ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY, INCLUDING MY OWN CREATED FANON, CHARACTERS OR OTHER SPECIFIC DETAILS UNIQUE TO MY WORK IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION.

A PRAYER FOR THE SOUL

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sharp banging on my door startles me and I jerk my head up, glancing dazedly at the clock on my wall. Groggily, my mind fumbles around in my skull in fits and starts, and I try to remember how long I've been slumped here, sitting on the floor of my apartment, my legs tucked and cramped under me, my head resting on my forearms as I evidently snoozed rather ingloriously upon my coffee table. Late autumn sunshine peeks in around the edges of my drawn curtains. The pounding on the door starts up once more, matching the pounding in my head, and I try to disentangle myself from the uncomfortable position I've gotten myself locked into. My knees creak and groan as I haul myself slowly to my feet, trying vainly to work some circulation back into my legs which, mercifully, have not fallen asleep completely. My back is killing me and I have a crick in my neck that feels like a horse sat on me. I glance at the clock again and realize with a start that I've been asleep for at least five hours. That's something, I guess, in lieu of the last few nights of sleeplessness and nightmares I've endured. The sharp rapping starts again and with a heavy sigh, I holler, "Just a minute, I'm coming!" to whomever is on the other side of the door. I hobble over to it, limping on sore legs. Just as I reach the door to answer it, a key turns in the lock and the door opens, only to be stopped by the chain lock. The chain rattles sharply as it draws taut.

Jim Reed's face peers in at me through the little sliver the space between the door and the door jamb allows. "Let me in, Pete," he says in a low tone.

"I'm not in the mood for company right now, Jim," I tell him, my voice sounding raw and hoarse. "Go away." I try to push the door shut but Reed sticks his big foot in the way, stopping me.

"No, I'm not going away. Let me in, Pete," he says, a little sharper this time.

I peer back at him with a dour frown. "And if I don't?" I ask belligerently.

"I'll kick it, so help me God," he says softly, but menacingly enough to let me know he's completely serious. "I mean it, Pete. Let me in." He leans against the door hard, keeping me from shutting it.

"Are you alone?" I ask sharply. "Or is Jean or Mac with you?"

He rattles the door angrily, grabbing it by the knob and shaking it vigorously. "I'm alone, damn it. Now let me in!" The chain lock clicks and jangles, the links striking the wood.

"Can I at least go throw on a pair of sweatpants before you bust in here?" I growl.

"Two minutes, Pete. You have two minutes to go get a pair of sweatpants on. If you're not back in that time, I swear to freakin' GOD I will kick this door in!"

"What, you're going to time me?" I snap.

"Two minutes," he hisses. "And you'd better make it a fast two minutes, because you don't want me making a scene with your neighbors, do you? Somebody might call the cops, and then you'd have a LOT of explaining to do. Especially if it's someone you and I both know that responds out here." He points to his watch. "Two minutes, Malloy. Get moving."

"Oh, for God's sake," I say disgustedly as I slam the door shut on him, not even bothering to see if he's pulled his nose back in time to avoid getting it pinched. I head into the bedroom, snagging a pair of sweatpants off of the chair beside my bed. Hopping about and irritatedly cussing Reed out under my breath, I manage to get one leg into the sweatpants, then the other, without falling on my ass. I return to the door, where Reed has pushed it open once more. He points to his watch with a narrow-eyed glower. I shove the door shut once more in order to undo the chain lock. Then I yank it open, jerking Reed rather unceremoniously into the apartment. "What in the hell do you want?" I snap. "I'm trying to get some sleep!"

He slams the door shut hard behind him and fixes me with the nastiest glare he can muster with one eye still slightly swelled shut. "Where in the hell do you get off, telling me I was full of shit this morning?" he snarls, his arms folded across his chest. "And then telling all of us to go to hell?"

I fold my own arms across my chest and glare back. "You came over here and bothered me just to ask me a stupid question like that?" I snap. Anger prickles along the back of my neck.

"No, I was worried about you, Pete. We ALL are," he tells me venomously. "The least you could do is show some gratitude."

"Gratitude?" I ask. "Gratitude?" My voice rises in pitch, along with my ire. "You want gratitude, partner? I'll give you gratitude! There's the door, I'd be grateful if you don't let it hit you on your ass on the way out!" I gesture to the door for emphasis.

Reed pokes me sharply in the chest with his finger, leaning towards me. Dark thunderclouds storm his face. "You know what, Pete? Sometimes you can be a real asshole, you dig?"

Taking umbrage at being assaulted and insulted in my own apartment, I grab his finger and shove it away from me, slamming his hand back up against his chest, knocking him back a step. "Stop poking me or I'll drop you on your ass faster than you can blink, you dig?"

He snorts derisively. "Oh yeah, like you could really do that, old man," he says.

"Try me," I threaten warningly. "I'm in NO mood to be putting up with any crap right now, Reed. State your piece and then get out!" I point at the door once more.

"What in the hell has come over you?" he demands. "You've been acting like a complete jackass ever since this whole Walters incident started. Now either you tell me what's bugging you, or I take it to Mac and let HIM deal with you."

"Why?" I ask. "What's in it for you?"

He frowns, caught off-guard. "What do you mean?"

"Are you looking to satisfy your Scout Badge requirement?" I ask snidely, my tone just dripping with syrupy condescension. "Or maybe you're feeling a little bit on the saintly side, and think you're some sort of saving angel of grace, swooping in to save my soul from eternal damnation? Is that it?"

"No, that's not it at all, Pete..." he begins.

"Save it, Reed," I snap, interrupting him. His questioning presence in my apartment irks me to no end, and I move in to intimidate him, crowding his space with my body, much like I would a rowdy criminal in order to get them to comply with me. "I don't need saving from anyone, let alone some pious little goody two shoes like YOU!" I'm pleased to see my words hit home, as pain mixes with dismay, washing over his face in a conflict of emotions. "So now just get the hell out, okay?"

He stares at me, not even slightly intimidated by me. A muscle twitches in his jaw. "No, it's NOT okay, Pete! It's not okay at all! Something's driven you way too close to the brink, and either you stop it right here and right now, or Mac will stop it FOR you, by firing you!"

"Maybe that's what I need," I hiss through clenched teeth, my voice loaded with deadly rattlesnake venom. "A new job. Something that gets me away from a sorry-assed Boy Scout like you!"

He steps back from me a little bit, away from my harsh, biting words. "If you've got a problem with me, Malloy, tell it to me now," he snarls, his eyes narrowed and shooting fire. "I'll be sure and ask Mac for a new partner when I'm cleared to go back to work."

"Yeah, well, why don't you just do that," I snap. "I'm sick of you, Reed! You always have the right answer to everything, don't you?"

"No, not always," he says heatedly. He casts a glance down and spies the open whiskey bottle sitting on my coffee table. "Have you been drinking?" he asks sharply, pointing to the bottle with an accusing finger. "Are you DRUNK?"

"No, I'm not drunk, Reed! And so what if I have been drinking?" I challenge. "I'm allowed to do that in the privacy of my own home! What I do in my own damned time is MY business, not anyone else's!"

He stares at me with shock on his face. "Mac and Val both said that you drank pretty heavily after Baker's death, but I didn't believe them," he says softly. "I didn't WANT to believe them. Pete Malloy, a lush? It didn't wash with the man I know." He looks back at the bottle, shaking his head sadly, then he fixes his gaze once more on me. "But maybe they were right." He regards me with a mix of pity and slight disdain.

"Leave me alone!" I bark, my voice harsh and raspy. I hate the look in his eyes, I cannot stand it. How dare he look at me that way, with sickening pity written all over his face. "I sure as hell didn't ask you here, Reed, and you have the option of walking out that door and not looking back!" I'm angry at him for pointing out the obvious flaw in my character, and even angrier at myself for allowing my flaw to be so easily exposed and exploited.

He glances at the door, then back at me, jutting his chin out. "No," he says. "I'm not leaving." He folds his arms across his chest again and maintains a firmly defiant stance, daring me to act.

"Get out!" I growl menacingly. "Before I throw you out!" I give him a hard shove for good measure, causing him to stumble back a bit. "You don't wanna screw with me, Jim, or I'll pound the shit right out of you!"

"I'll take my chances," he says, gritty determination ringing in his voice. "Right now, I don't think you could hurt a fly, Malloy, let alone me."

"I said GET OUT, GODDAMNIT!" I yell, as a sudden hot rage swiftly overtakes me, flooding my emotions and sending them into an insensible overload. I can think of nothing else right now, other than striking the man who stands before me, sinking my fist into his face with mad joy. It matters little to me that Reed has already been injured by Stuart Walters, and that any physical attack by me might make things worse for him. No, I don't care about that at all, I want to see his face bloodied by my blow. My own lifeblood pounds and throbs heavily in my brain and a veil of crimson swirls before my eyes as I lunge at Jim Reed, drawing my right fist back to punch my best friend and partner. I swing at him, my eyes wild with anger, my blood thirsting for the shedding of his.

Startled, he quickly parries my lunge and swing, sidestepping me in a swift move, bringing his forearm up to block the blow and knocking me away, causing me to stumble forward. "What the hell, Pete?" he shouts at me, grabbing me by the left arm and forcing it behind my back, much as he would if he were arresting me. He leans heavily into me, trying to force me to my knees so he can gain control of me.

I writhe madly in his grip, my muscles alive with electric anger. I manage to break free, whipping around to face him. My rage makes me strong. I refuse to be bowed or driven down by the likes of him. I grab two fistfuls of his shirt in my hands and shake him hard. "I told you to get out of here," I rasp, my face just inches from his. "But you didn't listen, damn it!" Using my weight, I force him backwards, trying to knock him off-balance.

"What in the hell has gotten INTO you, Pete?" he shouts, and I look for quivering fear in his eyes, but see none, much to my dismay. He should be afraid of me, I think to myself as I shake him hard again, snapping his head back and forth with the violence of the rattling. I mean to pound the crap right out of him. "Let go of me, damn it!" he says. He brings his hands up, grappling with me, finally grabbing my wrists and breaking my tight grip on the front of his shirt. He shoves me back once more, this time hard enough to send me crashing into the wall with a thud.

I bounce off the wall and with a lion's roar, I use the impetus to propel myself towards him, rage singing and soaring mightily in my veins. I want to see him bloodied, whipped, cowed before me, begging and pleading for mercy. I want him humbled and on his knees. Right now, I hate the very sight of him. "Why in the hell don't you ever listen?" I growl. "You damned stupid fool!"

Warily, he steps backwards away from me as I advance on him, his eyes darting around, trying to gauge what I'm going to do next. I start to make another lunge for him when he suddenly brings his left hand up, palm open, delivering a sharp, stinging slap to my right cheek, breaking the handcuff scrape on my cheek wide open. "Pete, stop it!" he demands, his voice sharp. "You're acting crazy!"

Shocked, I raise my hand to where he hit me, the warm blood trickling down my cheek. My fingers touch the wetness…he struck me!...and fury ignites in me like a match to gasoline. My eyes meet his in a sheer blood lust. Insensibly, I know nothing right now, other than my thirst for blood and violence, as my anger stomps and rages inside of me, ricocheting crazily around in the recesses of my brain. "I'll give you crazy, you little rat bastard!" I shout, lunging wildly at him once more, intending to bring him down for good.

He sidesteps me deftly once more, using my forward motion to his advantage. Grabbing the back of my shirt, he slings me into the couch, where I crash headfirst among the cushions. Momentarily stunned and rattled, I shake myself free. "How dare you!" I rasp angrily. Coming to my feet, I advance on him once more, stalking him like he is my prey, the thrill of violence surging through me like molten lava. "You don't EVER raise a hand to me in MY house!" I snarl low, my fists balled up tightly, my eyes narrowed to mere slits. "Do you HEAR ME? I oughta kill you, you little sonofabitch!" My breath comes in heavy pants and sweat stings my eyes and the freshly opened handcuff scrape on my cheek. The taste of victory is like ashes in my mouth.

Reed backs away from me, his eyes wide as he watches my moves, hypnotized by the hissing cobra I've become. "Pete, please, listen to yourself! This isn't you! I don't know what's come over you, but this isn't you!" he pleads, his hands up in a gesture of supplication. Not watching where he's walking, he catches his foot on the edge of my bookcase and stumbles, falling hard against the wall, instinctively throwing his arms out to steady himself.

I'm on him in a lightning flash, moving in for the kill, pinning him tightly to the wall with my forearm, just like he's an insect on display in a glass case. I use my weight to keep him there. This is all I need to finish him off now. "How many times do I hafta do this in order to beat some respect into that goddamned thick skull of yours, you little snot-nosed punk?" I growl, pressing hard into his throat with my arm. "Do you like me to hit you? Do you enjoy it? Is that it? You push me and push me until I break, and then I hafta smack you in order to put you back in your place, you little bastard?" My voice is harsh and grating in my ears, and some small part of my brain shrieks to me that these aren't my words that I'm saying, they're someone else's…someone from my past. But my white-hot rage drowns that sensible little part out in a firestorm of anger. Nothing can or will stop me now from inflicting pain on the man standing mute prisoner before me.

Reed stares at me in open-mouthed shock, his eyes wide in horror. He doesn't struggle against me or even try to fight, he just stands there, his hands dropped to his sides. "Pete, listen to yourself! I don't know what in the hell you're doing, but this ISN'T YOU!" he pleads. "It's NOT you, Pete!"

"SHUT UP!" I scream at him. "JUST SHUT THE HELL UP!" My eyes narrow to slits once more as I regard him, my lip curled in a thin sneer of disgust. "You've always thought that you were better than me," I rasp hoarsely. It is someone else's voice growling those words, not mine. "Well, you're not! You never WILL be, and I'm gonna pound the shit right out of you until you realize that, kid!" With that, I draw my right fist back, preparing to deliver the striking blow I so desperately want to deal him.

"HIT ME!" he screams back at me then, the cords in his neck standing out sharply. He coughs slightly, from my arm pressing against his throat. "If that's what you want, then HIT ME! If it'll make you feel better, then do it, damn it, just DO IT!" His eyes meet mine in an angry, defiant glare, snapping fire at me. "Go on, Pete, hit me!" he snarls. "Hit me as hard as you can, Malloy, if it'll make any goddamned sense to you!"

Then I suddenly realize at the very last minute who I'm about to strike with my fist and I screech to a stop, as icy shock washes over me, bringing me fast to my senses. Oh man, that was my father's voice saying those words just now, not mine! Quickly loosening my grip on Jim Reed, I step back, completely and utterly horrified at myself. "Oh my god," I whisper, putting a hand over my mouth as my eyes go wide with shame and embarrassment. "Jim, I'm so sorry." I take another step back, catching myself on the edge of the recliner. I lean heavily against it, my legs weak and trembling. I channeled my old man and nearly lost control…I DID lose control…and because of it, I almost struck my friend. "I…I…I don't know what came over me," I stammer hoarsely, by way of uneasy explanation. I rub at the sweat on my forehead with my palm. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say."

Sidling carefully around me as if he's not sure whether or not I'm going to change my mind at the last minute and still hit him, he moves well out of my range. "What in the hell is wrong with you?" he asks, his voice low and shaky.

Closing my eyes, I shake my head. "I dunno, Jim. Something inside of me just snapped, I guess." Turning around, I fumble towards the recliner, sitting down in it with a hard thud. Automatically, I reach for the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table in front of me. Closing my fingers around it, I lift it to my mouth and take a swig. I take another swig, this one a little bit more sloppy than the first, and with a hiccup, I plunk the bottle back down on the table. I turn my eyes to Jim. "I'm truly sorry, Jim. I don't know what I was thinking." I hiccup again, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

He gapes at me in slack-jawed disbelief. "I know what you're thinking," he tells me sharply. "Or at least what you're thinking with." He gestures to the booze. "You're thinking with THAT, Pete. When the booze is in, the brains are out." With that, he grabs up the whiskey bottle in a single snatch and heads out to the kitchen.

I leap to my feet. "Give me that!" I shout at his retreating back. Dread shoots through me with chilly fingers as I realize what he's going to do. I race into the kitchen after him, chasing down my whiskey to save it from its horrible fate.

He's standing at the sink, the bottle tipped up over the drain, slowly pouring the whiskey out. He glances up at my entrance, then returns to dumping my precious liquor.

I knock his elbow up, stopping the flow of the booze down the drain. I grab for it. "Don't you dare dump that down the drain, Reed!" I hiss. "That's MINE! Not yours!" I make a desperate lunge for it as he holds it out of my reach like a taunting bully playing a cruel game of keep-away. "Damn it, give it back to me!" Desperation tinges my voice.

"Back off, Pete!" he warns sharply, using his elbows and arms to keep me away. He starts to tip the bottle upside down over the sink, preparing to dump the booze down the drain once more, right before my shocked eyes.

I make a final dart for it, only to be shoved back by him, hard, causing me to slam into the countertop. My hip and my side begin smarting from the sharp impact. "You don't understand," I whine, immediately hating the syrupy wheedling tone in my voice with a passion. Look at me, I've been reduced to whining, I think sickly to myself. Pete Malloy, begging for his booze...and the thought of not having it scares me very much. "I need that, Jim." I hold my hand out, wiggling my fingers. "Give it to me, please," I coax, forcing a tone of false nicety into my voice. Maybe if I ask for it pleasantly, he'll relent and turn it over to me.

