Stephen King rocks.

I used a lot of player stats in this chapter, but I fictionalised things like last appearances for the pitchers and so on for the sake of a conversation. Don't lynch me, please. ;-)


"All right, here's the deal. I'm dividing you up into two-man teams, according to your usual pairings. Some of you don't have your regular partner here and that's fine. Good chance to shake yourself up a bit." Sergeant Byrne said, looking over the assembled cops. "Mounted Unit will be out in force tonight, as with every game. I hear that the Metro Transit will be loaning us some of its people for the night as well. Any chance you got some friends in that bunch, Deschaine?"

"Dunno, Sarge. I'd have to see who got volunteered."

Byrne grinned, waiting a moment before waving down the chuckles. "Tonight's pairings are: Crocker and Hayden, Stratton and McIntyre, Deschaine and Boscorelli. Most coverage will be handled as usual by District Four, but they asked for some extra help tonight. Any guesses why?" The cops – with the exception of Bosco – booed. Byrne nodded and went on. "Of course. The good news is this series wraps up tonight – one way or another. Bad news is there's gonna be a full house and then some at Fenway and more than a couple Yankees fans who've travelled all the way from NYC to watch their boys. No matter who wins it, there will be quite a few disappointed fans. The district commander has requested the SWAT team to assemble and be on standby as the game winds down, just in case."

"Big guns, huh?"

"Take no chances, Hayden. Any questions? Okay. Van's waiting outside, let's roll."

Bosco nudged his partner as he got to his feet. "Just how bad do your fans get?"

"We have our moments, like I'm sure you Yankees fans do. Try not to get too into the game when we're there. I don't really want to get stuck in the middle of riot you started because of you cheering for the wrong team."

"The wrong team?"

"Yeah. Around here, your team is the wrong team. You can support them all you want, but try to keep it on the back burner tonight."

"Sure thing," Bosco said.


It was barely seven o'clock and there were flocks of people outside the park waiting to get in. The blue and white police van eased carefully through the crowds spilling over into the street. A group of six or seven shouted derisively at the sight of the van and Bosco noted that they all were wearing Yankees' jerseys. It was just a bunch of kids – high school kids by the look of them. He chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

"Those kids over there. They look barely sixteen. Probably caught the train up for the game. I bet they're from the Bronx – those people tend to be the most rabid fans."

Deschaine shook her head. "Those would be the ones to expect trouble from, then?"

"More than likely. I guess anybody could start a riot, but those guys… yeah, they'd be at the top of my list of punks to watch."

"Pile out!" Sergeant Byrne called and the six cops hit the street. "We'll have to go through the ticket entrance, I'm afraid. Some idiot locked the service entrance door. I'm not waiting for somebody to come open it for us. Two lines, form up. Make sure to stick close to your partner. I don't want some half-tanked Yankee-head thinking we're easy targets."

Bosco fell in behind the tall cop named Crocker. Deschaine's hand came to rest on his left shoulder, and he figured that was the procedure. He lifted his left arm to grip Crocker's shoulder. As the six cops approached the crowds of waiting fans, the tactic suddenly made sense. It was hard to get at a single cop if the whole line was in physical contact with each other. It also left everyone with their gun hand free, he realised a second later.

"Clear the way!" Byrne barked at the people standing in clusters on the sidewalk. "Step aside, sir!"

Amazingly, the crowd parted to let the two lines of cops pass. Bosco keep his eyes forward but he could feel the weight of a hundred stares on him as he half-walked, half-marched with the others. The brim of his hat shaded his eyes from the harsh glare of the Halogen lights that lit up the wide interior hall. Byrne led them past a concession stand, already crowded with people looking for a pre-game hotdog. An officer with captain's bars on his jacket approached them with the easy gait of someone who had spent years walking the beat.

"Sergeant Byrne, you're early."

"It's a big game, sir. Where do you want us?"

"The first base line needs people. Metro Transit is covering the home dugout. I need a pair in the visitor's bullpen too."

"Yes sir." Byrne faced the waiting detail. "Crocker, Hayden, you've got the right field foul pole. Stratton and McIntyre have the bullpen. Deschaine, you and Boscorelli get the middle sections. Game starts at eight but there are enough folks in the stands already that we're now officially on duty. Let's go."

His partner started toward the nearest set of stairs leading up to the stands. He followed her, wishing that he could have gotten the spot in the visitor's bullpen. The game would be a lot more enjoyable with a couple Yankees pitchers to banter with.

