social, after work beer' had multiplied into many, and progressed from beer to hard liquor. He no longer drank with friends. These days he avoided his colleagues, preferring to sit alone in his apartment, with the whisky bottle beside him, refilling his glass repeatedly until the bottle was empty or he fell asleep.
He shook his head miserably. "Face it Williams," he muttered. "You are well on the way to becoming an alcoholic!"
"At least I don't drink on the job," he attempted to justify himself, conveniently forgetting the burning, aching need which was coiled constantly, in his belly, seemingly dormant, yet ready to spring into instant, demanding, wakefulness at the first opportunity.
"Crap!" his conscience jeered. "How many nights have your hands been shaking as you unlocked the front door? You couldn't wait to get that first drink! Face it, man! You are an alcoholic! A drunk!"
Danny had not bothered to close the drapes, and now he caught sight of his reflection in the glass of the window, illuminated by the dim lamplight.
He saw his image in the bathroom mirror, every time he shaved, but he couldn't remember the last time he had really looked at himself. He stared in surprise.
The man who looked back at him from out of the darkness bore little resemblance to the one who had joined Five-0', seventeen years ago.
Then, he had been young and fit. With his tanned, muscular body and sun bleached curly hair he could have been a surfer, rather than a cop. He had certainly looked younger than his years. His bright blue eyes had often held a hint of roguishness, as they surveyed the world with mild amusement, and his mouth had always looked as if it was about to curl into one of his gentle, lop-sided smiles. In those days, he had always been ready with a facetious comment, but there had been an underlying cheerfulness.
Over the years, so gradually that he had not noticed it, he had put on weight. These days, he looked decidedly pudgy. The effect of his drinking habit was starting to show in the puffiness of his face. His eyes had lost their cheerfulness, and now held a bitter, cynical expression. There were deep lines etched around them and at the corners of his mouth, which was permanently twisted into a contemptuous sneer.
It wasn't just his appearance which had changed, he knew.
*
Danny sighed, heavily. His glance fell on the black leather badge case on the table beside him. He swallowed the contents of the glass in a single gulp, then placed the empty glass on the table and reached for the badge case. Flipping it open, he studied the gold badge inside.
Reverently, he ran his thumb over the badge, caressing the engraved surface. He remembered the thrill of pride he had felt when Steve McGarrett handed it to him and invited him to join Five-O'.
He had been so idealistic, then. With the arrogance and enthusiasm of youth, he truly believed that he really could help to make the world a better place. He had looked upon his work as worthwhile, and had believed that he could – WOULD – make a difference. How naive he had been!
He sighed again. Wearily, he sank back into his chair. Still holding the badge, tenderly, in both hands, he tried to figure out how he had just when that optimism had begun to fade. When had he begun to lose his faith in the value – the rightness – of what he was doing?
His youthful appearance and lack of any distinguishing features had made him a natural choice for many undercover operations, and he had soon become adept at lying, cheating and manipulating people in order to obtain information vital to whichever case he was working on at the time.
Occasionally, when the operation was over, there was a sense of satisfaction, the conviction that he had done well and actually achieved something worthwhile. Just as often, however, he felt tainted and defiled by what he was required to do. Eventually, he disciplined himself against this feeling, and forced himself to expunge the names and faces of the people he had to deal with, from his memory. In fact, there were times when he managed to avoid thinking of them as people at all. Believing that he was having some effect, he was prepared to do anything that his assignment required. He did not know, then, just how high the cost would be.
Danny Williams had not changed the world. Slowly, inexorably, the world had changed Danny Williams, and the change sickened him!
*
Danny shook his head, confused. Why had it taken him so long to realize that he had accomplished nothing? That things would never change? Was he so stupid?
Seven years ago, when he resigned, Kono had tried to make him see that they were wasting their time, but Danny had refused to accept it.
He had been stunned when Kono told him of his intention to resign.
"Why?" he had asked, bewildered.
The big Hawaiian's round, jovial face held an unusually earnest expression as he strove to explain.
"Look. Man, you think we're makin' a difference? That one day things are gonna change? You're wrong Danno! Things ain't never gonna change! Day after day, we go out there, and set ourselves up to be used as target practice – how many times you been shot bruddah? Two? Three?"
"Three." Danny replied, picturing the scars on his right shoulder and his left leg, and the ugly red wound on his abdomen that still looked fresh and raw four years after it was inflicted.
"Yeah, Three! And you still think it's worth it? We go out there and fight crime. We fight the pushers, the murderers, the thieves and the pimps. And what happens? It's like that monster, man, the Hydra. We put one crime boss away, two more take his place. We put one pusher out of business, ten more start up. There's always gonna be another Johnny Oporta, or Tot Kee or Quon Lee. We ain't never gonna make no difference, no matter how hard we try! Well, bruddah, I've had enough. I want to get married, have a family. And ain't no woman never gonna take on a member of Five-O, with the hours we work, and never sure we gonna be alive at the end of the day! I'm leaving. I'm gonna find me a wahine u'i, settle down and have some kids!'