He looks at me, kindness in his eyes. He holds the bottle before him, shaking the contents gently. "You don't need this, Pete, trust me. It'll only make things worse for you. What you do need is friends who care about you." He tilts the bottle up and the whiskey begins to glug merrily down the sink again. "And if you look, you'll find that you've got that already."

"I don't need friends," I hiss, horrified at witnessing my precious whiskey flow down the drain. "I need that!" The kindness in his eyes rather sickens me, and a pang of hatred for him pricks at me once more. Maybe I should have hit him when I had the chance, I think to myself. I don't like having people pity me, not one damned bit. Thoroughly disgusted with both him and myself, I turn away. "You don't know how much I need it," I mutter sourly. I rub at a worn spot on my linoleum with my big toe. "Especially now," I mumble, folding my arms across my chest and slouching forlornly against the kitchen countertop, projecting the very air of dejectedness. I sneak a peek out of the corner of my eye to see if Reed buys my sorrowful pose.

With a heavy sigh, he stops pouring the liquor down the drain, tilting the bottle back up and shoving it at me. Drops of whiskey slide down the side of the bottle. He looks at me with something resembling disgust. "Okay, fine. Here you go, Pete. Your bottle. Just like Jimmy when he was a baby and needed a bottle to soothe himself." He looks at me, his eyes narrowed. "Is that what you are? A baby in need of his bottle?" he asks derisively. He nods at the bottle. "Well, go ahead, Pete. Take a drink. I'm waiting."

"I need it to go to sleep on," I tell him sharply, clutching the bottle firmly in my fingers like it's the Hope Diamond. And to me, it is. "That's all! Nothing else!"

"And the next thing you know, you'll be needing it to get up in the morning, and then to get through the day, and then to put the demons to rest at night," he says. "It doesn't work that way, Pete. You begin to rely on it more and more. And I'm not going to stand by and watch you do that to yourself."

"No one's asking you to," I tell him angrily. "So leave." I jerk a thumb in the direction of the door.

"You just don't get it, do you?" he asks, cocking his head. "For someone as sharp as I thought you were, you certainly don't get it."

"What in the hell am I supposed to get?" I snap. "Let me know, because I must have missed the memo somewhere along the line."

He sighs heavily again, shaking his head. "Pete, if you don't know by now, I'm not sure there's hope for you." He stares at the floor for a moment, then he looks up at me, pinning me to the spot with a piercing gaze that I can't back away from. "This whole Stuart Walters incident has really rattled you, I know it. For the last two days, you've been talking utter nonsense about your soul going to hell, and how you're an ice-cold killer because you don't regret killing the bastard. And that's where you're wrong, Pete. About everything. You're not going to hell, you're not a cold-blooded killer."

"How the hell do you know what I've been going through?" I ask.

"Because I'm going through the same damned thing," he snaps back at me.

I narrow my eyes, glaring at him. "Then try to help yourself, Jim, and give up on me. It's not worth it. I'm not worth it." I gesture to the living room. "Get out while you can." Then, unbidden and seemingly with a mind of its own, the whiskey bottle finds its way up to my mouth and I defiantly take a swig, still glaring at him, gauging his reaction.

He stares at me, a thin sneer of distaste on his face. "You disgust me," he mutters. "You're no better than the lousy putrid drunks we haul in on a nightly basis. I never thought I'd see the day when Pete Malloy was brought down by his own damned demons." He shakes his head again, folding his arms across his chest. "It's sad. Seeing you lower yourself like this. I thought you had more dignity and class than that, Pete. But I guess appearances can be deceiving, huh?" Abruptly, he shoves past me to leave the kitchen. "I came over here thinking I could talk some sense into you, help you, and instead I find a drunken fool. You're right, Pete. You don't need friends. You don't deserve us, anyway. Let your booze be your pal from now on, Pete. It'll tell you exactly what you want to hear, all the sweet lies, all the pretty dreams, all the false fantasies. Live in the lure of the amber liquid, I'm sure it's a helluva lot easier than living in real life…like the rest of us have to do." He heads into the living room, moving towards the door to leave.

"Oh, look who's talking!" I snarl, following him out of the kitchen, the bottle still in my hand. The disappointment and disillusionment in his words makes me dislike him for voicing it. And I hate myself even more for what he just said being the god-awful truth. Stung and smarting, I lash out. "You've got the perfect life, pal! The pretty little wife who faithfully waits up for you until you come home, the adorable little boy that hero-worships you and who'll probably grow up to be just like you, the loving friends and family who'll come rushing to your aid whenever you need them," I tell him, the words spitting out of my mouth like a very bad taste.

"I don't understand what that's got to do with anything," he says defensively, turning around to look at me. "I've worked hard for what I've got, Pete, and you'd have the same things in life if you only asked for it."

"Oh, worked, that's really rich, " I say with sharp derision, shaking my head. "You don't know what it IS to work, Reed! You've had it easy all your life, your parents supported you in whatever you did. They gave you everything you ever wanted. They still do. You got to go to college on their dime, and then went into the police academy without any trouble at all. You didn't have to work for that, Reed, not like I did," I tell him, venom dripping from my voice. "You've got the charmed golden life, kid, while I have the tin one that tarnishes at the first whisper of rain." The words fall from my lips like the hiss of a snake.

"Oh, so now it's a pity party you're wanting?" he asks, that muscle twitching in his jaw again. "Well, sorry, pal, but you don't broke any sympathy from me. You've made your life exactly what it is, Pete, no one else has done it for you. You've made all the decisions for yourself. No one's held a damned gun to your head and told you that you shouldn't get married and have a family, you decided to do that yourself."

"I didn't decide to watch Howie Parker die," I tell him in a low growl. "I didn't decide to force that run-in with Steve Deal and Norm Landon. I didn't decide to roll the squad in Griffith Park that night."

"Those aren't decisions, Pete, those are twists of fate!" he snaps. "Tragedies, yes, but you get over them and MOVE ON, damn it! You don't spend your life diddling around and whining about what sad little fates life has served up to you! There are thousands of other people who have it a helluva lot WORSE than you do, Pete, and they don't soak up the booze and whine like you're doing right now! They get up, dust themselves off, and jump right back into life with both feet!" He takes a step towards me, his index finger jabbing the air. "So what if you killed Stuart Walters? Do you honestly think a lowlife scumbag like him is going to be MISSED? Not by society, I can tell you that much! And who gives a rat's ass if you don't regret it? Truth be known, I probably wouldn't either, if I'd been the one to pull the trigger on the asshole instead of you!" He advances another step, his blue eyes snapping and blazing with fury. "What in the hell has HAPPENED to you, Pete? The man I knew as Pete Malloy would SURE as hell not be holed up in his apartment, licking his wounds like some damned little sob sister, pissing and moaning about what sorry fates life has dealt him! The Pete Malloy I know would stand UP for himself, and not allow himself to get bogged down by booze and self-pity!"

I glare back at him, my own eyes blazing with fury. "Yeah, well, newsflash for ya, kid. I'm not the man you thought I was."

He sneers that thin-lipped sneer of disgust once more. "Obviously," he says quite acidly. "I came here looking for a hero and all I found was a joke."

The sudden sharp bitterness of his words wound me deeply and I blink. Reed's never spoken to me that way before, not even once in the five years I've known him. I draw myself up to my full height, mustering up what dignity I have left. "I'm sorry to have disappointed you," I tell him tightly. "Truly sorry."

"You know, it's not myself so much that I'm concerned about being disappointed," he says quietly, sorrowfully. "It's your godson, Jimmy. How the hell do you think he'd feel, knowing that his uncle Pete was a complete and utter sham, a fake? That the man he looks up to is nothing more than a worthless bum, a gutless coward afraid to face his own problems, so he turns to booze to help him through it. It sickens me and it saddens me, to see this of you." He meets me in the eyes. "I don't want you around Jimmy any more, Pete. Not at all. I don't want my son hurt by you. He's too young to understand why you're doing what you're doing to yourself. And I'm not about to explain it to him, when I can't even explain it to myself." He shakes his head, turning around to start towards the door once more.

I stare at him, completely stunned. Not able to see little Jimmy anymore? The little boy who is as dear to me as if he were my own son? NO! "You would really do that to me?" I ask in a hoarse whisper. "You would really ban me from seeing Jimmy for good?"

He stops, turning around to look at me, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. "What do you think, Pete? That I'm going to allow some lousy boozehound near what's most precious to me, my wife and my son? I'm just sorry now that we even asked you to be Jimmy's godfather. Looks like we made a bad choice. We bet on the wrong horse."

I take a step towards him, fear and desperation ringing stridently in my voice. "Jim, no! You didn't bet on the wrong horse. You didn't make the wrong choice, I swear! I love that kid like he were my own, and you KNOW I would never do anything to harm him, not at all! Please don't do this to me, please don't ban me from seeing him! I'll do whatever it takes to show you that I'm not lying!" I hold up the bottle of whiskey. "If you want me to go dump it right now, I'll do that! Whatever you want, whatever you need for me to do to show you that I'm sincere, tell me, and I'll do it, I promise!" My voice is frantic with pleading. "You would take away someone I care very deeply about, Jim. Don't do that to me, please, I beg you!"

"Why?" he asks tiredly. "You've already taken away someone I care deeply about, Pete…you. You've allowed this…this stranger to step into Pete Malloy's shoes, a stranger that I find I despise and loathe the very sight of. You obviously aren't willing to try to help yourself out of this, Pete, and I'm not going to work myself to death trying to help you myself. I thought there was an outside chance, a glimmer of hope in the darkness, but I was wrong. Dead wrong. That glimmer of hope was nothing more than a trick of the light cast out by the joke of the man that you have become. I'm sorry, Pete, but I've got my own troubles to worry about, without taking on yours, too." He looks away from me then, casting his gaze down at the floor. "I'm going to ask Mac for a new partner and a switch to a different shift when I get off medical leave, Pete," he tells me softly. "I don't want to be your partner any more, nor do I want to be on the same shift as you. And I think I'll put in for a transfer out of the division as soon as I can get one. I may land in a division quite a-ways away from my home, but I don't care, if it means I'll no longer be forced to work in the same division as you." He rubs his forehead. "I'm going to personally suggest to Mac that he have you removed from duty pending a psychiatric evaluation. I think Mac was thinking along those lines himself, anyway, and a suggestion from me might make him decide to go that route."

"No psych evaluation!" I snap. "I'm not crazy, Jim! I don't need a shrink!"

"No, I honestly don't know what you need, Pete, and I don't think you know yourself, either. Maybe some counselling will help you sort it out, since I sure as hell can't. And you certainly can't go on like this, drinking yourself out of your misery all the time." He looks up at me then, his eyes filled with sorrow. "We were friends, Pete, and friends help each other out when times get tough. I seriously thought I could help you, but I can't. So I'm getting out of it. I wash my hands of this whole sordid mess you've created. You're on your own, Pete, from now on."

"But we're still friends!" I cry out. Jim Reed hesitates, a frown on his face, and stark fear shoots through me; icy, chilly fear. "Jim, we're still friends!" I remember having a conversation like this of my own, with a man named Tony Johnson, who ended up betraying the bonds of friendship between us in the most dastardly way. Shaking, I stare at Jim Reed. "We're still friends…aren't we?" I hoarse out.

He shakes his head wearily. "No, Pete, you burned those bridges just a bit ago, when you chose the whiskey over our friendship. You burned them good, down to mere ashes at the waterline. Now there's nothing left, nothing at all. Just the memory of what once was. I used to respect and admire you, Pete, but now…now all I feel is sorrow. You took a good friendship and drowned it in booze. You shredded the ties of friendship like they were nothing more than confetti to you. And I find that I cannot forgive you that, just like you can never forgive Johnson for what he did to you. It's too damned hard, and it's just not worth it, not now, anyway." He nods at the bottle still in my hand. "Good night, Pete, have fun with your bottle. It'll have to keep you company, since it's your friend from now on."

"But what am I supposed to do?" I ask, fear running fast through my veins.

He studies me for a moment, then a mirthless and cold smile quirks across his lips. "To paraphrase Rhett Butler, 'frankly, Pete, I don't give a damn'." He turns away from me then, starting toward the door once more to leave me for the final time.

And at the thought of him turning his back on me forever, denying me not only the gift of our friendship, but also the love and joy of my little godson, something…something seizes up around my heart, squeezing it so tightly I gasp out loud from the sheer bright pain of it. How could I have let this happen…how could I have let it get this bad, this out of hand? my brain asks numbly. My fingers let the whiskey bottle slip from them, where it lands on the carpet with a muffled thunk. White-hot anguish sears my soul like a welder's torch and I moan, swaying on my feet, dropping my head into my trembling hands. "Oh my god," I whisper, nearly to myself. "I almost killed myself this morning. Now I wish I had." The words flee out into the open between us like startled deer, and a twinge of anxiety hits me, as I look up to see what Jim's reaction will be to my shocking announcement.

Reed's spine stiffens, his hand on the doorknob, and he stops. He doesn't turn around to look at me, but says, "What did you just say?" in a low tone.

"You heard me. I almost killed myself this morning," I tell him quietly, my voice shaking. "I put my off-duty weapon to my temple and nearly pulled the trigger. Maybe I shoulda, then that would've ended it all right there. "

His shoulders sag heavily, and he lets out a deep sigh. He still won't turn around, but his hand drops away from the knob, falling lifelessly by his side. "And what do you want me to do, Pete? Shout for joy that you didn't?" he asks dully, tonelessly. "Be glad that you somehow managed not to pull the trigger on yourself? Should I be grateful you decided at the last minute to not commit suicide, is that it?"

I stare at his back, rather disturbed by his lack of emotions. Such an announcement should bring out something…rage, sorrow, shock...anything other than this cold, stony pose of his. "I…I…I just thought I'd let you know," I stammer, suddenly rather embarrassed that I admitted such a dark dirty secret to him. Secrets like that aren't meant to be blurted out, they're meant to be kept behind locked doors chained shut with padlocks.

He rests his head against the door, his back still to me. He shrugs listlessly. "Why?" he asks softly. "So I can have that happy little thought dancing among my other happy little thoughts tonight when I go to bed?" He puts his palms against the door, leaning his weight heavily against it. "Why tell me that, Pete? Do you want to add to my suffering already? Isn't what you've put me through tonight enough?"

Sudden anger lashes through me sharply at that comment, like a spray of sand across a sunburn. "Well, hell no. I'll relieve you of your suffering, Reed. You won't have to worry about me anymore, I can promise you that," I snap.

"GODDAMNIT!" he yells, sharply hitting my door with his fist, startling me, making me jump. The door rattles in the frame and he hits it again, as hard as he can. "GODDAMNIT, PETE, THIS ISN'T RIGHT!" He whips around and advances on me quickly with a swift-footed fury I've never seen in him before, a fury that makes me cringe back from him a bit. "How DARE you dump this onto me now! I came over here trying to help you, and all I hear is your whining and complaining…and now this! This is just great, you know that? My best friend is MORE willing to take the coward's way out of his misery, rather than try to solve it!"

"Yeah, well it takes a helluva lot more than pretty words and friendship to solve my misery!" I shout back.

"How the hell would you know?" he yells, poking me in the chest once more. "You've never even tried to open up to me, or anyone else, for that matter! All you'd rather do is mewslop around, feeling sorry for yourself and pounding down the booze! Well, it doesn't work that way, Pete! Either you get it together and go on with your life, or you stay miserable and pathetic until you die!"

"Maybe my death will be sooner than you think!" I yell at him.

"You wanna kill yourself, Pete?" he asks with a hiss, his face inches from mine. That muscle in his jaw begins twitching again. "You really wanna kill yourself and get it all over with? You think that's gonna solve your problems?"

"Yeah, maybe!" I snap.

"Fine!" He reaches to the holster at his side that holds his off-duty weapon, sliding the gun out. He thrusts it at me with a vengeance. "Here," he snarls. "Take it!"

I stare at him in shocked horror, surprised that he would even do such a thing as offer me his own gun to kill myself with. "I don't want it," I say, as ice water floods my veins, drowning out the anger I just felt a moment ago.

He shoves it at me again, his eyes narrowed to slits. "Take it, you lousy coward!" he rasps, sweat streaming down his face. "Man up and stick the barrel to your temple or in your mouth and pull the damned trigger! Take the easy way out! Show the world just what kind of man Pete Malloy is!"

I step away from him, shoving my hands at him. "I said I don't want it," I tell him sharply. " Now stop it!"

"Why not?" he asks heatedly. "You were ready to do it this morning, so what's the damned difference? Or do you want an audience to your death, is that it? You need to have someone witness your dying by your own hand for some obscene reason, Pete?"

"It's not like that at all!" I snarl.

"Then what IS it like, Pete, tell me! Because I sure as hell don't get it, not at all!" he snarls back. "You make me sick!" he growls. "Sick at heart, sick at mind, sick at my goddamned soul!" He grabs my hand, trying to force me into taking the gun into my fingers. He fails.

I move away from him once more, clenching my fists by my side. "Will you STOP IT!" I tell him. "I don't want the gun! I'm not going to take it, Jim!"

He ignores me. "Here, you want me to take the safety off for you?" he asks, slipping the safety off. He thrusts it at me again, fairly shaking with anger. "I said take the goddamned gun, Pete. Kill yourself, little man. Then you WILL be no better than Stuart Walters, you WILL be a cold-blooded killer. And the two of you can visit each other in hell!"

"STOP IT, JIM!" I yell. "JUST STOP IT! I'm not going to take the goddamned gun!"