"Hey, Bosco. You want a coffee or something?"

"No. I'm all set for now."

Deschaine shrugged. "Suit yourself. We get this post. Hang out here for a moment, I want a coffee."

"You're not leavin' me here with all these…" he trailed off in mid-sentence, realising that they had been assigned to a predominantly Red Sox section. His partner only smirked as she disappeared amongst the crowd milling around. "I can't believe she just did that," Bosco muttered to himself, claiming an empty seat in the front row. Might as well be comfortable while he still could. For the rest of the night he was going to be on his feet.

Out on the field, the players were tossing balls around, getting loose before the start of the game. He wished he could prop his feet up on the railing across from him and just enjoy the view, but there were too many people moving around. What had Deschaine been thinking when she volunteered him for this detail? The extra pay was welcome, but having to stand out here and listen to these crazy Sox fans spout off about how horrid their team's luck was didn't appeal to him. So what if your team is unlucky? Get new players or something. Just quit whining about it.

"On your feet, you lazy bum," his partner admonished, emerging from the crowd.

"Aw, come on. This is a prime seat."

"You didn't pay for it, someone else did. Besides, we'll have the best view in the whole park from where we're standing."

"You're no fun."

"I do my best. Here, I got you a coffee anyway." She held out a Styrofoam cup to him. "Trust me, you're gonna want it."

"Thanks." He took the cup. "Are we supposed to stand here all night or what?"

"No, we get to walk around some too. Mostly, we're here to keep people from getting onto the field."

Bosco turned to look up at the rows of seats. "Somehow, I think if they really, really wanted, people could get onto the field."

"Stop being such an alarmist. It's not the fans that I'd be wary of. It's the players. I mean, these guys are paid millions of dollars to just to play baseball and if something goes down on the field, they're more than happy to join in. To them, it's a bonus. They get to play and brawl all in the space of a few hours. Most fans don't want to join in a massive fistfight in the middle of an inning. They paid good money to see a good game of baseball." Deschaine sipped from the steaming cup in her gloved hand. "It's supply and demand, really. Fans pay these guys' salary by buying tickets, so it's the players' job to give the fans what they're paying to see."

"That's all this game really is? Economics?"

"More or less. It's a sport, yeah, but the money that these franchises make in a year is crazy. Why do you think Pedro Martinez gets paid twenty-five million just to pitch seven or eight innings?"

"He gets twenty-five million? Come on. He's not even that good a pitcher!"

His partner shook her head. "Name one pitcher who go head-to-head with Pedro and hold his own."

"Roger Clemens."

"Come on, Bosco. Clemens only has fifteen wins on the season."

"So what? A pitcher is a pitcher. I'd like to see your buddy Pedro back up what you claim."

"Not this game. Wakefield's on the mound tonight."

Bosco rolled his eyes. "Oh man, this is gonna be a sweep! Wakefield's the worst guy in their bullpen!"

Several fans glared daggers at him as they edged past.

"That is so much crap. The guy has one or two bad nights and he's an awful pitcher? I'd like to see you try to bat against him when he's on his game."

"Whatever. The last time Wakefield was on the mound, he gave up six hits and four runs. Tell me how that's good pitching."

"You want to get technical? All right, try this. In his last appearance, Pedro allowed only three hits and no runs. He pitched seven innings before Alan Embree came in to finish."

"And did the Sox manage to win that game? No. The reliever blew the lead by letting two runs cross the plate." Bosco shot back. "Is that the best you can do?"

"You say that Pedro and Wake are crappy pitchers. Explain, then, how during the whole season, Wakefield didn't give up any home runs when he faced the Yankees. In fact, he only allowed twenty runs total against your Yankee batters."

"Which means nothing if those twenty runs helped to win games anyway. Come on, Deschaine. The Boston bullpen just doesn't have the punch it takes to be consistent."

"Consistent? I'm not hearing this," she repeated. "Consistent is all they've ever been. Competent pitching doesn't come out of thin air. I've pulled spring training security details before and the whole bullpen has been turned out, working their tails off. I counted once and Pedro alone was throwing fifty or sixty strikes, easy. Out of the seventy, seventy-five pitches I counted, that's pretty damn good. Take that and put into a game situation, then come back and talk to me about consistency."

"That's just spring training. The whole thing changes when it's on the wire and he's staring down at the big bats. Jeter can make him look like a real fool out there, no problem."