So, Kono had resigned. He had taken a lucrative job with a local security firm, married his pretty wahine' and now had four children. Though they had kept in touch, and Danny was godfather to Kono's youngest son, they had lost the closeness that they had shared back then. Danny had never been able to shake the feeling that Kono had abandoned him and his ideals.
Now, he was prepared to acknowledge that Kono had been right all along, and he was wrong.
Scum like Oporta, Kee and Lee had been replaced by the Vashons, and the Vidalgos. The Vashons and Vidalgos had, in turn, been followed by others, in a never-ending procession. Criminal activity had not only increased in regularity, but in malignancy, also. He just had to take a walk down Hotel Street, or to glance at the foul contents of the manilla folder in his desk drawer, to know that he had been fighting a battle that was already lost.
When Steve McGarrett and the Governor discussed crime in Hawaii, it was usually in terms of the effect on tourism. To Danny, the war against crime meant much more than the loss of the tourist dollar. For him, it was deeply personal. He looked around at his beloved islands, saw the corruption beneath the idyllic façade, and was sickened by it.
The drug business thrived, in spite of the unceasing battle by Five-0 and HPD to stop it. The dealers were interested only in increasing their profits. They were not concerned with the age of their customers, and felt no qualms, at all, about selling to children. Once hooked, these children were turning to crime, and prostitution, in order to maintain their habit.
The sex trade had always flourished in Hawaii, but Danny noticed that the whores, both female and male, were becoming steadily younger. Of course, there was never a lack of men eager to exploit these kids in order to gratify their depraved appetites.
Day and night, Danny saw children cruising Hotel Street, prepared to prostitute themselves for the price of a fix'. The trade in child pornography increased daily. Children were committing robberies and murders for the money to finance their addiction. Danny saw all this, and his feeling of helplessness intensified with every day that passed.
Shaking his head dispiritedly, Danny closed the badge case and put it on the table. He picked up the whisky glass and raised it to eye level, peering at it owlishly. It was empty. His hand shook as he reached for the bottle and refilled the glass.
He drank half the glass in a single swig.
*
He leaned forward, drunkenly, and picked up his revolver. He did not need to check that it was loaded; he knew it was. Gently, he ran his trembling hands over the cold metal, caressing it. For the past seventeen years, this gun had been an almost constant companion. He kept it with him always, on duty and off. It lay under his pillow while he slept, and it was always within reach while he was in the shower.
Today, this gun had taken the life of a thirteen-year-old girl.
He glanced towards the window. It seemed to him that, for a moment, another apparition floated in the blackness, behind his own reflection. It was the Japanese girl, Kimi Toshira, as he had last seen her that afternoon, with her long black hair fanned out around her head like a halo, her black eyes staring sightlessly out of a face the color of parchment, and the spreading red stain, like a flower, just below her left breast.
He had felt no anger towards the girl, and afterwards, he had felt no remorse. In fact, he had been devoid of any feeling at all.
He wondered, remotely, why he could not feel anything for the girl, and when killing had become so easy for him.
It hadn't always been like that. The first time he killed someone, he had been overwhelmed by grief and remorse.
"It's a stinking job!"
He had poured his all his anguish into that simple statement. His torment at the knowledge that he had taken a human life, disillusionment at the way he was being pilloried by the media, misery at the feeling that he had let down McGarrett and the Five-0 team -- those four words exposed it all.
"Who told you it was anything else?" McGarrett was unsympathetic.
"He was a boy, Steve. Just a boy! Probably not even old enough to shave!"
"You think it's easier to kill a grown man? You think the next one will be any easier than this one" McGarrett's voice was brutal. " God help you, if you do! It should rip your guts out, every time you pull a gun, whether you use it or not! You learn to live with it, but don't get used to it!"
There had been countless times throughout the years, when he needed to draw his weapon, and each time, McGarrett's voice echoed in his mind, "It should rip your guts out, every time you pull a gun, whether you use it or not!"
At first it did. Each time he drew his gun, there was the same feeling of dread. Every time, his stomach would tense, his heart would pound and he would start to sweat. Every time, he would silently offer up the fervent prayer "Please, not this time!"
Sometimes, his prayer was answered. Too many times, it was not.
His glass was empty again. Danny reached for the bottle. His hand was trembling so badly that he could not pour the liquor into the glass. It splashed over his hand and onto the arm of his chair. Frustrated, he tossed the glass onto the floor. It bounced on the thick carpet, and rolled under the chair. Danny raised the bottle to his lips, and gulped down a mouthful. Some of the liquid missed his mouth, and trickled down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. He felt a momentary pang of self-loathing at the thought of what he must look like, but was soon engulfed by his memories, once again.
He recalled McGarrett's warning, that first time. Learn to live with it, but don't ever get used to it!'