He sneers at me again, that awful sneer of disgust, and I find myself being forced to look away from him in shame. "You know what?" he asks in a low tone. He doesn't wait for me to answer, instead, he continues, his voice vibrating with anger. "I'm just really damned glad Jimmy is young enough to hopefully forget you, Pete, to forget that you even existed in his life. I don't want my kid growing up with the tainted knowledge that his uncle couldn't face up to his problems and took the coward's way out. I can't bear to force that upon him, Pete." He holds the gun out to me, butt-first, the barrel gripped between his fingers and aimed down at the floor. "But go ahead, Pete. Be my guest. Take the gun and finish yourself off. I won't stop you, but I also won't watch you, either. I don't want that to be my last memory of you. So please, do me a favor and wait until I leave your apartment, okay? I'll go down and sit in the car until I hear the gunshot, then I'll come back up and call for the cops." He shakes his head. "And I'm not coming to your funeral, Pete. I can't grant you that one last favor, even out of respect for what used to be our friendship. I just won't do it. I refuse to. I won't honor a coward, not at all." He thrusts the gun at me one more time. "Take it, Pete," he says, looking away. "Just take it from me and get it all over with, okay? If that's what you really and truly want, to end your own life, then just do it."

"No!" I whisper. "I won't!" And suddenly my knees give way without warning underneath me and I crumple with a hard thud to the floor in a rather untidy heap of Pete Malloy. An uncontrollable trembling seizes me then, and I lay there on the carpet, violently shaking and jittering like a junkie desperately in need of a fix. My head pounds out a kettle drum beat and my stomach rolls acidly. Blackness swirls and skitters in front of my eyes, and I feel like I'm going to pass out, just like I did earlier during the review board. Drawing my breath in through my nose and swallowing hard, I will myself not to vomit or faint in front of Jim Reed. I keep my eyes fixed firmly on the carpet in front of me. I do not wish to look up and see his face, for fear of what I might see there…disgust and dislike, mixed with obvious pity. All of the fierce anger and hatred I've felt over the past couple of days leaves me in a flooding rush, like muddied water pouring over a dam. And I am finally humbled at last, lying there on the floor at the feet of my partner and best friend, my abject humility and dire shame washing through me in waves of tortuous pain.

"Pete, get up," Jim says quietly. He slips the safety back on, then slides the gun back into his holster.

I shake my head mutely. "No. Please, Jim, just leave," I whisper miserably. My teeth begin to chatter as an icy chill races through me, cutting through my very core.

"Pete, get up," he says again, his voice still soft.

I close my eyes tightly, turning my face away. "P-p-please, j-j-just l-l-leave me b-b-be," I chatter frantically, teeth clicking like skeleton bones tap-dancing across a floor.

"Do you want me to call Mac…or maybe Val?" he asks.

I shake my head. "No," I groan. "Not Mac or Val. I don't want you to call them. I'd be stripped of my badge for sure if they saw me like this right now."

He kneels down next to me, his hand on my shoulder. "Pete, get up, please," he says, his voice gentle.

"Why?" I moan, my eyes still closed. "I'm already in the gutter. I'm as low as I can sink. I deserve to stay on the floor. It's the best place for a lowlife like me." The chill hits me again and I shudder and shake violently once more.

"You're not in the gutter, Pete," Jim tells me, his hand still on my shoulder. "You're not a lowlife, if that's what you're thinking."

"I don't know what I'm thinking anymore," I whisper. "I honestly don't know, Jim. And that scares me. It truly scares me."

"I know it does, Pete. It scares me too," he says. "If I try to help you up, do you think you can make it over to the recliner?" he asks.

"I'll try," I say. "But don't reinjure yourself helping me. I couldn't bear it if that happened, I just couldn't."

"C'mon," he says, standing up and tugging gently on my arms. "I won't reinjure myself, I promise. I didn't get hurt by our scrap just a bit ago, so I'll be fine, trust me."

Shakily, and with Reed's help, I manage to get to my feet and wobble weakly over to the recliner. I feel as if I've been run through a super-wringer and hung up to dry in a soggy, humid wind. I sit down in the recliner with a plop, and Jim pulls off his jacket, tossing it on the couch. He sits down on the coffee table across from me, his hand still on my shoulder in a gesture of comfort.

"So, talk to me," he says.

Mutely, I shake my head, as a myriad of thoughts whirl through my brain. My trembling begins to lessen as I draw in a few deep breaths to calm myself. "I…I don't know where to begin," I say, finally finding my voice.

"Start wherever you'd like. Wherever is easiest for you, Pete," he tells me, giving my shoulder a slight squeeze of reassurance.

I close my eyes. "Could you please not touch me right now?" I ask, sheer misery edging my voice. "I can't bear to be touched. I don't deserve it."

Reed lets his hand drop away. "Okay, I can understand that."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Do me a favor, willya?" I ask. " Go into the bathroom and in my medicine cabinet is a bottle of aspirin. Get me a couple, okay? Then in my bedroom, on the nightstand, is a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Grab them for me, would you please?"

He frowns. "You started smoking again?" he asks with dismay.

I look at him with pleading eyes. "Just get them, okay? I really need one now, not to mention the aspirin."

"Boy, you're pulling in all the vices here, aren't you, Pete?" he asks, but his tone is laced with humor. "What's next? Dancing girls in your living room?" He gets up and goes into the bedroom, stopping momentarily on his way to pick up the fallen bottle of whiskey and setting it back on the coffee table.

"I doubt I'd be great company for even a dancing girl tonight," I say, my usual customary humor failing to find me right now.

After a few moments, he returns with the pack of cigarettes and the gold Zippo lighter, the ashtray from the nightstand in his hand, along with a dampened washcloth. He sets the cigarettes, the lighter, and the ashtray on the table in front of me. He hands me the two aspirin and the washcloth. "I'll go get you a glass of water to wash those down with," he tells me. "While I'm doing that, you might want to wash the blood off of your face, Pete." He bites his lip. "I'm sorry I had to slap you like that, but I didn't know what else to do. I was hoping I'd bring you to your senses." He leaves then, and I hear him rummaging in the kitchen for a moment, banging both cupboard doors and the refrigerator door, then he returns, a tumbler of pale liquid in his hands, along with a package of saltines. "Here," he says, handing me the glass. "It's ginger ale. I found some in your fridge." He opens the package of crackers. "Eat these before you take the aspirin, you don't want to upset your stomach."

I eye the crackers warily, rubbing at the handcuff scrape on my face gently with the warm washcloth. "I'm not hungry, Jim. I don't know if my stomach can handle food right now." The cloth feels soothing to my aching cheek, and I rest my head against my palm, cradling that side of my face gingerly. "Thanks, though," I say. "Maybe I'll try eating some later. But not now."

"Pete, you have to eat something," he says. "Just try a couple, see if they stay down. It always helps Jimmy when he's got an upset stomach, so I'm sure it'll help you."

Grudgingly, I take a cracker and nibble on it, realizing that if I don't, Jim Reed will stand over me like a hawk until I do. It stays down, so I take one more and eat it, swallowing the aspirin with a gulp of the ginger ale. "Is that good enough?" I ask, looking up at Jim, who is still towering over me.

He sighs, shaking his head. "No, but try to keep eating them, okay, Pete? I don't imagine you've had a lot in your stomach over the last few days. You don't want to crash and have to be hospitalized because you're malnourished and dehydrated, do you?"

"No," I tell him, grabbing up another cracker quickly. The idea of being stuck in a hospital does NOT appeal to me in the least.

Reed sits down on the couch. "You said you DIDN'T want dancing girls, Pete?" he asks a bit wryly. "What are you, sick? I never knew Pete Malloy to turn down dancing girls, even if he were on his deathbed."

I shake my head. "Let's not mention death just now, okay?"I ask him. "Especially mine." Laying the package of crackers and the glass of ginger ale on the coffee table, I grab up the smokes. I tap a cigarette out of the pack and light it, my thumb trembling across the wheel of the lighter. It takes me a couple of tries to get the cigarette lit. Finally, I do, and I blow a stream of smoke up towards the ceiling. "Thanks, Jim, for grabbing these for me," I tell him, keeping my eyes from meeting his. "I appreciate it." I lay the cigarettes and the lighter back on the coffee table.

He picks up the lighter and studies it. "Pretty engraving," he says, examining my name written in the script. He runs his finger over the letters spelling out my name, then he puts it back on the table. "Was it a gift?"

I nod. "Yep. A Christmas present."

"From who?"

I shrug. "A girl. Someone I once knew a long time ago, back in Seattle."

He grins. "She musta thought a lot of you, Pete, to give you such an expensive present like that."

"Yeah, you'd think," I tell him, tapping ash into the ashtray. "Unfortunately, it turned out not to be the case." I glance at him. "Are you sure I didn't injure you when I went after you?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "No, Pete, I promise. You didn't hurt me."

"Good," I say, taking a drag on the cigarette. "I'd hate myself if I hurt you, Jim." I cast my gaze up at the ceiling.

"You mean physically or emotionally?" he asks softly. "The words sting harsher than the blows, you know."

"I know." I shake my head, closing my eyes for a moment. "Believe me, I know." I shoot him another glance. "I can't apologize enough to you for what I said and how I acted. I had no right, no right at all, to lash out at you like that, both physically and verbally." I rub at my cheek once more with the washcloth, then I lay it on the floor.

Reed shrugs. "Forget it, Pete. I've already forgiven you and have moved on."

"That fast?" I ask, surprised.

He nods. "That fast. Because I know it wasn't you talking like that, it was someone else. A stranger. Not Pete Malloy." He leans back on the couch. "So you were going to talk to me…weren't you?"

I keep my eyes on the coffee table in front of me. "I'm trying to figure out where to start and how to start," I tell him, watching the smoke from my cigarette drift past my face.

"Why not start with the truth?" he asks. "That's the easiest place to begin, I would think."

I snort. "Yeah, the truth." I take final drag on the cigarette and then stub it out in the ashtray, blowing the smoke up towards the ceiling once more. Leaning forward, I set the ashtray on the coffee table. "The truth is, I haven't been honest with you…with anyone, for that matter." I rub my forehead. "But most of all, I haven't been honest with myself. And that's what really galls me."

"What, are you going to tell me you're a secret axe murderer or something?" he asks with a small chuckle.

"No, worse," I tell him softly. "The man you see before you is a fake, a sham, a façade," I say, bitterness edging my voice. "Made up of brick and cast-iron walls mortared together with cellophane and chewing gum."

"Seems to me the man I see before me is my friend. And he's in trouble right now, and I'd like to help him if I can," Jim says gently. "So that he can get back to being Pete Malloy again."

"I don't know if that's even possible anymore, Jim," I tell him. "I think that the Pete Malloy that existed just a few days ago is dead and buried. Someone else has taken his place. Someone I hate viciously with a deep, deep loathing."

"Pete, I don't think that the events of the last few days have changed you all that much," Jim says. "I have a feeling you're magnifying the things that have happened, blowing them WAY out of proportion. And if you try to put them behind you, you'll return to the same person you were before any of this took place. I have my faith in that, Pete, I have my faith in YOU."

"Do you?" I ask, my voice still bitter. "Trust me, Jim, you shouldn't. Not at all. And when you hear what I'm going to tell you, you'll change your mind about me, damned fast. You'll hate me as much as I hate myself, Jim."

He studies me with a small frown. "Pete, I don't think I could hate you, not at all. Hatred is a strong emotion earned over time by untold anger and unshed sorrow. You've done nothing at all to make me even slightly dislike you, let alone hate you."

"You were ready to hate me just a bit ago," I remind him.

"No, that wasn't hate, Pete. It was profound disappointment and sorrow over what you are doing to yourself. And even if I'd walked out that door, without ever looking back, I still wouldn't hate you. I'd probably not LIKE you, no, but I wouldn't hate you. I couldn't do that to you, Pete. We've had too many good times together for me to just give over to hate that easily. Too much water under the bridge, you know? Too many shared experiences in the past five years we've been friends and partners."

"Maybe," I tell him warily. "When you hear what I have to say, you'll probably be changing your tune and fast. And not that I blame you, either." I bite my lip, as thoughts shimmy and swirl rapidly through my mind.

"I think you're reading false lines into the future, Pete," he says. "Tell me what it is that's bothering you so much. Maybe I can help in some way, even if it's just to listen. I promise I won't judge you or condemn you, or spit in your face with whatever you say to me. And I can assure you that I won't hate you, I swear. Confession is good for the soul, you know."

Drawing in a deep, uneven breath, I scrub my face wearily with my hands. "How well do you know me, Jim?" I ask, still not looking at him. I'm not ready to do that just yet.

"Pretty well, I guess," he says with a nonchalant shrug.

I shake my head mutely. "No, how WELL do you know me, Jim?" I ask, desperation creeping into my voice. "How well do you know what's in my heart, my mind…my soul?"

"I know that you're a good man, Pete," he says. "If that's what you're asking me. You're one of the most intelligent and thoughtful men I know, not to mention kind and considerate. You've got a lot of integrity. You're honest and trustworthy, you stand up for what you believe in, for what you believe is right. You've got the courage and bravery of a lion. You're one of the finest cops I know."

"You don't understand," I rasp. "How well do you know what's in my soul?"

He hesitates. "Your soul is your own lookout, Pete, not mine," he says gently. "But it doesn't take a genius to see that something is deeply troubling you and I'd like to help you if I can."

I study my hands in front of me. I heave a heavy sigh. "What I'm about to tell you does not leave this room, do you understand me?" I ask. "You tell no one. Not Mac, not Val, not anyone else at work. And especially not Jean, am I clear? NO ONE is to know what I'm going to tell you, got it?"

"Sure, Pete, but I don't understand what this is…" he begins.

"Promise me!" I bark at him.

"I promise," he says solemnly. "Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye. I swear on my mother's grave that I will not tell anyone." He grins a little at me. "That cover all the bases, or do I need to also give you the Scout's honor?"

I give him a mirthless smile. "That's covered it," I tell him. My gaze settles on the whiskey bottle in front of me, and I pick it up. I catch Jim's dismayed expression. "Don't worry, I'm not going to drink any more of it," I say, grabbing the cap up and twisting it back onto the bottle. "Much as I'd like to." I start to pick at the paper label glued on the clear glass as I begin my story to Jim Reed. "I was only a kid when my dad went to war overseas, in Germany," I tell him. "He was always a very happy-go-lucky sort of fellow, deeply in love with my mother. They used to go dancing every Friday night. He'd take me to the movies on Saturdays when he didn't have to work, and we'd go to church every Sunday, the three of us, the happy little Malloy family together. He taught me about baseball, football, and fishing, and when he wasn't too tired from his job, we'd play catch in the backyard. He was the kind of guy a kid would be proud to call his dad. I loved him very much, and I knew that he loved me. It made us feel safe, secure, my mom and I. I pretty much hero-worshipped him, you know?"

"Yeah, I think every kid hero-worships his dad, Pete," Jim says. "I did mine."

"When he came back from the war, he'd changed. His unit had seen a lot of heavy action over there, sustained a lot of casualties. They were also one of the units that liberated Buchenwald. What he saw over there, what he experienced…well, it did something to him, to his mind. He'd left us a very carefree and gentle soul, and came back a bitter, angry man, lashing out viciously at whatever he could find." I peel a bit of the paper off and drop it into the ashtray. I'm quiet as I study the whiskey in the bottle. "He took to drinking, something he had not done very much of prior to the war. Oh sure, he'd have beer or mixed drinks once in a while, but nothing too hard and never to the point of drunkenness. When he came back, he couldn't get enough of the stuff, hitting the sauce pretty heavy. And when he drank, he got mean. Really mean. He developed a hair-trigger temper and my mom and I soon found out that anything could set him off…a look, a wrong word, an implied tone of voice. We tried to stay the hell out of his way, but it didn't matter. He'd find us, one or the other, and…" I pause, gathering my emotions and keeping them tightly in check. It won't do for me to show any kind of weakness in front of Jim Reed, he might despise me for it. I run a shaking hand through my hair.

"Go on, Pete, I'm listening," Jim says gently.

I take in a deep breath and let it out with a puff of my cheeks. "This is hard to tell you, you know?" I ask. "It's really difficult to admit to MYSELF what my childhood was like, let alone to someone else."

"I'm not going to judge you, Pete, if that's what you're afraid of. I already told you that."