"Jeter? C'mon, the guy's a clown. Just because he's got a fast glove doesn't make him a star. He's an overpaid showboat."

Some fans sitting immediately behind them broke into applause, bringing an irritated scowl to Bosco's face. "And that Johnny Damon is any better? He needs a major haircut, for starters. Hasn't anyone told him that mullets are long outta fashion?"

"That's the lamest thing you've said so far tonight. Playing with fire isn't fun, is it?" She grinned. "I thought we were talkin' numbers, not about Damon's hair."

"You want numbers?"

"Yeah, show me how effective your vaunted Yankees pitching has been against Boston bats."

Bosco rubbed his hands together. "Mike Mussina gave up a total of thirteen runs so far this year. He only allowed three home runs and six RBIs and struck out a total of nineteen Sox batters."

"Out of eighty times facing the line up." A fan piped up.

"How does that make him ineffective?" Bosco demanded.

"How does giving up only twenty runs and nine RBIs make Wakefield ineffective?" The man fired back.

"At least admit that it's gonna be a pitcher's duel, more or less." Deschaine added, nodding at the older man behind her. He gave her a smile that suggested he wouldn't be against throwing Bosco into the home dugout.

"And we'll steamroll right over Wakefield." Bosco stated petulantly.

Deschaine looked out over centre field. "The wind is blowing toward the outfield and it's not too cold. Perfect weather for a knuckle-baller. It will be fun to watch Wake go to work picking apart the Yankees' line up."

"Yeah? Okay, how about this. Twenty bucks says your boy Wakefield chokes out there and lets my Yanks walk all over him."

"Such confidence for a non-believer. It's your money, you can lose it any way you want."

"Wait." Bosco held up a finger. "Twenty bucks, and the loser buys dinner for the next two shifts."

"Interesting. You're so on," she said, shaking his outstretched hand. "We'll see how your Yanks handle themselves and then I'll be happy to relieve you of an Andrew Jackson."

"Don't be countin' your winnings yet, Deschaine. This game of baseball and economics hasn't started yet."

She grinned. "Well, look who sounds smart!"

"Hey, you're the one who said it was about money. Let's just say that since we didn't buy tickets, we're making up for it with our bet. That way, we're really not getting a free game." He puffed out his chest a bit, looking smug. "And we're helping the national economy while we're enjoying this fine game of baseball. It's a win-win situation for everyone."

"Thank you. Ladies and gentlemen, Alan Greenspan."

People who had been near enough to listen to the two cops' conversation laughed and a couple applauded. Deschaine smiled into her coffee cup. It was going to be an interesting night for sure.


"…and now, ladies and gentlemen, your own Boston Red Sox!"

The entire stadium seemed to tremble as thousands of people let out wild cheers and applause. Deschaine watched her partner scowl and cover his ears, and she laughed. He was so pathetic it was almost endearing. She whistled as the team trotted onto the field. It had been awhile since she had been to a home game, because of her suddenly varied work schedule. Even her season tickets weren't as good as standing in front of the front row along the first base line. These details didn't come along every day.

She looked around the packed rows of seats as the announcer rambled off a bunch of ads for local businesses. Full house indeed. There was barely even standing room anywhere. People holding plastic cups filled with tell-tale amber liquid were scattered liberally throughout their section and everywhere else in the stadium. There were so many people crammed into venerable Fenway Park she was surprised the place wasn't bursting at the seams. The ratio of cops to fans wasn't even worth mentioning. She hoped that the fans would behave themselves.

"Throwing the first pitch this evening is New England's master horror story-teller, Mr Stephen King!"

Deschaine clapped as the author got ready to throw. The man could write a damn good horror novel. Pet Sematary had creeped her out so badly that she didn't sleep for two days. It took a really good story to do that. King left the field and the visiting team appeared to take their positions. She watched the Yankees pitcher trot toward the mound. New York was starting Mussina. A grin came onto her face. He would have a tough time matching Wakefield if the knuckle-baller was in top form.

The shoulder mike clipped to her jacket crackled. "Check in, all field-side posts."

One by one, the cops lining the field acknowledged. "First base section, ten-four." She said, and the next pair down the line checked in. They would have to report in every hour or so, depending on the detail commander's mood.

"Check in, all deck posts."