Somehow, sometime, he had got used to it. When had he become so desensitized?
When had he started to lose his capacity to feel? Had it been at the same time as he began to feel the need for booze? Had he started drinking to escape from the reality of his callousness, or was this apathy the result of his drinking? When did it start?
In the beginning, Danny had been truly convinced that his efforts had some useful purpose. Looking back over his career, he realized that he had been sadly misguided. All those years of dedication to duty had been futile. They had drained him of the ability to feel compassion, leaving him isolated and lonely, and had accomplished nothing.
In the years since he had joined Five-0, the woman he loved had been murdered and several of his friends had been killed in the performance of their duty. Danny, himself, had been wounded several times. He had been kidnapped, and he had been brainwashed. He had been betrayed and exploited by people he had loved and trusted. Each time, he had coped with it. He had pulled himself together and got back on his feet, already subconsciously bracing himself against the next blow. He had not realised that the struggle to deal with each new trauma was slowly wearing away his faith in humanity, and his conviction that he was making a difference.
He remembered his own bitter words to McGarrett, in the corridor outside the room where Chinook Olina died: "The good die wrong, and the best get the worst of it. Perhaps that's why I'm still here!"
Chinook had been shot by a drugged out kid he had stopped for a traffic violation. Afterwards, the kid had gloated about what he had done, considering it part of a game. The happy-go-lucky Hawaiian had left a pregnant wife and two sons.
Louis Kimora had been killed trying to prevent a warehouse robbery. He had been married less than a year.
Chin Ho Kelly, the father of eight children, had been working undercover, investigating a protection racket in Chinatown, when his cover was blown. He was killed, and his body tossed onto the steps of the Iolani Palace like garbage.
Chinook, Louis and Chin Ho had all lived happy, worthwhile lives. They had all left loving families who grieved for them. So had too many of his other colleagues who died doing their job.
Danny had no one. He had suffered so many ordeals throughout his life that he had sometimes wondered if he was cursed; yet he had survived. He could not understand why he had been allowed to live, when so many good men, who had so much more to live for, had died needlessly.
He had always been popular. His amiable, easygoing nature had made it easy for him to make, and keep friends. However, in recent years, and especially since the murder of Chin Ho, just over a year ago, Danny had found himself feeling increasingly isolated from his colleagues.
His parents had both been dead for many years, and his only other relative, his Aunt Clara, had died six months ago.
There had always been plenty of women, who were willing, even eager, to share his bed for a night, a week, maybe even a month or two, but none had been willing to enter into a steady relationship with him. He had never met a woman who was prepared to cope with the long, unpredictable hours or the constant threat of physical danger that came with his job.
No one would mourn for him.
Danny peered at the revolver, turning it around in shaking hands. He should have left it in the alley, for the ballistics guys to do their tests. He sighed heavily. Oh, well! They would have it tomorrow. Tomorrow would be soon enough!
His eyes strayed to the envelope propped against the telephone. With the light from the lamp shining directly on it, the white envelope was almost luminescent. The stark black letters of Steve McGarrett's name leaped out at him from the paper. Would Steve understand?
Steve McGarrett had been both teacher and friend to him, since the day he joined Five-0'. He had kicked his butt' when required, bolstered his flagging confidence when there was need for it and had always been prepared to defend and support him. However, there had been a steadily widening rift between them recently, which had become a yawning chasm since the day fourteen months ago, when Danny had found himself aiming his gun at McGarrett and preparing to pull the trigger.
Though they knew that Danny was not responsible for his actions, which were the result of torture and brainwashing, Danny feared that McGarrett had lost confidence in him. Danny assumed that his susceptibility to the brainwashing was one more proof of his failure, as a cop and as a human being, and he was convinced that McGarrett held the same opinion. He also suspected that Steve shared his fear that Danny might have been left with residual effects of the brainwashing, and could no longer be trusted.
It was a symptom of the gulf between them, that they had not been able to discuss the situation openly.
Danny had tried to find the right words to explain to Steve just why he had to take this final step. That he was tired of living in a world where life was expendable, where children were exploited mercilessly in the quest for money and power, and a thirteen year old girl could get hold of a gun and kill a harmless old lady without batting an eye.
He had tried to explain that he was no longer the man Steve thought he was, if he ever really had been. That all the years of fighting against the unrelenting spread of corruption had turned him into the kind of man who could succumb so easily to brainwashing that he could suddenly find himself pointing a gun at his best friend and preparing to pull the trigger. The kind of man who could shoot a pretty thirteen year old girl in an alley, with as much regret as if she were a rabid dog.
That he had become someone he didn't want to be, living in a world that he could no longer tolerate.
Danny pressed the gun to his forehead. The metal felt pleasantly cool against his skin. He held it there for a moment, and then lowered it slightly. He opened his mouth, and placed the barrel between his parted lips. Gently, smoothly, as he had been taught so many years ago, and as he had done that afternoon, he squeezed the trigger.
PAU