"No, it's not that…well, maybe it is a little bit," I say somewhat hesitantly. "I've just kept it locked away inside of me for so long, I don't know how to let it out in the open." I'm quiet for a while, pondering exactly how I wish to reveal to Jim Reed what used to happen to me as a kid, on a near-daily basis. I don't wish to seem like I'm asking for his pity or his sorrow for me, I merely want him to know what it was like for me. Reflexively, I rub the scar under my chin with my thumb, deciding to just let the words go where they may. "He used to beat the crap out of us, Jim," I tell him dully. "He used to call us horrendous names. He seemed to delight in his meanness, enjoying every slap, every punch, every stinging, bitter word. He hit my mom so hard one night that he knocked her unconscious. He left her lying there on the kitchen floor while he went to soak up more booze at the tavern. I was there when it happened. I was frantic, not knowing what to do. I got some ice out of the freezer and put it to her head until she finally came to. I helped her up to the bedroom. I wanted to call the police, but she wouldn't let me. She said it was family business, and it had to stay in the family. I was never to tell anyone what my father did to us. She made me promise." I cough, clear my throat, gathering my thoughts as the memory of that horrible night washes over me like a tidal wave. I repress a shudder and venture on. "I swore that night I was going to confront him, make him stop hitting my mom and I. He was never going to hit us again, I thought, with all my twelve-year-old heart and bravado. I waited up for him, waiting in the dark until he came staggering home from the tavern, whiskey on his breath, his eyes bleary and bloodshot, looking all the world like something a cat puked up." I laugh bitterly. "I made my stand quite valiantly, confronting him on our enclosed porch so that I wouldn't disturb my mother. He stood there laughing at me, as I rained hell and verbal daggers on him. He thought it was pretty funny, a twelve-year-old snot nosed kid standing up to the likes of him, Timothy Malloy. Until my words hit home, that is." I close my eyes, the shudder I tried to repress running through me with a shaking violence. "I called him a lousy, worthless, stinking drunk who didn't deserve my mother or I, and I wished that he'd die. I told him that, to his laughing face. I wished that he would die. And truly I did. Something snapped in his emotions then, and he hit me, hard, with the flat of his palm, sending me crashing into the deep freezer we had on the porch. I caught my chin on the sharp edge and sliced it open. He kicked me when I landed on the floor."

I stop, shaking my head, biting my lip, my eyes still closed. My voice drops to a mere whisper and Jim is forced to lean forward in order to hear me. "Then he spit on me, Jim. My own father spit on me. Called me nothing but a bastard, an evil little sonofabitch. Said he wished I'd never been born in the first place, that I was the reason he drank. If I was any kind of son he could be proud of, that he could consider his pride and joy, a chip off the old block, he wouldn't be forced to drink. But since I wasn't, since I wasn't what he'd thought a son should be, he hit the booze to ease the pain I caused him. Then he left me there, lying out on that porch. My mother had heard the commotion and came down. She saw what had happened and called the doctor to come out and stitch up my chin. It took ten stitches to close it. My mom explained to the doctor that I'd been playing out on the porch and had lost my balance, falling into the deep freeze by accident. The doctor bought it, and after he left, my mom asked me why I didn't cry while he was stitching me up. I told her I couldn't. While I was lying in a bloodied heap out on that porch, I'd made myself a solemn vow: my dad was never EVER going to make me cry again, no matter what he did to me. He could hit me, he could kick me, he could whip me with his belt. He could call me the vilest names he could think of, he could spit on me, but I was not going to ever let him make me cry again. And I kept my word. He didn't." I tilt my head back, pointing to my chin. "I still have the scar he left me."

Reed is staring at me in wide-eyed shock. "Jesus, Pete, why didn't your mother leave him and take you with her?" he asks softly.

"She was always faithful to her wedding vows, no matter how much he hurt her. She was a staunch Catholic, so she was afraid of eternal damnation if she filed for divorce." I snort, shaking my head with derision. "It's funny, you know. She kept praying and praying to all the damned saints that he'd change, that he'd quit drinking and return to the man he once was. She never gave up that hope. And a fat lot of good the power of prayer did her. He never changed." I look at Jim then, meeting him in the eye. I look for pity there, and see none, which makes me grateful. "And me? Well, I used to go and pray to all the damned saints that he'd die. That some horrific accident would take his life and then we'd be free from him, from his brutal abuse. And not a single one of my prayers was ever answered, either. The bastard is still alive, still married to my mom. How awful is that? That a kid would wish and pray for his own father's death."

"I don't think that it's awful, Pete," Jim says. "I can understand it. I'm sure God does, too."

I frown. "Does He, Jim? The Ten Commandments exhort us to honor thy mother and father. What kind of filial piety is that, praying that your old man would croak?"

"I don't think God is going to hold that against you, Pete, if that's what you're worried about," he says. "Didn't your mom try to turn to someone in the church for help? Someone besides the saints?"

"If she did, I never knew about it. Besides, I'm sure that even if she DID tell the good Father Louviere what was going on in our family, he'd have told her it was our fault that we angered my father, and that we must take whatever punishment he'd mete out. It was the husband's prerogative, you know, to discipline his wife and child as he saw fit." I hesitate. "You know, my dad never went to church all that much after he returned home from the war. Said it was stupid to worship and believe in a higher being, one that stood by and let the Holocaust happen. The only time he would go was on Christmas Eve, to the midnight mass. He'd manage to stay sober long enough to make it through that night, just to make a good impression on everyone. He was always all about making good impressions, you know." I cock my head. "No one ever knew that hiding behind that hail-fellow-well-met exterior was a mean and abusive alcoholic. It's funny just how much can hide behind a bright fake smile and a hearty handshake. Around his friends, my dad was the life of the party. Of course, it helps if you're the one buying the rounds on the house, too. Free booze can do wonders for your popularity." I roll the smooth glass whiskey bottle between my palms, the liquid inside sloshing gently about.

"Didn't your mom have a job? Did she ever try to turn to anyone there?" Jim asks. "Ask them for help in getting out?"

I nod. "Yeah, she was a teacher, but it didn't pay much. We certainly wouldn't have gotten by on her salary, that's for sure. Plus, I think she was afraid of trying to make it on her own without him. I don't think she wanted to really be alone, the thought of it frightened her. A man by your side is a solace of comfort, even if he is a sonofabitch."

"Didn't anyone notice the marks on you or her?"

"Sure they did. But in those days, no one asked, no one got involved in another family's business. What went on behind closed doors stayed behind closed doors. It was shameful to let crap like that out in the open."

"Didn't anyone in your family step in, like aunts or uncles, or your grandparents?" he asks.

"Everyone had their own problems, Reed. They weren't about to take on someone else's," I tell him. "No one wanted to intervene. It was taken as a paternal privilege to beat your wife and child."

Is that why you stole his car when you were a teenager?" he asks. "To get back at him?"

"No," I say, with a shake of my head. "That was just sheer stupidity on my part. I wanted to impress the wrong crowd. And believe me, I paid dearly for it. Even though by that time, I had gotten too big for him to smack around, he still did it, or at least tried to," I tell him. "But I managed to get the upper hand." I'm silent as I remember my dad chasing me around the kitchen, raining hard blows of his fists upon me as I tried to escape him, cursing me soundly while my mother begged and pleaded with him to let me go, I'd learned my lesson. Then he'd turned on her with such a viciousness, that something inside of me just snapped and I reacted in the only way I knew how.

"Pete," Jim says softly. "You look like you're a million miles away. What happened? How'd you manage to get the upper hand over your father?"

I sigh, leaning my head back, rubbing my forehead wearily. "He'd went after me that night, waiting until we got back home from the police station, his rage building inside of him the whole time. He started in on me, ranting and raving about how shameful it was that a son of Tim Malloy's had gotten stopped by the cops, driving HIS car, without HIS permission, and HE had to go to the police station and retrieve not only ME, but get his stupid car towed out also, from the irrigation ditch I'd rolled it into. I was an embarrassment, a disgrace, a shame to the name Malloy. I yelled back at him that it wasn't ME that was the disgrace to the family name, it was HIM. That only served to fuel his anger and he went nearly berserk, chasing me around our kitchen, hitting me whenever I unfortunately managed to get within striking range of his fists. I did a pretty good job of dodging him for a few minutes, at least, until I tripped and fell up against the refrigerator. He cornered me then, punching me in the head, in the face, splitting my lip and bloodying my nose. He hit me hard enough to crack three ribs and bruise my stomach. I wouldn't cry, I wouldn't beg for his mercy, and that only infuriated him more. He wanted me to weep, plead for him to stop, to fall on my knees and ask for his forgiveness. I couldn't do that, Jim. I just couldn't. The years of abuse had strengthened my resolve, and I wasn't about to let the lousy sonofabitch see me humbled before him. I'd be damned if I would give him that satisfaction." I fall silent for a moment, remembering that night oh so well. Reed sits in non-judgemental silence, studying me carefully.

I rub at my eyes with my palms, drawing in a deep breath. "You know, even after all these years it doesn't dim. The memory never fades. Even now, talking about it brings it right back to me, just like it was yesterday." I heave a sigh. "Anyway, I think he aimed to kill me that night, I honestly do. Even after I'd slid down to the floor, trying to protect myself as best I could from his harsh blows, he never relented. He took to kicking me then, along with hitting me. Kicking me in the legs, in my sides, until I finally curled up into a fetal ball. Finally, my mother grabbed ahold of him, somehow pulling him off of me, begging him to stop hitting me before he killed me. He turned on her then, striking her with vicious slaps and punches, giving her a bloody lip just like he'd given me, blackening her eye for her. And she wept as he hit her, deep choking sobs that sounded like her very soul was trying to escape from the torment she was going through. It only made him madder, hearing her cry like that. He kept screaming at her to just shut the hell up. He put his hands around her throat then, nearly lifting her off her feet as he tried to squeeze the very life from her."

"Jesus Christ," Reed whispers, his eyes wide with horror. "How awful, Pete!"

I take in another deep breath, holding up my hand. "That's not the worst of it, Jim. It's not the worst of it by far." I set the whiskey bottle back on the table, then I stare at my left palm, rubbing a thumb across the creases and lines etched into my skin by time. "I'd gotten to my feet, somehow, just before he started trying to strangle my mother, undeniable joy and rage in his eyes. When I saw with horror what was happening, I knew I had to act. I did the only thing I knew how to do." I fall silent once more, biting my lip until I taste the copper of my own blood.

"Take your time, Pete," Reed says softly. "Take all the time you need."

I shake my head. "It's not time I need, Jim, it's figuring out how to tell you what I did next." I close my eyes, leaning my head back once more. "I know you have said that you're not going to judge me by what I tell you, but I've judged myself, all these years, for what I did that night. And that's the worst thing, my own self-condemnation. I did the unthinkable, the inexcusable, and I'm afraid you're going to despise me when I tell you about it."

"I'm not going to judge you, Pete, and I'm not going to despise you, I promise," Jim tells me gently.

My eyes still closed, I begin again, my voice halting and hushed. "I knew he was going to kill my mom, from the minute he wrapped those huge hands of his around her fragile neck and started to squeeze. I couldn't stand by and let that happen to her, not my mother. It was…it was like a final injustice, you know?" I ask, not waiting for an answer. "He'd started off pissed at me, and here he was taking the rest of his anger out on her, when she'd only tried to save me from him. It didn't seem right. So I fled the kitchen, running as fast as I could to my parents' bedroom, where my dad kept the gun he'd brought home from the war in the nightstand beside his bed. He always kept it loaded, for personal protection, he'd always tell us. I knew how to use it, he'd at least seen fit to teach me that, how to use a gun. I raced back down to the kitchen, where he still had my mother in his vise-like grip, her eyes nearly popping out of her head, her hands clawing desperately at his wrists as he slowly throttled her." I fall quiet once more, the image of my poor mother dangling from his grasp still burned like acid into my mind. "Something inside of me just snapped then, Jim, it just gave way," I tell him softly. I open my eyes and study my trembling hands. My voice shakes as I continue. "I…I…I took my father's gun and pointed it at his head. I told him that if he didn't let go of my mom right that instant, I'd kill him, I'd drop him where he stood. He let go of my mom then, and he sneered at me, told me I didn't have the goddamned guts to kill him. I cocked the hammer, told him to just try me, just try me. There was something that he must have seen in my eyes at that moment, and he realized I was dead serious, so he backed down. With the gun still in my hands, still pointed at him, I told him that if he EVER laid another hand on my mom or I, that I'd kill him without any hesitation at all. We were through being his punching bags, and this night was the last night he'd ever raise a hand to either one of us, so help me God."

I hesitate, rubbing the scar under my chin again, I continue. "I saw fear in his eyes then, Jim. Pure fear. He knew that I meant what I said, and I would keep my word. I'd murder him if he hit either one of us again. And instead of feeling powerful over my father, that I had finally made him truly afraid of me, I felt…I felt nothing. Just a huge black abyss where my emotions should be. I should have felt something, I know, but I didn't. I was as cold and calculating with that gun in my hand as if I were a hired killer facing down his quarry instead of a sixteen-year-old kid facing down his dad. Not even my hands shook. I stared him down without even blinking over that barrel of his OWN gun. I didn't flinch or waver, I held my ground. He finally left the kitchen, shambling off to bed, probably thinking that we'd all forget it in the morning. But we didn't. My mom didn't, I didn't, and he sure as hell didn't. I took that gun, hiding it in my bedroom in a place where I knew he wouldn't look. He knew I had it, he never demanded it back from me. And from that night onward, he never lifted a hand to either of us. He'd continue his verbal abuse of us, but the physical abuse stopped that night." I look at Jim then, my eyes meeting his. I see his anger and horror at what I went through reflected back to me. I look away. "I was sixteen, Jim… just a kid! I had no right to do that to my dad, no right at all! I shouldn't have threatened him like that!"

"But look at what he nearly did to your mom," Reed points out. "Pete, if you hadn't of done what you did that night, he would have strangled her to death, and then likely killed you. Did you think of that? That yes, you threatened to kill him, but you were well within your rights to do so. You were only protecting your mom, trying to save her the only way you knew how."

I shake my head. "It wasn't right, Jim, I shouldn't have done it. No matter what he did to us, no matter how bad he smacked us around, I had no right to pull his own gun on him and threaten to kill him. And that has weighed heavily on me all these years since, that I nearly killed my own father."

Jim is quiet for a moment, then he speaks. "I see it this way, Pete. You didn't have a choice, you acted purely on self-survival instincts. Anyone else put into that SAME position would have done the same thing, I'm sure of it. And some of them might have gone ahead and pulled the trigger on the bastard, finished him off. It sounds like he certainly deserved it." He leans forward, his hands clasped in front of him. "Pete, you need to let that burden go now. Quit letting it weigh on you. If it's forgiveness that you need, well, I'd say that you should have forgiven yourself a long time before now. Nothing of what happened to you back then was your fault at all. You weren't to blame for your father's anger, his war scars were. And he's full of shit if he thinks you're unworthy of the Malloy name. I'd be mighty damned proud to have someone like you in my blood family. Hell, I'm proud enough as it is, that you're Jimmy's godfather."

"You shouldn't be," I tell him dully. "You should despise me."

"Pete, let it go, quit despising yourself," Jim says gently. "It's not your fault what happened, and you only did what you could to finally stop it. For your own sake, you need to quit damning yourself, condemning yourself for what you did. It's not right. I'm not going to despise you for something like that."

"Maybe," I say.

"No maybes, Pete. You shouldn't even FEEL like you need to forgive yourself for that, there's absolutely nothing to forgive yourself for. And God knows that," he tells me.

I grimace. "I wouldn't be so sure about that, Jim."

"I am," he says. "I'm sure of it. God wouldn't consider that a transgression, a violation of the Ten Commandments. In fact, I'd nearly wager you a small bet that God had a hand in you doing what you did. He made you save your mother and yourself."

"It's a matter of opinion," I tell him, my tone noncommittal. "I doubt that God would look kindly on, or even endorse any form of patricide."

"But you didn't kill him, Pete, and that's what matters in the end. So please, stop thinking that way about yourself. You're not a horrible, evil person for what you did. You're not that at all. You did what you had to do, and that's it. It's your father that should be worried about God instead of you. He's the one who's been so damned nasty to you and your mom all those years ago. He's the one who'll have to face up to what he's done when it's Judgement Day."

"Yeah, all those years ago," I murmur. "So far in the past, it should be forgotten. But it isn't. It ties me to the present. Essentially, what Stuart Walters did to his family, my father did to mine."

"Not quite, Pete," Jim says. "Walters massacred everyone in his family. Your dad didn't do that. You didn't give him that chance. You stopped him that night." He is quiet for a moment. "Does he still hit your mom, now that you're no longer there?"

I shrug. "I don't know. She's never said anything to me that makes me think he's still doing it, and the few times that I have been back, he's never made any move at her like he's going to strike her. He still gets verbal with her, I am aware of that. And I've offered to get her out of there countless times, paying for her to get a divorce from him and move down here closer to me. But she always refuses. Says it's her duty to stay with him, until one of them dies. She's sworn to honor her wedding vows, made in her church."

He shakes his head sadly. "How utterly horrible it must have been for you, Pete, to have gone through all that. Now I know why you empathize so much with abused women and children. You were an abused child yourself."

"It's not horrible when you have hate as your shield," I say bitterly. "I hated him, truly hated him, with every fiber of my being. I counted the days until I turned eighteen and could leave the house for good. I graduated from high school one weekend and moved out on my own the next. I didn't want to leave my mother alone with him, for fear that he'd start hitting her again, but if she wasn't willing to save herself, there was little I could do for her. I could only rescue myself. To this day, I hate visits home, and that's why I don't go very often. It's the past that's hard to forgive in the present, you know? I can't forget what he did to us, not ever. I can't stand to be in the same damned city as him, let alone the same room. He loathes me just as much as I loathe him." I pause, clearing my throat. "Those words I spoke to you earlier, when I had you pinned against the wall…those weren't my words, they were my father's, do you understand me?"

"I knew it wasn't you talking like that to me, Pete. I knew it all along," Reed says. "So yes, I understand."

"That's twice now in my life that I've nearly become my old man," I tell him.

Reed studies me. "What do you mean by that?"

I frown at him. "Are you sure you want to hear this, Jim? I'm sure Jean is expecting you home by now. If you want to leave, I'll understand. I think the worst has passed for me for now."