She turned her radio down a bit. The idle chatter would start soon enough. Thankfully they weren't on the City-wide frequency. Mussina, the Yankees' starter, prepared to pitch to Johnny Damon. Turning her attention away from the field for a minute, Deschaine scanned the seats again. As much as she'd rather watch the game, she had to keep an eye on the crowd.

The umpire's gruff bark of "Strike!" was audible even over the nearly-deafening buzz of the crowd. She checked the scoreboard in right-centre. Strike two on Damon. Mussina let fly a fastball and Damon swung for it, clipping the ball with the end of his bat. The ball zipped over the first baseman's head, but the right fielder launched himself into the air, his glove reaching.

"Damn," she muttered as Damon jogged back to the dugout. A few feet away, Bosco whooped in approval. He was already forgetting his part of their initial deal. "Bosco!"

His face went pink as he threw a glance over his shoulder at all the fans behind him. "Sorry. It was a good play though."

"Keep it down before somebody hears you."

"Right."

She shook her head. It wouldn't be long before he started up again. She had a feeling he was more eager to see his team win than he was to exercise caution. A Yankee fan in a Boston Police uniform. Sure didn't get any weirder than that.


Three innings into the game, it was two-nothing New York. Derek Jeter had slapped a change-up into deep left field, bringing in Aaron Boone. The next batter had knocked a hard line-drive into centre field and Jeter managed to cross the plate ahead of the throw. Bosco was jubilant and wasted little time making sure that she knew who was in the lead. The fans sitting in the front row had to be getting tired of hearing him. She certainly was. He was going to get somebody really mad.

Her partner rubbed his gloved hands together, impatiently waiting for the fourth inning to finish. Deschaine gulped down the last of her second cup of coffee and set the Styrofoam cup on the railing in front of her. At the rate this game was going, she was going to need a lot more caffeine in order to put up with Bosco and his growing, insufferable happiness. The guy must be a regular pain when it came to any New York team.

"Can you stand quietly and watch the game or do I have to gag you?"

He grinned widely at her. "What, you're not enjoying this anymore?"

"I'd enjoy it a lot more if you'd stop hooting like a damn barn owl every time they get a hit."

"Come on. It's hard not to get excited. The Yankees are kickin' ass."

Deschaine sighed. "If you won't shut up for me, shut up for them," she said, gesturing at the irritated faces of the nearest fans. Several rows were unfortunately privy to Bosco's excited cheers and they didn't look too impressed by it. Intimidated, he gulped.

"Point taken."

"If you really want to be able to cheer to your heart's content, I can have one of the guys over on the third base line swap with you."

"Please do!" Somebody behind them yelled.

"I'll tone it down," Bosco said.

"I hope so!" Somebody else called.

"You do realise that the uniform won't protect you from angry Red Sox fans who get tired of your Yankees crap."

"Uh yeah. Thanks for pointing that out."

Turning toward the front row, she winked at the people closest to her. "I'm going to the ladies' room. You'll be okay here for a minute?"

The people who'd seen her quick grin chuckled at her partner's almost frightened expression. Deschaine said nothing as she headed for the stairs. Behind her, Bosco swallowed nervously, warily looking at the grinning fans.

"Um… good game, huh?"


She was trying to get him in trouble. At the end of every inning, she found some reason to leave him by himself in front of dozens of keyed-up Boston fans. The people sitting closest to the two cops had been given the unexpected benefit of hearing them go back and forth about who was the better team and he got the feeling that they weren't on his side. He scanned the rows of seats and thought maybe he should try a little bit harder to keep his voice down.

"Hungry?"

"A little."

Deschaine handed him a steaming hotdog. "I didn't know if you liked mustard and relish and all that crap on your hotdog, so I had them leave it plain. There's plenty of condiments back at the concession stand."

"Thanks. You don't like hotdogs?"

"Not really. I'm more partial to a plain old cheeseburger."

Bosco took a bite of the hotdog and smiled. "Good stuff! Can't beat a fresh ballpark-made hotdog."

"Nope. Every now and then I have one and they're always good." She agreed, taking a drink from her soda. "Did I miss anything?"

"No. I almost think they're at a standstill." He replied. "How did you manage to pay for all this? You've bought a hotdog, a soda, and at least four coffees. Food isn't cheap at these places."

She grinned. "I get a discount. Most of the concession stand people know me."

"For wearing a badge?"

"Frequent buyer miles. I'm here a lot."

"Good deal."

"And I worked at the grill for a couple summers way back when I was with Metro Transit," she added. "Just a little bit of extra money to supplement my salary."