"Nope, I'm not leaving, Pete, until I'M sure that the worst has passed for you," he tells me. "Jean knows I'm here, and she knows I'll stay here until I am ready to leave you on your own. So don't worry about that." He gives me an encouraging nod. "Go ahead with your story, Pete, I'm listening."

I study my hands, flexing my fingers. "I'd met a lovely girl while I was in high school and we dated steadily during our senior year. She was a pretty little thing, with dark, wild curls of hair, deep blue eyes, and a smile that just lit up the room. She was really special to me and I knew she was the one for me after we'd dated for only about three months. Her name was Evelyn. I called her Evie, my Evie." I smile a bit, despite myself and the memory of what happened to us in the end.

"Did Evie know about your dad abusing you and your mom?" Jim asks.

I nod. "She had an idea, at least. She never came right out and asked me, of course, and I never told her, since by the time we started dating, I'd forced him to quit beating us. I never brought her around much while he was home. I'd bring her over to my house mostly when it was just my mom there. The few times he was around her, he came off as a gentleman, but that was his ego trying to make a good impression on her. I think she knew something was wrong between my dad and I, especially after he'd made a comment to her one time, telling her that she could do better than dating some sorry excuse of a man like me. She asked me what he meant by that, and I told her just to ignore it, it was his way of making a bad joke. Anyway, after we'd graduated from high school, I'd scrimped and saved money from my job at the Boeing plant and managed to buy her an engagement ring. I asked her to marry me and she said yes, making me the happiest guy on earth that day."

"Didn't you tell me once that your dad worked at the Boeing factory, too?" Reed asks.

"Yeah. He and I worked separate shifts, I always made sure of that. Our paths very rarely crossed." Leaning over the arm of the recliner, I flick on the lamp on my end table. It casts a warm glow into the living room. Settling back into the chair, I bite my lip, rubbing the ring finger of my left hand absently between the thumb and forefinger of my right, trying to decide how to drop my next bombshell on Jim Reed. "I was married, Jim. Married and divorced," I finally blurt out. Inwardly I cringe at the awkwardness of my sudden pronouncement, and I feel a faint blush of embarrassment creeping across my face.

"What happened?" he asks. "If you don't want to tell me, I can understand," he adds quickly. "If it's too hard."

I shake my head. "I've told you this much so far, so I might as well finish," I say. "I don't know what happened to Evie and I. I really and truly don't know. I thought she loved me, and maybe she did at first, but it wasn't enough, at least not for her. She evidently needed more than I could give her, and that included all of my love for her." I rub my hands together. "We'd had our quarrels, like all young married couples do. She wanted to start having kids right away, I wanted to wait until we had some money saved ahead, at least enough to buy a house. She also wanted me to make peace with my dad, in the name of family harmony. She didn't want her children growing up with tension between their father and paternal grandfather. She couldn't understand why I didn't WANT to make peace with him, that I was more than comfortable with the relationship of cold indifference my dad and I had."

"Did you ever try to explain to her what had happened to you with your dad?" he asks.

"Yeah, as best I could, without making the old man seem like a complete ogre. I left out a lot of the physical abuse, and quite a bit of the verbal abuse, too. I didn't want her to think that it was my fault somehow, that I'd failed to live up to my father's expectations."

"But it wasn't your fault, Pete, and I'm sure that she would have understood that," Reed says. He catches the rather dour look I toss him. "Maybe?" he adds.

"No, I don't think so, Jim. Evie was raised in a loving household, where her parents rarely argued or even raised their voices to one another. She pretty much led a sheltered childhood." I'm quiet for a moment as I think. "Evie wanted kids right away, like I said, and I wanted to wait until we could afford a house of our own. So she went behind my back and asked her parents for the money so we could put a down payment on a house. I got pretty upset with her over it, that was actually one of our biggest fights. I wanted kids, sure, but I wanted to make certain that they'd have the things in life I didn't have, a good home with two parents who loved them very much. I refused to accept the money from my in-laws. What kind of man would I have been, going around to his father-in-law begging for money? I wanted to work for what I had, earning every penny the hard way, by the sweat of my own brow. Evie wanted me to swallow my pride and take the money, but I wouldn't. A man has to have something to cling to, some measure of dignity and self-respect, after all. I think that was the beginning of the death knell of our marriage," I tell him. "After that, Evie became distant, standoffish. She'd quit her job at the local Woolworth's store and was spending a lot of time hanging around her friends…her SINGLE friends." I fall silent once more, then I speak. "I guess I should have questioned it, her sudden moodiness and distant attitude, but I chalked it up to marriage blues. We weren't even married a year yet, and I assumed she might have been missing the single life. I thought maybe a baby would cheer her up, so we began trying, despite the fact that we still didn't have a house of our own. I figured that would come later, after the baby was born. All that mattered to me was that my Evie was happy. And, for a little while at least, she was. Or so it seemed." I give Jim a small grim smile. "And you know, I honestly thought that it would work out for us, I truly did. And what a fool I was, such a damned fool. The hopes and dreams of the young are often gauzy fantasies made out of spun sugar. Then the rain of reality sets in and melts them all to hell."

"Why? What happened, Pete?" Jim asks quietly.

I laugh bitterly. "The husband is always the last to know," I say acidly. I pick up the gold lighter, sliding it around in my fingers. "It was our first Christmas together as a married couple," I tell him softly. "At Boeing, their policy was that if you came in and worked the first four hours of your shift on Christmas Eve, you could clock out and go home early. I'd already planned to do that, without telling Evie, because I wanted to go home and surprise her. I'd tried to make our first Christmas a special one, buying her presents I really couldn't afford, just to see her smile when she opened them. She had such a pretty smile, and smiling was something she hadn't been doing a lot of recently." I flick the lid of the lighter open, lighting the little flame with a rub of my thumb across the flywheel. I click the lid shut, extinguishing the bright tongue of flame. "I got a call at the factory from a local jewelry shop, saying that the package for Malloy was ready for pick-up. I was confused, since I hadn't ordered anything from the jewelry shop for Christmas. Then it dawned on me that they must have tried to get ahold of Evie and had failed, so they tried my work number. Evie had told me she was going to do some last-minute shopping and that's why they couldn't reach her. I figured that was the case, anyhow, and that the gift was meant for me. I asked my boss if I could clock out early and go pick up a package. Since we weren't busy, he let me, and I drove to the jewelry story, picking up the neatly boxed and wrapped little gift. I told the jewelry store clerk that if my wife came in to pick it up later on, to tell her that I'd already gotten it and was waiting for her at home. I wanted to surprise her, you know?"

Reed nods. "I do."

I sigh heavily. "When I got to our little rental house, Evie's car was still in the driveway. I got a little worried, then, that maybe something was wrong, that she had maybe fallen ill or gotten hurt somehow and wasn't able to call for help. She hadn't been feeling all that well over the last couple of months or so, with stomach troubles and fatigue, and I was afraid maybe she'd gotten worse. I ran into that house, frightened of what I might find. I think in the short time it took me to go from the car to the house, I had painted out every worst imaginable nightmare that could've have befallen her. Was she lying injured from a fall? Was she horribly sick and too weak to call out for help? Had someone broken into the house and killed her? I was nearly frantic, you know?"

Jim grins a little. "Yeah, I do, Pete. Jean's scared the crap out of me a few times like that, too. And I run through every nightmare scenario myself until I get ahold of her, and then it turns out to be something silly or mundane, like she was over at a neighbor's house, or she forgot something at the grocery store and went back to pick it up."

"Yeah, only this nightmare proved not to be something like that," I tell him. "It was worse, much worse." I hesitate, rubbing my chin. "I heard noises coming from the bedroom, OUR bedroom. I opened the door, expecting to find her sick and in bed." My mouth quirks up in a bitter smile. "She was in bed alright. She was in bed with my best friend, Joey Donnelly. He'd been my best man at our wedding. I caught them in flagrante delicto. Of course, my sudden and unexpected appearance put a stop to them right there. They were embarrassed at getting caught in the act of screwing around, while I immediately saw red. Something inside of me just snapped at what I'd just seen and I jerked Joey Donnelly out of the bed and proceeded to pound the shit right out of him. He ended up fleeing the house with a badly broken nose, a busted lip, some missing teeth, and nothing on but his socks."

Jim snorts a bit with laughter. "Seriously, Pete? You made him leave the house with nothing on but his SOCKS?"

I grin a little, a rather rueful smile. "Yeah. Oh, he had his clothes wadded up in his hands, so it wasn't like I sent him out into the icy Seattle afternoon without them…but yeah, I chased him out of my home with just his socks on his feet. Tore out of there like a turpentined cat."

"Heartless bastard," Jim chuckles. "You could've at least let him put on his tighty-whiteys, you know."

"He's lucky I let him get out of there with his life, Jim," I tell him solemnly. "I think that if Evie hadn't of pulled me off of him, I'd have killed him for sure. At least that was my intent." I'm quiet for a second. "After he'd left the house in bloodied disgrace, I turned my rage on Evie. I stormed around, throwing my stuff into suitcases, while she followed me, begging and pleading for me to stay, not leave her. She swore uphill and down that it would never happen again, that it was a mistake, and why couldn't I just forgive her for it?" I shake my head. "I'm not the forgiving sort, Jim. The harsh lessons of my childhood taught me that. I packed up what I needed and started to leave. She stopped me then, one final time, right in front of our fireplace, the same one that we'd shared so many cozy nights together. She was hysterical, in tears, and she kept tugging on my arm. I couldn't stand to look at her, the sight of her made me physically sick to my stomach. My gaze landed on our wedding picture that sat on the mantlepiece. I picked it up for just a second, and she took that opportunity to beg and plead even harder. I looked down at her, and at that moment, I hated her, just absolutely hated her. Without even thinking, I drew my fist back to strike her, to hurt her, like she'd just hurt me. One good hard punch, I thought to myself. One good hard smack to make her realize what horrible transgression she'd committed against me. Just then, I caught sight of myself in the mirror over the fireplace, my eyes meeting my own. And in that instant, I saw not myself, but my father, the very man I loathed and despised. I had sworn to myself that I would never become him, but yet here I was, ready to strike my wife, just like he used to hit my mom for her supposed transgressions."

I fall quiet, leaning my head back and closing my eyes. My voice drops to a whisper once more. "At that moment, I hated myself for what I almost became. I dropped my fist and heaved the picture instead, at the mirror, shattering it into a million little pieces. I left the house then, going to a motel and checking in for the night. I stayed there until the day after Christmas, then I flew to Reno to get a divorce. I never went back to that house. My mom was the one who went over and packed up the rest of my belongings. Evie wasn't there when she did it, either. She'd already fled into Joey Donnelly's arms. I'd forgotten about the little package from the jewelry store. It was still in my coat pocket that night I'd left. I found it on Christmas Day and opened it. It was this." I hold the lighter up, the smooth gold metal flashing in the light cast by the lamp. "If I hadn't of gotten the message from the jewelry store, I never would've left work early that day and stopped by the store and picked it up. And then I wouldn't have gone home and found my wife in bed screwing my best friend. For that little twist of fate, I'm eternally grateful. I'd be locked into a loveless marriage, playing the cuckhold to my wife, a role that I would thoroughly despise." I lay the lighter back on the table. "It's my good luck charm, you know? My talisman against evil, I guess you could say."

"Didn't she contest the divorce?" Jim asks.

I snort. "Why the hell should she? She was already pregnant with Joey Donnelly's kid when I discovered them. After the six weeks in Reno was up and our divorce was finalized, she married him in a quickie ceremony. I went into the Army. When I got out, I came to L.A. and never looked back. A neighbor of mine encouraged me to go apply for the police force and I did. End of story."

"Are you sure it was HIS kid she was carrying?" Jim asks. "It could've been yours, you know. You just said that you two were trying for a baby."

I shake my head. "No, I'm pretty sure it was Joey Donnelly's kid," I tell him.

"What'd she have, a boy or a girl?" he asks.

I study my hands silently, ignoring his question. It's something that I've asked myself numerous times before, but it's also something that I don't exactly wish to find the answer to.

"Pete, what did she have, a boy or a…" he begins again.

"What difference does it make?" I ask him tiredly. "It's not like I can go to my ex-wife after all these years and ask her if the son that she had was mine or Joey Donnelly's."

"So she had a little boy?" he asks.

"Reed, drop it," I tell him warningly. "It's not important anyway. The kid was raised with Donnelly's name, not mine."

"If he was your son, though, wouldn't you want him to know his real father, Pete?"

I stare at him. "No, Jim, I wouldn't. I'm not about to go busting into some poor kid's world and shatter it, claiming that I'm his real father, instead of the one he's known for all the years of his life. That wouldn't be right of me to do that to an innocent child. It's best to let sleeping dogs lie in this case, trust me."

"I would want to know," he says quietly. "If I had any doubt in my mind whether Evie's son was mine or Donnelly's, I'd be finding out, damned fast. They can run a blood test, you know, to determine who the real father is."

I angrily slam my fist into the arm of the recliner, making Reed jump a bit. "Damn it, can't you just let it drop?" I ask, my voice as sharp as a razor. "For once, respect my decision, Jim. I'm not about to wreck the life of some kid, just because he may or may not be my son." I narrow my eyes at him. "What if I am, Jim? What if I am his dad? What kind of cruel trick is that to play on him, if I suddenly appear in his life after all these years and lay claim to him like he's some…some piece of land or something? I won't do that to him. I refuse to." I drop my gaze away, the corner of my mouth smirking up into a bitter grin. "And what kind of father would I be?" I ask. "Not a very good one, I'm afraid."

"Why not?" he asks. "You're good with Jimmy."

"But I'm not with him all the time," I say. "I wouldn't make a good dad, Jim. I know I wouldn't."

He peers at me rather intently. "Are you afraid that you'd be like your own dad?" he asks softly. "Is that it?"

His words hit home, giving voice to my inner thoughts. "Yeah," I say quietly, after a moment. "I wouldn't want to find out, anyway, if I am like my dad. That's not a chance I'm willing to take. I couldn't bear it, inflicting a hellish childhood like mine on a kid of my own."

"I don't think you're like your dad, Pete," Jim says softly. "Not at all. You're too kind and gentle. You don't have a mean bone in your body."

I look at him. "Are you kidding me?" I ask with surprise. "The night I found Evie and Joey together, I almost hit her in my blind rage, just like my dad always did my mom and I. And I went after you just a bit ago out of pure anger. I was channeling my dad, right down to the exact phrases he used to scream at me." I point to the whiskey bottle. "Plus, I've started drinking. If that's not being just like my old man, I don't know what is." I clasp my hands together. "Like I told you just a bit ago, that's TWICE now in my lifetime that I've almost become my father. And you know what they say, the third time's the charm. I'd rather not have a third time, if you know what I mean."

"Pete, you're going through a rough patch right now. It's caused you to go temporarily insane for a bit. You've hit the bottle, yes, but you know that it can pose a problem for you if you continue." He studies me. "You certainly don't intend to keep drinking, do you?"

"No."

He shrugs. "Then I don't think that's being your old man. You're a far better man than he could ever hope to be, Pete. Trust me."

"How do you know that, though?" I ask. "How can you be so certain of that?"

He sighs a little with exasperation. "Pete, I just KNOW, okay? I've known you for five years now, and I think I have a pretty good idea of your personality."

"You didn't know any of this about me, though," I point out.

"Only because you didn't tell me before now," he says. "And it's taken something as horrible as this Walters case to bring it out. Maybe if you'd told me before now, I could have done something to help you."

I frown at him. "I don't believe in hauling out the chained ghosts of my past for public viewing, Jim, and I've hated telling you what I HAVE told you about my life back then." My voice is a little bit sharp again. "They should remain where they belong. They're not of the present. They're not of the Pete Malloy now."

"But it's not like it's something you can exactly push away, and say 'out of sight, out of mind.' It's not that simple, Pete. What you went through THEN has made you what you are today," Jim says.

"Why pick at the scars of my past?" I ask. "What I went through wounded me so deeply that for the longest time, I was afraid my soul would never see the light. Now that I've got a new life here in L.A., why revisit my own Dante's Inferno? Wasn't going through it once bad enough?"

"Yes, and I'm all for you leaving the ghosts where they belong, Pete," Jim says. "But that's the thing; they haven't remained where they belong. This Walters incident has set them loose on you once more. And if you don't face it now, and put them to rest, once and for all, you'll never be able to get past this, do you understand?"

I rub my face wearily. "Since when did you become a psychologist?" I ask dryly.

He grins a little. "Since I put the badge on for the very first time," he says.

I shoot him a small glare. "I suppose now, after hearing what I've told you, you're going to feel sorry for me. And that's one emotion I cannot stand. Pity. Not from you, not from anyone else."

"I honestly don't feel all that sorry for you, Pete," he says. "Sure, I hate like hell that you had such a crappy early life, that all that bad shit happened to you. But I wouldn't exactly call it pity."

"Oh?"

"Actually, I kind of admire you. You came out of a horrible beginning and you've done just fine for yourself. I'd say that's a pretty noble and brave thing to do."

I point at him with my index finger. "Don't go casting aspersions about me, Jim," I warn. "I'm far from noble and brave. You said it yourself: you came here looking for a hero and all you found was a joke."

"You're not reading me, Pete. Look at you. You came out of the ashes of a horrific childhood and a ruined marriage, and you've remade yourself into what you are today. A good, decent human being."

"And that's a big deal, how?" I ask. "Lotsa people have it a helluva lot worse, Reed, and they manage to make it out somehow. They deserve the credit for pulling themselves up out of the ashes more than I do, that's for damned sure."

"Pete, you rescued yourself," he explains patiently. "You didn't let it bog you down, pull you down into the muck. You plowed ahead, with grit and determination, without looking back. You were the pioneer of your future, not the pilgrim of your past. I'd say that's a mighty damned fine accomplishment."

"What am I, Laura Ingalls Wilder?" I ask, slightly amused.

He smiles a bit. "Nah, I can't picture you in a prairie skirt, Pete." He stands up. "I believe I spotted a frozen pizza in your freezer when I was in the kitchen earlier," he says, stretching. "I'm getting a bit hungry, so would you care if I put it in the oven?"

"Jim, just go home, okay?" I tell him. "I'm fine, I promise. Go home to Jean and have her feed you supper, alright? Frozen pizza ain't the best, you know."

He shakes his head. "I'd have frozen pizza at home anyway," he tells me. "Jean was going to take Jimmy over to her sister's this evening so they could work on his Halloween costume." He shrugs. "Besides, she fed me before she left. I'm just hungry again, that's all."

I mock-glare at him. "So you come over here to mooch food from me?" I ask, pretending to be irritated. "I swear, you have a tapeworm."

He goes into the kitchen, turning on the light. "I'll share it with you," he says, over his shoulder.

"The pizza or the tapeworm?" I ask wryly.

He sticks his head around the corner. "What did you say? I didn't hear you over the demands of my tapeworm."

"Never mind," I tell him, my humor fading a bit. "What's Jimmy going as for Halloween?" I call.

"A puppy," he calls back. I can hear him rooting around in the cupboards. He returns to the doorway. "Where's your pizza tin at, Pete?" he asks. "I forgot."

"Bottom cupboard, lower left-hand side." I hear a loud crash and I wince. "Do I want to know what that was?" I ask warily.

"Sorry!" he calls. "I kinda dropped the pizza on the floor!"

I get up out of the recliner. "Oh, for the love of God," I mutter as I stalk into the kitchen. Sometimes Jim Reed can be a one-man walking disaster, and I'd rather not have him inflicting any of his accidents upon any of my stuff.

He is cutting the plastic wrap off of the pizza with my kitchen shears. He looks up as I enter. "It's under control, I promise," he tells me, a bit sheepishly. "It just slipped out of my hands when I took it out of the freezer. Good thing it had plastic wrap on it, huh?" he asks, sliding the pizza out of the wrap and onto the metal pie pan. "Of course, even if it HAD fallen on the floor, without the wrap, it'd still be edible, according to the five-second rule. And as neat and tidy as you are, Pete, I doubt there'd be any germs on the floor anyway. And cooking it in the oven would have killed off any germs that did get on it."

"Your logic, as supremely and confusingly twisted as it may be, cannot be argued with," I remark, watching as Reed scans the cooking instructions on the wrap. "What's the matter?" I ask, leaning against the doorway. "Can't you remember how to cook a pizza?"

He glances at me. "I don't do this very often," he says by way of explanation. "Jean usually does it."

I rub my face with a sigh. "Oh brother. It's a wonder you can even function on your own, Reed."

"I manage," he tells me. "That's why God created cooking instructions." He slides the pan into the oven, setting the temperature to 375º.

"You probably should have started the oven warming first," I tell him. "Otherwise, it'll take longer to cook."

He frowns, then sets it to 400º. "Will that make it cook faster?" he asks.

"Only if you want it to burn on the bottom," I tell him, reaching over and turning the oven temperature back down. "I don't know about you, but I don't like my pizza to have to be extinguished by the fire department before I eat it."

"Who said I was going to share it with you?" he asks, giving me a grin.

"It's my pizza, so I'll eat it if I want to," I tell him. "Go home and eat your own damned pizza, if you're not gonna share."

"I can't," he says ruefully. "On account of I'm kinda banned from the kitchen."

I shake my head. "What culinary disaster did you wreak upon poor Jean now?" I ask.

He slides past me and returns to the living room, as I follow behind. "I tried to make oatmeal," he says, sitting back down on the couch. "Instead, I made cement. It took Jean FOREVER to get that crud out of her pan."

I plop down in the recliner. My stomach gives a small growl and I realize that I'm a bit hungry myself, so I reach for a cracker. "That's grounds for divorce," I tell him, taking a bite of the cracker. "Abuse of kitchen utensils."

He grabs a cracker up too, and pops it in his mouth. "You should know, Pete," he says, grinning. "Having been divorced yourself."

My mood immediately darkens with that comment and I glare at him. "If I'd known that you were gonna throw that up to me, I'd have never told you," I snap.

His eyes widen in horror as he realizes what he's done. "Oh my God, Pete, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way, honestly."

I grimace. "Forget it," I say, with a wave of my hand. The two of us are quiet for awile, the muted ticking of the wall clock the only sound. I stare unseeingly at the bottle of whiskey on the table, Reed's eyes cautiously watchful upon me. "What am I gonna do?" I ask softly, more to myself than anything, my thoughts turning inward once more. "I feel like I'm going crazy here. It's like…it's like I've hit a brick wall, you know? And I don't know how to knock it down order to save myself."

"Pete, listen to me. You're under a LOT of stress right now, way more than you have been under for a long time. Your nerves are shot and frayed, and that's only understandable, given what we've went through the last couple of days. That's enough to make ANYONE feel like they're going crazy, including me." He rubs his chin. "What happened in that house was the stuff true nightmares are made of," he says. "Only this was one we couldn't wake up from, not at all."

"I keep feeling, though, that this whole mess is somehow my fault," I tell him.

"Why? It was a welfare check call that went bad, that's all. You nor I either one could've foreseen what was going to happen. It was just a bad twist of fate, nothing more than that."

I shoot him a glance. "Twist of fate, my ass," I say. "I made the decision to enter the house, Jim. I willingly violated protocol, and you even warned me about it before I went in. But I ignored you." I study my hands. "I guess I figured myself some sorta hero, charging into that house to save someone. Only there wasn't anyone left alive to save. Because of my stupidity and rash actions, I ended up getting you injured, and I ended up killing a man. Some kind of hero I turned out to be, huh?" I ask acidly.

"I could've stayed outside," he says. "You certainly didn't force me to enter along with you. I could've gone over to the squad car and radioed for backup, even if you went ahead entered the house alone. But I didn't. I went in there just as willing as you were. So if you're playing the blame game here, I'd say I share it equally."

I shake my head. "I made you go through that house with me, Jim. I should have ordered you back outside after we found Melissa Walters' body. Then you wouldn't have seen the other horrific sights."

"Pete, I stayed in that house because I wanted to. I wasn't about to let you wander through that place by yourself, not knowing what was in there. Partners don't do that, at least not GOOD partners."

I sigh with exasperation. "But don't you see?" I ask. "Because of my decision to enter that place and search it, I made you see things you shouldn't have seen. I got you injured, Jim. Stuart Walters nearly killed you…all because of my stupidity! How can you ever forgive me for that?"

"Because there was never anything to even forgive you for, Pete. What happened was a tragedy, not an error on your part. You need to stop blaming yourself for it, and stop it right now."

I lean back in the recliner with a groan. "But I can't forgive myself, Jim. I wasn't there in the upstairs of the house when Walters returned, like I should have been. I was still down in the damned basement, gathering my thoughts. If I hadn't have been screwing around doing THAT, I might have been able to come to your aid. The two of us probably could've brought him down. And if we'd done that, then I wouldn't have ended up shooting the bastard in the basement."

Jim is quiet for a moment. "What thoughts did you need to gather, Pete?" he asks softly.

I massage my temples with my fingers. "Oh hell, I don't know." I look at him. "Promise you won't laugh?"

"Promise."

"I made the sign of the cross over myself," I tell him, feeling myself blush. "It's stupid and silly, and a bunch of superstitious mumbo jumbo, but for some reason, I felt the need to do it…especially in the face of such untold evil in that house." I gesture to him. "Okay, go ahead. Laugh at me. Call me an idiot."

"I don't think it's silly at all," he says. "In fact, when I was outside, after I'd gotten sick, I whispered a few prayers of my own."

I stare at him in surprise. "You're not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?"

"Nope," he says, shaking his head. "I felt so bad for what had happened to what appeared to be a lovely young woman and her three innocent children, that I whispered a prayer of my own. I asked God to watch out for their souls in Heaven. And I prayed that they didn't suffer, at least not too much, when the killing wounds were inflicted. I hoped that God saw fit to take them quickly, instead of leaving any of them in agony here on earth."

"But you know as well as I do that it didn't happen that way, Jim," I say softly. "They suffered before they died. They suffered for years at the hands of him, not just that night."

"I know it," he says quietly. "And it doesn't make it any easier, either. I keep seeing them in my dreams…in my nightmares, actually."

"Yeah, me too," I tell him, the words out of my mouth before I can stop them.

He looks at me, his head cocked questioningly. "I thought you said you weren't having any nightmares, Pete."

I run a hand through my hair as I clear my throat. "Yeah, well, I lied. And yet another reason for me to be so disgusted with myself. I lied to you about having nightmares, when I should have told you the truth, that I was having them, too."

"I wouldn't be disgusted with myself for that, Pete," Jim says. "Not a lot of people would want to admit that something like that bothered them, least of all cops, like you and I. We're supposed to take crap like that in stride, you know? Not get personally involved, keep the emotions under wraps, all that happy bullshit." He twists his wedding band nervously around on his finger. "They're…they're really bad, Pete. Horrific. I've never had nightmares this awful, not even after Steve Deal and Norm Landon."

"Yeah, I know," I tell him after a moment. "I never had them this bad before, either. Even after Howie Parker died."

He twists his wedding band even harder. He keeps his gaze on the coffee table in front of us, not meeting my eyes. And that's fine with me. "The thing of it is, Pete, I don't know how to handle them, you know?" he asks, his voice hushed. Without letting me answer, he continues on, his words rushing out in a torrent. "At first I thought it was the medication they gave me in the hospital, the stuff for the nausea and whatever they gave me to keep me from having more seizures. But even after I've gotten home, I still have them. Every time I try to take a nap…hell, every time I close my eyes, I see them. The images, the dreams. I'm nearly afraid to go to sleep, not knowing what kind of hellish nightmare I'm going to have next." He shakes his head. "I don't dare tell Jean about them, she'd worry to no end, and I don't want to subject her to that kind of horror anyway. I'd rather not expose my wife to that kind of shocking awfulness, you know?"

I nod. "Yeah, I do."

He picks up the gold Zippo lighter and fiddles with it, opening and shutting the lid with rapid little clicks. "The first one I had after I got home was the worst," he says, flicking the lighter wheel with his thumb and watching the little flame dance obediently in front of him. "It was…it was…" he begins, then he coughs, clears his throat. He still keeps his eyes from meeting mine, and I don't blame him. I don't want him looking into my eyes right now, either. "The worst one involved the basement, I mean, what happened down there, you know?" he asks, but his tone indicated he doesn't expect a response from me. I sit back in the recliner and fold my hands over my stomach, listening to him, for it's the best thing I can do at this point. He draws in a deep breath and lets it out with a sigh. "I dreamed that I went into that house looking for you. I couldn't find you anywhere. I searched through the whole damned house, going from bedroom to bedroom, calling you. The place was empty, deserted. Or so I thought. Then I heard voices, muted voices, coming from the basement. I went to the top of the steps and called out to you, but you didn't answer. I could hear your voice, though, talking to another man. You sounded angry at him, calling him a murderer. I started down the steps to find out what was going on. I got about halfway down when I heard a gunshot. By the time I reached the bottom, I found Stuart Walters standing over your body, your service revolver in his hands. He'd somehow gotten it away from you and shot you with it, right in the head. He turned around to face me. By that time, I'd drawn my own weapon, so it was kind of a Mexican standoff down there. He just stood there, grinning evilly at me, saying that you didn't even fight him, you gave your weapon up without a struggle. He called you a coward, someone who wouldn't even fight for his own life. I knew that wasn't true, so I got angry with him." He is quiet, studying the lighter in his hands. "I shot him, Pete. I shot him without him ever firing a shot back at me. I was angry enough to murder him, for what he'd done to you. When I woke up, I was shaking. I woke Jean up by accident, I was shaking so hard. I lied and told her I was just cold." He looks up at me then, his eyes somewhat fearful. "What do I do, Pete? I can't go on like this. I'm not sleeping well at all. What do I do? How do I get them to go away?"

I shake my head. "I dunno, Jim, I just don't know. I wish I really did. I wish I could give you some advice, but I can't."

"Are they that bad for you?" he asks.

I'm quiet for a moment, then I speak. "They're actually worse, I think." He studies me, trying to read my expression, and I know that he expects me to reveal one of my nightmares to him. I debate it over in my brain.

Reed speaks, settling the debate for me. "Look, Pete, if you don't want to tell me about any of yours, I can understand. But you've opened up and told me about your past, so what's a horrible nightmare or two to share on top of that?" he asks.

I grimace. "How about four nightmares?" I ask.

"Jesus, FOUR?" he asks in amazement. "No wonder you look like hell, Pete. You haven't gotten any sleep at all."

"Gee, thanks, partner," I tell him dryly. "And I wouldn't say I haven't gotten ANY sleep. I've gotten some, just not a lot over the last couple of nights."

"With the help of that?" he asks, pointing to the bottle of whiskey.

I stare at it dispassionately. "Yeah, some," I admit. "It helped some. But not enough, unfortunately. I still had nightmares even after I drank." I pick the bottle up, sloshing the whiskey around inside. "As much as I had hoped it would help, I think it only made things worse."

"I can assure you it most certainly did, Pete," he says rather archly. "Drinking to forget your troubles never helps at all. You should know that. Not only from the drunks we haul in on a regular basis, but from your own personal experience."

"I know it," I tell him. I pick up the pack of cigarettes and tap another one out. I hold my hand out for my lighter, which Jim Reed still has in his palm.

He hands it over with a heavy sigh. "You know, I hope that you aren't planning on continuing this nasty habit of smoking," he says with dismay. "I don't like it at all."

I shoot him a sharp-eyed glare. "What are you, my mother?" I snap, lighting the cigarette. I toss the pack down on the table, but keep my fingers around the lighter. "I'm only doing it to soothe myself, okay? It's only temporary, I promise." I slip the lighter between my fingers, the smooth metal warm in my hands. The action calms me a bit. The memories of the four nightmares roll around in my brain; the woman in the bedroom, the children in the nursery, the little girl down in the basement, the trial that ended in my death. A shudder runs through me unbidden.

"If this is too hard for you, Pete, I can understand," he says, reading my mind. "But look at it this way. If you don't let it out in the open to someone, it'll just stay inside of you and fester. And I don't think you want that."

I heave a sigh, realizing he's right. And I've allowed too much to fester inside of me now as it is. "I'll tell you the worst one, okay? But that's the only one. I'm not revealing the details of the other ones to you, other than to say that they're horrible." When he nods, I draw in a deep breath. Reaching forward, I lay the lighter on the coffee table and pick up the glass ashtray instead. I lean back, resting the ashtray on my stomach. I rub my thumb over the smooth edge of the dark brown glass. "It involved the basement, too," I begin, with some hesitation in my voice. "The ones that I'd had before that one were pretty awful themselves. In the other two, I'd entered the house alone, while you stayed out in the car. I came across the victims, first as they were alive, then after they were murdered. Each time, they all were able to speak to me even after the killing wounds had been inflicted upon them. They all accused me of allowing what had happened to them to occur, telling me to go to hell, before they collapsed dead from their injuries. Then, at the end of each nightmare, I'd die, by various methods. I was strangled in one dream, stabbed in another, shot in a third. That was actually one of the themes that ran through each dream, among others. I always died at the end."

I take a drag on the cigarette, tapping ash into the ashtray. "But the basement one…it was the worst, by far. I came into the house, alone, and ran across the little girl, Natalie. She hadn't been killed yet. She took me back to her bedroom and showed me her dollhouse. It was back there that she confided in me and told me her father abused her, both physically and sexually." I rub my forehead, taking another drag on the cigarette. I blow the smoke up towards the ceiling. "I tried to get her to leave the house with me, with the intention of taking her someplace safe. She got mad, said she wouldn't leave her mom, and ran off, hiding from me. I went looking for her and couldn't find her. She finally called out that she was in the basement. That's when I went down there and found her hanging there, noosed over a pipe. She was still alive and talking to me. I heard someone come into the house upstairs, and, thinking it was you, I called out, yelling that I needed help in the basement. Natalie whispered that it wasn't you, it was her father that had entered, and that he'd kill me if he found me down there. The light in the basement flicked off then, and I went and hid under the steps, my service revolver in my hands." I pause, tapping the glass ashtray with my fingernail. "It was her father, alright. He came down there, and then engaged her in a game of hunting me, like I was some sort of prey. She willingly played along with him like it was a big joke. Just as she revealed where I was hiding at, the light flicked back on and I fired, killing him. Only it wasn't Stuart Walters I'd killed, it was you. Like all the other victims in the house, Natalie blamed me for what had happened to her, and then she died. I couldn't live with myself, knowing that I'd killed you instead of Stuart Walters, so I put my gun to my head and pulled the trigger. That's when I woke up."

Reed lets out a low whistle. "Jesus, Pete, that's pretty bad. Was it that nightmare that almost made you kill yourself this morning?"