"Very good deal."

"Yeah. I stopped after making the jump over to the street force. Only thing I miss is hanging out here during team practises. We were open for the players if they wanted anything before or after."

Bosco nodded approval. "Sounds like you had it pretty well under wraps."

"I guess so. What about you? What'd you do with your downtime back in New York?"

"Not much. I enjoyed it as a break, really. If there was a Yankees game or something on my day off I'd go catch it." He finished off the hotdog and crumpled up the paper container it had come in. "More often than not I'd watch some sports show on TV."

"Oh, man, you have gotta get out and live a little. You're comin' with us to New Hampshire in December. A weekend in the White Mountains will be good for you."

"Thanks, but skiing isn't my thing."

Deschaine shook her head, disbelieving. "Don't knock it if you haven't tried it."

"I don't want to try it. I'm not crazy about snow and cold, either."

"Suit yourself." She said simply, and Bosco turned his attention to the field. The score remained two-nothing in New York's favour. A grin worked its way onto his face. It was the start of the sixth inning. He'd be collecting his twenty dollars for sure.


Ty Davis dumped the contents of the popcorn bag into a plastic bowl and tossed the bag onto the counter when it was empty. The TV in the living room was turned onto the Yankees-Red Sox game. Carlos was planted firmly on the couch, his eyes glued to the screen as the Yankees trotted off the field after a relatively short half-inning. They were leading by two.

"Popcorn's up."

"Thanks," Carlos dipped his hand into the bowl as Davis set it down on the table.

"Score still the same?" He asked, dropping into the living room's single chair.

"Yup. It's gonna be another win."

Davis smiled. "Nice."

The camera panned over the crowd along the first base line, taking a brief look at the determinedly cheering Boston fans. A sports-caster was rambling on about statistics or something, but Davis suddenly leaned forward in the chair.

"Whoa, go back!"

"What?"

He pointed at the screen as the camera zoomed in on some guy with a red 'B' painted on his bare chest. "I think I recognised somebody."

"In that madhouse?" Carlos raised an eyebrow at his roommate. "Are you sure?"

"Kind of. I only saw him for a second."

"Well who was it?"

"It looked like Bosco." Davis frowned. "But it couldn't have been. The guy was in a Boston PD uniform."

"Bosco in Boston? Please! You're seeing things, Davis. Do you honestly think he'd be that desperate?"

"No… it probably wasn't really him," he said after a moment. "I bet he's halfway to California or something by now."

Carlos nodded, his attention already refocused. "Uh-huh. C'mon, Jeter!"

Davis studied the faces of the fans whenever the camera view was on the first base line. He could have sworn he'd seen Bosco standing along the edge of the stands. Maybe Carlos was right and he was seeing things. Why would Bosco choose Boston, of all places, anyway?


Her partner's elbow bumped her ribs. Deschaine looked at him, wondering what he wanted. There was a smirk on his face and he held up three fingers.

"Yeah, I know. They just scored again."

"It's in the bag, baby." He said. "And you said that Wakefield was good."

"Shut up."

"Look, they're bringing somebody out. Your pal Tim is done."

Deschaine peered into the outfield as the relief pitcher jogged toward the mound. "I wouldn't celebrate just yet. Pedro's coming in."

"Even better! You can just give me that twenty dollars now. I already know where we're gonna be eating tomorrow night."

"How about you wait until after the game's over before making plans. It's not done just yet."

Bosco rocked back on his heels, all but hopping delightedly. "Close enough. It's the eighth inning."

"There's still hope," she told him, checking her watch. "Crap. We're due for another walk-around. You take the left side this time."

"Got it."

She started up the steps leading to the top of the field-side stands. Most people were more or less behaving themselves. There were only a few who were straying a little too far toward rowdiness, but that was expected. As long as they didn't start getting really out of hand it wasn't worth addressing. On the next set of steps, her partner was looking over the people standing and sitting with a casualness that made her wary. Either that was a cover for actual close scrutiny, or he was more interested in listening to the announcer's comments over the PA system. Reaching the top of the steps, Deschaine paused a moment to scan the sections on either side of her. Nobody seemed to be really out of line. Just a lot of people watching their favourite team. She started back down.