I take a final drag on the cigarette, then I stub it out. It leaves an acrid taste in my mouth. "No," I say, gazing at the brown glass ashtray as if it holds all the secrets to the world. "It was…it was a lot of things, Jim, that made me think of it." I lean forward, setting the ashtray back on the table. Sitting back, I rub a hand across my face. "I think I'm blaming myself for not realizing we'd been out to that house on previous domestics in the past, and that we didn't do anything THEN to help Melissa and her kids. Maybe if we had, they'd still be alive."

"I doubt it," he says. "After your board hearing this morning, I went over to R & I, just to see what the records showed about any of the previous calls that had been made out there. Sure, we answered a couple of them, but so did Wells and Brinkman, and so did Woods and Russo, and so did a few other cops on other shifts. Each time, none of the responding officers could find any physical evidence of abuse on her at all. And she declined each time to press charges against her bastard husband, so there wasn't a damned thing that anyone could do, least of all us." He shrugs. "Besides, dispatch kind of dropped the ball on that one, anyway. After so many calls out to a certain residence, they're supposed to flag the address, letting any officers responding to calls there in the future that there's a history at that residence, especially if it's a domestic disturbance history. Dispatch never informed us of that, even though it came up on their file when we were sent out. So part of the blame should lie with them, too."

"We still should have called in and checked, though," I tell him. "It was standard protocol, after all. Especially after the neighbor lady told us that there was an order of protection against Walters. The review board landed on my ass for that this morning."

"But it was merely a welfare check call," he reminds me. "Not a domestic. You know yourself that a lot of times, welfare check calls turn out to be either bogus or just someone that's gone on vacation and forgotten to notify anyone that they're leaving. It comes down to this fact, Pete. Melissa Walters had ample opportunity to let someone, any of us that responded out there in the past, know that her husband was abusing her and her kids. She didn't. And she ended up paying for it with her life and that of her kids."

I look at him. "But you can't blame her for what happened," I tell him sharply. "She'd filed for divorce. She'd gotten an order of protection against him. What more could she do? Go into hiding under an assumed name? Because I can guarantee you that an asshole like Stuart Walters would've tracked her and the kids down no matter what."

"No, now I'm not saying that at all," he says defensively. "No, she's not to blame for what happened in the end to her and her kids. But maybe if she'd taken action BEFORE then, she'd still be alive, or at least that's what I'd hope, anyway."

I study my hands. "And maybe, on the other hand, none of it would've made a damned bit of difference. The bastard would've ended up slaughtering her and her kids just the same."

"Pete," Reed says quietly. "I was at the station earlier today, filling out my medical leave forms. I ran into Jerry Miller while I was there. He told me something that I think you can probably guess at in regards to Stuart Walters."

"He was molesting his daughter," I reply. "Yeah, I figured that one out, Jim. The newspapers pretty much struck that idea home in their articles, even though they danced around the issue rather nicely without pointing fingers."

"That's true, but there's one fact that the papers didn't reveal," he tells me.

"What's that?"

"Natalie wasn't his child. She was only his stepchild. Melissa Walters had been married before and had Natalie by that man. He was killed over in Vietnam when Natalie was just a baby, and Melissa remarried rather quickly. The only two kids that were Walters' own were the two little boys, Andrew and Matthew."

"That would explain why he took out a lot of his hatred on her," I tell him. "She wasn't his blood child. He must have resented that."

"And not only that, but Miller also told me that Stuart Walters had been molesting Natalie since she was about two. He gotten caught at it while they were living up in Sacramento. One of the neighbors turned him in. After he went to jail and served his time, he was ordered to undergo therapy and to not have any contact with his wife or kids for a year. He must have been able to keep his perverted attitude clean long enough in order to complete the counseling. When the year was up, he moved them all down here to L.A. He went right back to abusing Natalie, picking up where he'd left off." Reed's voice sounds queasy.

"Who turned him in down here?" I ask.

"Melissa did. Finally, after all those years of letting him doing that to her little girl, she turned him in. Whether or not she believed him that he was innocent the first time around, she didn't believe him the second time. That's when she kicked his ass out and filed for divorce. Miller found all that out after interviewing her parents." He bites his lip. "But she let it go on for all those years without doing anything about it. She subjected her daughter to unspeakable acts by her own husband and just turned a blind eye to it all. What kind of mother is that, that you'd let your own child get harmed by your husband, just so you could keep a man around the house?"

"I dunno. Ask my mom that sometime, Jim," I tell him quietly. "Maybe she can answer that for you. She's the great expert at turning a blind eye to family problems."

He smiles, but there's no humor in it. "Yeah, what goes on behind closed doors is a family's greatest secret of all, huh?"

I nod. "Present a normal life to the smiling public with the aid of smoke and mirrors, and no one ever looks behind the curtain to see the awful truth unmasked."

"That's why I don't understand why you're so upset about not feeling any regret for killing Walters," Reed says bitterly. "If it were me that had pulled the trigger on the bastard, I'd have danced a jig."

I shake my head. "No, you wouldn't. You wouldn't have enjoyed his death at your hands. Not at all."

"Do you?" he asks, cocking his head. "Enjoy his death at your hands?"

"No, I'm NOT enjoying it, Reed," I snap. "Why the hell do you think I'm beating myself up over it?"

He spreads his hands out, palms up. "So? Then what's all this crap you keep rambling on about, not feeling guilty for killing him, thinking you've killed him in cold blood, and because of it, you're going to hell for it? Explain that to me, Pete, because I sure as hell don't seem to understand it."

A sudden, restless energy seizes hold of me and I leap to my feet. I feel like I have to be in motion right now, or else I will go crazy. I swipe a hand through my hair, pacing nervously back and forth across the living room. "I don't know," I tell him. "It's hard to explain."

"Try me," he says.

"I AM!" I snap again, my hotheaded temper running just below the surface once more. I don't look at Jim sitting on the couch as I speak. "I think I knew, from the minute he set foot on those stairs and started to come down into the basement after shooting you, that I wasn't going to let him leave alive."

"Yeah, so? He'd already shot me, so it wasn't like you had much choice, Pete."

"Yes, I did, Jim. I had a choice. I could've tried taking him alive. But instead, I wanted him to give me a reason, ANY reason at all, to just shoot him as he came down those steps. And I hid underneath those steps in that dark basement, just waiting for him to come to me."

"But you DID try to take him alive, after he got down there, didn't you?" he asks. "That's how you got the cut on your cheek. He got away from you when you tried to cuff him."

"You don't get it," I groan, clenching my hands into fists. "Yes, something prevailed over me, some vestige of common sense took ahold of me at the very last minute and made me realize what I was about to do. I was about to commit murder and it would've passed off as self-defense easily. I could claim to the review board that he came down the basement steps, with the gun in his hand, and I didn't want to take any chances on my own welfare, so I shot him, plain and simple."

"But you don't operate that way, Pete. You never have."

"I know it, and that's where the common sense kicked it. I couldn't live with myself if I'd done something as dastardly as that, so as he went to turn the light on down there, I sidled up to him and stuck my gun to the back of his head, surprising him. I figured I'd might as well try to take the bastard alive, even though he didn't really deserve it. But the whole time I was trying to convince him to drop the gun, I was secretly hoping he'd draw down on me, just so I could shoot him where he stood. When he dropped the gun and went over to the workbench at my command, I was a bit disappointed, I'll admit that. Then when he made the move and got away from me, I was nearly glad, you know?" I ask. "Because then it would give me an excuse to shoot him. I got the light turned back off and hid underneath those steps once more, just waiting for him to cross into my line of fire."

"But it wasn't like you had any choice, Pete," Reed repeats. "He was coming after you with the gun. Mac told me Walters had found it once more and was hunting for you. So the way I see it, you didn't have much choice in how it ultimately ended. It was either you kill him or he kill you. It's as simple as that." He frowns. "Will you sit down and stop pacing? You're making me edgy."

I continue to pace, nervously, frantically. "I waited for him, Jim. I waited for him to come to me. I WANTED to kill him, so help me God. And when I got that chance, I just jumped at it, like a tiger pouncing on fresh meat."

"Pete, if you didn't kill him when you had the chance, you'd be dead by now. He'd of killed you for certain. I know it. You just did what you had to do in order to protect yourself, that's all. It's nothing more sinister than that," Reed argues.

"I waited for him," I moan, wringing my hands. "I hid under those steps and waited for him."

"So damned what if you did?" Reed snaps. "I'd have done the same thing, Pete."

I swing my gaze around to meet his. "I was glad I pulled the trigger on him. I shouldn't be. I should regret the taking of a human life, even as one as miserable and scummy as his was. I played judge, jury, and executioner down in that basement, Reed. And just because I have a badge and a gun, it doesn't give me the right to cast myself in those roles. I'm not Dirty Harry."

"No one said you were!" he says, frustrated.

"Sergeant Friday did," I tell him. "He thinks I acted as a vigilante."

"Yeah, well, Friday's an ass," he remarks. "I got that impression from him when he interviewed me in the hospital."

I slap the back of my right hand into the open palm of my left. "But I let my emotions get in the way of the trigger!" I tell him. "Because of what I'd seen upstairs, I was glad to kill him!"

He snorts. "Do you honestly believe that to be true of yourself, Pete? Despite what you saw upstairs, you DID not let your emotions get in the way of the trigger, believe me."

"How do you know?" I ask sharply. "Did you know what was going through my mind at that time?"

"Pete, I'm not stupid. If you let your emotions get in the way of the trigger, why didn't you just shoot the bastard at the TOP of the stairs, instead of letting him get all the way down into the basement?" he asks. He comes to his feet, approaching me. "Look," he says, putting his hands on my shoulders and stopping my pacing. "You gave him the chance to surrender after he got down there. You tried to take him alive. But it didn't work out that way. It just didn't. You ended up killing him, simply out of your own self-defense." He turns me towards the recliner and gives me a small shove in that direction. "Now sit down before you drive me nuts."

Wearily, I plunk back down. "I STILL think I'm a cold-blooded killer," I tell him.

"Why? Because you don't regret what you did? And that somehow makes you a cold-blooded killer?" he asks, sitting back down on the couch. "Pete, a lot of people would think you're a hero for what you did. Just because you don't regret it, doesn't mean you're a murderer, or that you're going to go to hell. Trust me on that."

I pick up the lighter and begin to play with it again. I try to think of how best to explain my thoughts to Jim. "I looked into his eyes, Jim, right before I pulled the trigger on him," I tell him quietly. "He saw RIGHT into my soul. He knew that I didn't feel bad for killing him. He recognized that streak of maliciousness, of cruelty in me. It's the same streak that ran through him. It's the same streak that runs through my father," I say. "And I'm afraid now to meet my own eyes in the mirror every morning. I fear that I'm going to see HIS eyes staring back at me...or worse, those of my father's." A shudder runs through me again at that thought, shaking me violently.

"Whoa, now, hey," he says, putting his hands up in a stopping motion. "You need to stop thinking that right this instant, Pete. Stuart Walters was a madman, a psychopath. He could've looked into the eyes of Mary freakin' Poppins and saw a killer within. Men like him are that way. Don't go visiting his evil on yourself. It doesn't belong to you, it's not of you. It's of him. Let it remain with him. You're worth millions of Stuart Walters, Pete, and no matter what you think, you're nothing like him at all. The same with your dad. You're absolutely nothing like him in the least. I know that for a fact."

"Do you, Jim?" I ask. "Do you really know that for a fact?" I draw in a ragged shaky breath. "I don't know how much more of this I can take before I crack. Between the damned nightmares and my own conscience, I'm afraid that I WILL end up sticking a gun to my head and ending it all, just like John Randolph."

He frowns, puzzled. "Who's John Randolph?"

"He's a guy that was on the force, long before you ever came on," I tell him tiredly. "He was good friends with Val and Mac. He shot and killed himself during my rookie year."

"So? What's that got to do with you?" he asks.

"Randolph couldn't live with what he'd done a few years prior. He'd been involved in an accident. His squad car hit and killed a young boy. He was the driver. The board cleared him of any wrongdoing, but he couldn't clear himself of it in his mind. Eventually it got to be too much for him to handle, so he stuck a gun in his mouth and blew his head off. Val and I were the ones that took the call. It really shook both Val and Mac up, seeing their friend end up that way."

"And then you'd know how much it would shake ME up to find YOU that way," he says softly.

I shake my head. "You'd get over it," I tell him.

"Maybe you should ask Val or Mac if they got over Randolph's suicide," he tells me, anger lacing his voice. "Because I sure as hell know I wouldn't get over yours."

"But you don't understand," I snap. "If I've already hit THAT point, what hope is there for me at all?"

"Goddamnit, Pete!" he snarls, pounding the coffee table hard with his fist, making the stuff on top of it bounce. "This is what I'm trying to TELL you! There IS hope for you! All you have to do is just LOOK, damn it!"

I jab a finger at him angrily. "Where?" I growl. "Just where in the hell am I supposed to look, Reed? Is there a store around here that sells hope by the bushel? Let me know, 'cuz I'd sure as hell like to buy some!"

"It's in your friends, you damned stupid fool," he tells me. "If you'd put a little faith and trust in us, you'd find that out!"

"Yeah, well, faith and trust is something that I have in mighty short supply at this point in time, Reed," I tell him. "And believe me, I've gone looking for them, too. I even went to church, in hopes of finding answers there. And you know what? I didn't. All I got was a bunch of crap about taking a leap of faith. And that's not something I'm plan to do any time soon, I can tell you that for DAMNED sure!"

He rubs his forehead, closing his eyes wearily. "I'm not giving up on you, Pete, I'm just not," he says, muttering to himself. He opens his eyes, looking at me angrily. "I'm not giving up. None of us are. All of us are behind you, Pete, if you're just willing to let us help. We're in your corner, believe me."

I snort derisively. "Yeah? Name 'em," I demand. "Name who's in my corner for me. Change my bitter and jaded mind. Show me the faith in humanity that I so sorely lack right now."

He holds his hands up. "There's Mac, there's Val," he says, ticking them off on his fingers. "There's Ed Wells, Bob Brinkman, Jerry Woods. There's a host of others at the station, too numerous for me to mention. There's Jean." He points to himself. "And then there's me, Pete. I've been here from the beginning for you, but you've been too damn pig-headed and stubborn to see it."

"But this is MY cross to bear," I say. "It's my albatross. No one else's. And I sure as hell don't plan on laying the burden on anyone, either, just because I can't hack it myself. I shoulder my load on my own. I always have."

He sighs, rolling his eyes. "It is NOT your cross to bear, Pete. There's no cross for you TO bear. You need to quit thinking that, pronto. This whole awful mess is just nothing more than a sad and horrible tragedy. You didn't commit murder, you're not going to hell because you don't regret what you did. You are NOT like Stuart Walters. You are NOT a cold-blooded killer. You are NOT going to hell. How many times to I have to tell you that before it sinks into that thick skull of yours?"

I scowl. "But maybe…"

"But maybe nothing," he says, interrupting me. "I'm going to say something to you, and I want you to listen very carefully, without interrupting me, without questioning me, without getting irritated with me. Do you understand?"

"But…"

Reed holds his hand up, cutting me off. "It's a simple yes or no question, Pete. Either you do intend to listen carefully, or you don't. Got it?"

"Do I have a choice?" I ask dryly.

"Not a single one," he says. He stops for a moment, thinking and gathering his thoughts before he finally speaks. When he does, his voice is quiet. "You've lost your way somehow, Pete, and I hope that what I tell you will guide you back to where you belong, back to the man you were before any of this crap ever happened." He runs his hand through his hair. "Do you know what it would mean for me to lose you to suicide, Pete?" he asks.

"Probably not much," I remark, forgetting his earlier warning for me to shut up and listen to him.

He slaps his palm sharply against the coffee table. "What did I just say about interrupting me?" he barks.

"Not to do it," I tell him. "Sorry, force of habit. Go ahead."

"Despite what vile and self-loathing opinion you have of yourself right now, you're a good man, Pete, you truly are. I tell you that from the bottom of my heart. I've looked up to you for guidance all through my career on the force. Because of what you've taught me, I've become the cop I am today. All the training, all the knowledge, all the harsh brutal truths you've forced down my throat over the years have made me what I am now. Do you understand me?" he asks, looking at me intently.

"I guess," I say, nodding. I catch his gaze for a moment, then I look away under his scrutiny. "Stop staring at me," I mutter. "It makes me uncomfortable."

"Good," he says, still staring at me with those intense blue eyes of his. "I intend it that way. What you've taught me, how you've trained me, has made me a good police officer. But I have a LONG ways to go before I can ever hope to fill your shoes, Pete. If I even become HALF of the officer you are now today, I will have at least accomplished something." He hesitates, biting his lip. "I can count on you, Pete. I always have. I've counted on you to show me the way, the RIGHT way, and my faith in you has never been shaken, not even once."

"Not even now?" I ask softly, keeping my eyes on the floor.

"Not even now." Reed gets up from the couch and shifts over to sitting on the coffee table in front of me, pushing the stuff on top of it aside. He puts a hand on my shoulder and I don't flinch away from him this time. I still keep my eyes on the floor, though. "Pete, please look at me," he says gently.

I shake my head miserably. "No. I can't. I can't look you in the eyes, not right now, Jim. And don't ask me to do that. I don't want to see what I think I'm going to see."

"What do you think you're going to see?" he asks.

I shrug. "Pity. And if there's one thing I can't stand, it's pity."