A sudden, concerted boo burst out from the fans and she looked around sharply. The announcer's voice boomed over the loudspeakers, competing with the jeering fans for attention. Whoa, the Sox are back at bat? That was fast. She watched Trot Nixon lope toward first base, limping only slightly. Getting hit by a pitch couldn't be all that much fun. That brought Ortiz to the plate. Deschaine reached the bottom of the steps and headed left. A quick sweep of the concession area and she could be back at her post.

"Took you long enough."

"Somebody's gotta do the walk-around right," she answered. "Is Ortiz still up?"

"Full count."

There was a crack from down on the field and instantly everyone around them let out a unified roar. Nixon was sprinting for second as the hard-hit line drive bounced off the Green Monster. The Yankee centre fielder chased down the ball and gave it a good heave toward the infield. Nixon rounded third and lengthened his stride. Deschaine cheered and grabbed her partner in an impulsive hug, her momentum spinning them around. The air fairly crackled with excited cheers.

"It's just one run!" Bosco shouted over the din, pushing himself out of her grip.

"So what? We've had to listen to you go wild when they score!" She whistled but the sound was lost in the noise. "Can't take it, don't dish it out!"

"You're all damn crazy," he muttered, covering his ears.


Long lines of people inched toward the exits, disappointment and joy colouring the faces of different fans. Bosco stood next to his partner on the field itself, waiting for the after-game interviews to wrap up. As soon as the reporters got their fill and left, so could the cops. He wasn't in a big hurry though. With the three-to-one New York victory, he was content to bask in the disappointment of the other Boston officers. His team had won, he was twenty bucks richer, and his next two on-shift meals were free. What shouldn't he be happy about?

Deschaine stood quietly, her hands clasped behind her back, her expression studiously blank. After the myriad emotions that had been displayed on her face over the course of the night, he was a little uncomfortable with the mask of neutrality she was wearing. He could handle seeing someone happy or pissed as the mood took them, but not being able to see how a person was feeling put him on edge. If his partner was feeling as crappy as some of the other Boston fans must be, she wasn't showing it and that made him uneasy. Granted, they had only been paired up for a total of seven days, but he felt like they were still strangers to each other at times. One minute she was open and relaxed, the next, more tense than a violin string. What was wrong with people? Working with him couldn't be that nerve-wracking, could it? He did his best to get along with most everyone. It wasn't his fault if some people didn't like his attitude. No way was he going to change to please some no-account civilian who was mad because Bosco didn't kiss his ass. That crap wasn't for him.

So what was Deschaine's problem? She had been talkative enough before and during the game, but she hadn't said two words since they'd formed up near the now-closed concession stand. Nobody could be that moody. Maybe something was up that he didn't know about. These other cops would be far more likely to trust her than they would him and that was just fine. As long as nobody asked questions or mentioned his old job, he had no problems with them. His partner was another matter entirely. On a certain level, he had to trust her. It was part of the whole partner-thing. That didn't mean he'd start telling her his life story, but he would at least let her think he felt that comfortable with her. The dubious skill of deception he had learned during his tenure with Anti-Crime would come in real handy for that. He thought about how betrayed Faith had looked when she confronted him about the 'dying declaration', then pushed the memory out of his mind. It wasn't like he was doing that crap here. He was just letting his new partner think that he really trusted her when he knew that he couldn't trust anyone.

Yeah, that's great. You just go ahead and live a lie. Bosco scowled to himself. He was determined to guard himself against further hurt. Nobody was going to get close enough to find out the reasons for his presence in this city. It wasn't about right or wrong anymore. It was about survival.

"Hey, Bosco. We're heading out. Are you interested in a burger or something?"

Bosco thought about his determination to remain detached. How far would he go to maintain the illusion of trust? "Not tonight. I'm gonna catch some sleep for tomorrow."

"Okay. Let's go, then."

As he climbed into the back of the police van, he realised that it wasn't about how far he was willing to go, but about how much he was going to let this unsuspecting woman trust him before his deception was revealed. Was it worth the risk?

He glanced quickly at her profile in the poor lighting of the van's interior. It only took a moment to make up his mind. Right or wrong, the decision was made and he was going to see it through.

No matter what.


Author's Note: Last update for awhile, I'm afraid. I'll be taking the holidays off to work on more chapters and spend some time with the few friends who haven't taken off for other states. ;-) But don't worry, I'll be back in January with some new stuff for your reading pleasure.

Have a merry Christmas and a splendid New Year, and here's hoping that the Third Watch writers won't disappoint us when the season picks up again.

Cheers!

Lady Patriot