"Look at me, Pete, please." He shakes me a little bit. "I promise, you won't see pity in my eyes."

Unwillingly, I drag my eyes up to meet his. And he's right; instead of seeing pity, I see a steely admiration and respect…and friendship.

"You're a good man, Pete. You're one of the best I've ever had the privilege to know," he says, holding my gaze. "You've come through sheer hell and survived it. What happened to you in your younger years has made you the strong person you are today. You haven't let yourself steep and wallow in self-pity, you've gathered the broken bonds of your past around you and moved on. And while, yes, the Walters tragedy has allowed those ghosts of your past resurface, I have every faith in you that you can put them behind you once more and move on, as time passes, and with the help of friends. You just have to be willing to believe in yourself, Pete. Take that leap of faith. It may not be as big as you think."

"That's the second time I've been told that in recent days," I mumble. I drop my gaze back down to my hands, as the sting of tears pricks my eyes. "I don't deserve this," I tell him softly. "I don't deserve friends like you, Jim."

"Why?" he asks gently. "Did you ever consider that maybe we don't deserve such a good friend like you?"

I shake my head, rubbing tears off of my face with my hands. "I can't seem to stop crying," I tell him. "I've never cried this much in the past, now it seems like I can't stop, you know?" I keep my eyes on the floor once more. "I don't know what to do. For the first time in my life, I honestly don't know what to do. And it scares me. A lot. I've always been able to handle whatever life throws my way, and this time, I can't. And I don't know why." I shrug. "I think that's why I considered killing myself this morning. I just don't know how to handle this at all. I thought that would be the easiest way out."

"But it's not, Pete. It's never the answer to ANY of life's little problems, and you should know that by now." He is quiet for a moment, his hand still on my shoulder. When he speaks again, his voice is choked with emotion. "I do know this much, Pete. You're my friend, one of the truest and best friends I've ever had the pleasure to have known. That's what I count on you for most of all…the gift of your friendship. You've always been there for me to lean on whenever I've needed someone. You lend a listening ear when I need to vent, and you give me advice even when I don't ask for it. I draw my strength from you just as much as I draw it from Jean and Jimmy. I'm honored, very honored, and awfully damned grateful that you're my friend, Pete. I want you to know that. And to have that friendship taken away from me, to have YOU taken away from me, just because you decided to kill yourself over some lowlife scumbag like Stuart Walters…well, it would devastate me."

"Why?" I ask. "It shouldn't."

"What stopped you from pulling the trigger on yourself this morning Pete?" he asks.

I am silent as I think. I look up then, not at him, but at the picture that hangs on my wall. It was taken on the day James Reed, Jr. had been christened. Jean and Jim flank Sarah, Jean's sister and Jimmy's godmother, and me, Jimmy's godfather. I'm holding him, looking down at him with fierce pride and love on my face. That kid had me wrapped around his finger from the moment I laid eyes on that tiny bundle in Jim's arms at the hospital on the day he was born. I bite my lip. "It was Jimmy," I say in a choked whisper. "The thought of Jimmy finding out that his Uncle Pete did that to himself, it felt like a disgrace. A shameful disgrace." I sigh heavily. "I didn't want to leave that kind of legacy for anyone, let alone my godson. I couldn't see doing that to Val and Mac, and you, especially you. It would be too much of a burden to place upon your souls. And I know I couldn't do that to Jimmy. I love him too much to put him through something like that." I scrub at the fresh tears that roll down my cheeks. "Maybe…maybe that makes me some kinda coward, that I couldn't pull the trigger on myself," I say miserably. "But I just couldn't do it, Jim. I just couldn't do it."

He grips my shoulder hard. "You're not a coward, Pete. You're far, far from that. You're one of the bravest guys I've ever known. You've just been carrying a lot around on your mind and in your soul, and that's not good for you. It's driven you down to this. And so now it's time to let your own burden go, Pete. Let those that care about you step in and help carry it now." He shakes me by the shoulder once more. "Look, Pete, I don't have any ready answers for either of us right now," he says. "But I do know this much: we're friends, Pete, and friends get through the really crappy times together. We help each other out, through the good and the bad, no matter what. Got it?"

"What about your list?" I ask, blurting the words out before I can stop them.

He frowns. "My list? What list are you talking about?" he asks in confusion.

"The other morning, after I got back to the station from doing the walk-through with Jerry Miller, I put your briefcase and helmet bag back into your locker for you," I tell him. "While I was doing that, a piece of paper fell out and landed on the floor. I picked it up to put it back, not planning on reading it, but I couldn't help but NOT read it, you had it so clearly written out."

"Oh, yeah, THAT list," he says sheepishly. "Look, Pete, I can explain…"

"Please do," I tell him dryly. "Considering that not being paired with me was listed in both the pro AND the con column."

"Oh boy," he says, rubbing his forehead. "I'm sorry you found that, Pete." He fumbles in the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a folded piece of paper. Vivid blue ink is scrawled across it. He holds it up to me. "This list," he says. "Was made on one of the nights I was in a really crummy mood. Nothing had gone right for us that shift. We'd had three separate juvenile trouble calls, two burglaries in which the homeowners blamed us for not keeping a twenty-four hour guard on their homes, two car wrecks caused by drunks, four domestics, and FIVE loud party calls. I was grumpy, you were extremely grouchy, and it seemed like all we could do was snap at each other that night. We missed our seven, and I ended up going home to nothing but cold cuts and canned soup, since Jean got tired of waiting dinner on me and threw the meatloaf out. Mac landed on my ass because I filled out a report wrong, and Wells seemed to take SPECIAL delight that night to needle me to no end. In short, it was the shift from HELL, and I made that list up mostly out of frustration. It's awful damned hard to do this job day in and day out, without getting irritated once in a while. You should know, you've been a beat cop for nearly twelve years now. You know how it gets, Pete, and you know in your heart that it will never get any better, it will only get worse. Some days it seems like the entire planet is screwed up royally, and no one gives a damn."

"That's quite a speech," I tell him a bit acidly. "Maybe you SHOULD consider taking the Investigator's exam. Sounds like you ARE getting burned out on this job. Take care that you don't develop much more to your dark side. You don't want to get like me. Jaded and bitter me."

Reed stares at me. "I told you before, Pete, I didn't mean anything by that," he says, obviously stung. "Just like I don't mean anything by this." He flicks the folded note with his index finger and thumb. Then he holds his hand out to me, wriggling his fingers. "Give me your lighter," he says.

I hand it to him wordlessly, my eyes watching his every move carefully.

Flicking the lid open, he rubs his thumb across the wheel, bringing the tiny tongue of flame to life. He holds it to the piece of paper, setting it on fire, the flames eagerly devouring the folded square like it's an all-you-can-eat buffet. He drops the paper into the ashtray, watching as the flames eat their fill, chewing the paper down to a small pile of mere grey and black ashes. He sets the lighter down on the table. "There. It's gone. I'm not taking the exam next month."

I stare at him. "Why not?" I ask in amazement. "You'd make a good investigator, Jim. A damned good one. Don't you want to advance in your career?"

He sighs, rubbing his forehead again. "Yes, I do, but not right now. It's Jean that's pushing me to take that further step in my career, not me." He shoots me a look. "What about you, Pete? Why don't you take the Sergeant's exam in January? Don't you want to advance in YOUR career?"

"I'm not ready to give up patrol work, Jim," I tell him. "Plus, I don't have a wife and child to worry about providing for. You do. You should take the exam."

He shakes his head. "I'm not ready to give up patrol work, either, despite the occasional misgiving. It gets in my blood, you know?"

"I do," I tell him. We fall silent again, lost in our thoughts. Then I nudge him with my foot. "Hey, would you mind moving your butt off of my coffee table?" I ask. "I would really rather not have my furniture destroyed by you and your friendly tapeworm sitting on something that's not MEANT to be sat upon."

He shoots me a grin. "Hey, my tapeworm and I are offended by that, Pete." He starts to shift back over to the couch when the oven timer dings, signaling that the pizza is done. "Good!" he says, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the culinary feast that awaits us. "Pizza's done. I'm starved!" He gets up and goes into the kitchen.

I grab up the bottle of whiskey and follow him. I watch as he takes the metal pan out of the oven with oven mitts, setting it on top of the stove to cool while he looks for the pizza cutter. I catch his eye as he's rummaging in the utensil drawer. Wordlessly, I slosh the liquid around in the bottle for a second, then I unscrew the cap, dumping the rest of the whiskey down the drain. When it's gone, I toss the bottle into the trash. "There," I say, brushing my hands off. "That won't be a problem anymore."

He stares at me. "But what's to stop you from buying more?" he asks solemnly. "When things get bad again?"

"Let's just say it's a small step in that leap of faith," I tell him. "The larger leap is learning to rely on my friends when I need them."

He is quiet, biting his lip. Then he looks at me. "It's gonna be alright, isn't it?" he asks softly. "I mean, we're gonna get through this horrible nightmare together somehow, right?"

I study him for a moment. I see no condemnation, no disgust, no disappointment in his eyes. Instead, I just see good ol' Jim Reed. "Yeah, we'll be alright," I tell him. "We'll get through this together. A wise man once told me that that's what friends do."

Reed nods sagely. "Indeed they do," he says. He begins rummaging some more in the drawer, frowning. "Where in the world is your pizza cutter at?" he asks.

"Next drawer down," I tell him. "Hey, would you MIND not messing up my silverware?" I ask.

He shoves the drawer shut. "Well excuse me, I didn't know you had moved the cutters from that drawer," he remarks dryly. "Since when did you do that?"

"Since I moved IN here, Reed," I tell him. I reach into the cupboards overhead and pull down two plates and cups.

"Oh," he says. He begins carefully slicing the pizza into equal portions. I notice that he manages to cut some of the pieces a little bit bigger than the others, and I know that they are going to casually wander over onto his plate instead of mine.

I open the refrigerator. "What d'ya want to drink? I've got beer and soda."

"What kind of soda?" he asks, surreptitiously slipping some of the larger slices onto his plate, hoping that I won't notice him doing it.

"Pepsi," I tell him. "And you'd better plan on leaving me a couple of those larger slices, partner, or you and your tapeworm can go home hungry, while I eat the whole thing myself."

"Drat," he says. Sighing, he gives me two of the larger slices while he takes the other two. The third slices are cut evenly, so there's no quarrel there as he plops them on the plates. He shoots me a look. "I shoulda known you'd be watching," he grumbles. "I'll take a Pepsi."

I take two bottles out of the fridge and set them on the counter. Opening up the freezer, I take the ice trays out, twisting them to break loose the ice cubes so I can drop them into our glasses.

Reed drops the pizza cutter into the sink, grabbing up a bottle of pop. Reaching in front of me, he plucks the magnetized bottle opener from my refrigerator, snapping the metal cap off of the bottle of pop with a smooth twist. Then he grabs up my bottle of pop and does the same, tossing the caps into the trash. He hands me my bottle, sticking the magnetized opener back on the fridge with a thunk. He picks up his own pop and holds it up in front of him. "I propose a toast," he intones solemnly.

I raise my eyebrows. "With Pepsi?" I ask. "Don't you need champagne for a toast?

He sighs heavily. "Pete, I'm trying to be serious here. Can't you play along?"

I hold my own pop up. "Okay, a toast. To what?"

He thinks for a moment. "Three things. To a new start…"

"A new start to what?" I ask, interrupting him. "Nothing new has been started that I'm aware of. Of course, I might have missed the memo on that, too."

"Pete…" he warns.

"Sorry, go ahead."

"To a new start for you, in hopes that you won't keep all that junk bottled up inside of you from now on, until a tragedy makes you face it."

"That's one," I say.

"Pete!" he tells me. "The second is to friendship. My mother always says that true friendships are like rare and precious gemstones. When you find one that special, you need to treasure it forever."

"Aww, you're gonna make me cry," I say, wiping a mock tear from my eye. "It sounds like you've been reading the Hallmark cards at the drugstore again."

"PETE!" he snaps, his eyes wide in frustration. "I'm trying to be serious and you're acting like one of the Three Stooges!"

"Woob woob woob," I say, in my best Curly voice.

Reed stares at me for a moment, then he busts into laughter. He shakes his head, snorting. "You know, I never woulda pegged you as Curly," he says. "You're more of a Moe Howard."

"Oh, wise guy, eh?" I ask, still channeling Curly. "Before you collapse of hysterics, pal, what's the third thing we're toasting to?" I inquire. "I'd kinda like to eat my pizza sometime in this century yet."

He grins at me. "The third thing we're toasting to is taking that leap of faith, Pete."

I frown. "I'm not sure that I've taken it yet, Jim."

He cocks his head. "Yeah, you have. You took it when you opened up to me earlier and told me all that stuff about your past. You took it when you admitted that you were having nightmares, just like me. And you took it when you finally laid down that cross you've been carrying around for the last three days." He smiles again. "It wasn't such a big leap after all, was it, Pete?" he asks.

I grin back at him wryly. "Yeah, after you pushed me over the edge," I tell him. I clink my pop bottle against his. "To a new start, friendship, and taking the leap of faith," I say.

"Hear, hear," he says, taking a swig of pop. He burps loudly. "Excuse me," he says sheepishly. "It's my tapeworm speaking."

I roll my eyes in mock-disgust. "Didn't your mother teach you any manners?" I ask, grabbing up a plate of pizza slices. I snag a napkin from the counter, and go into the living room.

Reed follows, his own plate in his hands. "Yeah, but I gotta teach Jimmy sometime how to burp. Gotta make his old man proud, you know." He sits down on the couch, plate of pizza in his lap.

I take a bite of my own pizza, chewing it thoughtfully. "Hey…uh…thanks," I mumble after I swallow.

"For what?" he asks. He tries to catch a string of melted cheese that is rapidly sliding off of his slice of pizza in his mouth. His eyes widen. "Ooh, HOT!" he rasps, choking. He grabs the pop and takes a few healthy swigs. "I burned my tongue," he moans. "What are you thanking me for, Pete?" he asks, casting me a glance.

"For…for…everything, you know?" I say.

He nods. "No problem, Pete. You're very welcome."

I twirl a strand of melted cheese from my own slice of pizza onto my finger before I pop it into my mouth. "You know, I'd hug ya, but then I'd hafta kill ya."

Jim Reed flashes one of those patented huge white grins of his. "Yeah, likewise," he says.

I match his grin with one of my own, a genuine Pete Malloy smile. It feels good to smile again, but I don't have to tell him that. He already knows it. And in the late autumn evening, I feel my soul finally lighten, soar upward, as the burden of the last few days lifts on feather light wings. Amidst it all, I send up a very thankful and heartfelt prayer to God for giving me such a good friend like Jim Reed. For while Jim doesn't know it, he saved me that night…he saved me from myself. Because of it, I'm truly, truly grateful.


The next day I got the good news about my future as a police officer for the city of Los Angeles. The review board examined the evidence and the testimony presented before them concerning the Walters case that Wednesday morning, and came to the conclusion that my killing of Stuart Walters was wholly justified and I acted in my self-defense. I was officially cleared of any wrongdoing as far as the shooting was concerned, but I drew two days' suspension for my failure to follow protocol in the way I handled the situation from the start. I took the punishment without any complaints, for the notion that it might have been far worse was quite clear in my mind. I very well could have been stripped of my badge and arrested for murder, something I shudder to even think about now.

I made a tenuous peace with Jean Reed, the two of us reaching an unspoken truce for the sake of the two Jims, big Jim and little Jim. The happiness and love I get from my little godson more than makes up for any slight dislike I might feel for Jean. However, since the Walters incident happened, I began to notice a changing shift in her attitude towards Jim's job; a change that showed up in her occasional catty remarks about Jim not advancing in his career as fast as she'd like. Jim always blew it off, but it eventually came to a head in 1975, when he was awarded the Medal Of Valor for saving my life in a shoot-out. Jean was not going to attend the award ceremony, despite knowing how much it meant to Jim, and her attitude very nearly drove them apart. However, their love for each other managed to pull them through that rough period of their lives, and I'm happy to say that they're still together.

I'd like to say that after that night of my numerous confessions to Jim, the nightmares left me for good. Unfortunately, they didn't. I still have them, once in a while, but they occur with less and less frequency, and I know now how to deal with them, without the help of booze. I know that my friends are there to guide me through them, and for that, I'm eternally grateful. I've gotten their unwavering support, especially Jim's, when the nights turn bad. I guess he's right, true friendship is like a rare and precious gemstone. And I treasure it every day…even on the days when it seems like all we can do is drive each other crazy.

Curiously, I did have one dream after my confessions; a few days after it, in fact. I dreamed that I was watching Melissa Walters and her three small children playing in a beautiful green park, bright smiles on all of their faces. They were all so happy together. I started to turn away from them, but someone called my name. I turned back to see little Natalie running towards me. She wrapped her arms around my legs as she looked up at me with those deep blue eyes and that gap-toothed grin across her tiny freckled face. I saw no anguish, or sorrow, or fear in those eyes, only pure happiness. She hugged me tightly for a moment, then she scampered off to rejoin her mother and her two little brothers. As I watched, they began to fade from my view, their images slowly dissolving in front of me like wisps of smoke. The last thing I saw of each of them was Melissa's beautiful smile, Andrew's shining mop of curls glowing like a halo, Matthew's plump little face breaking into a happy baby grin, and Natalie's tiny wave goodbye to me. I heard her small voice whisper past my ears for just a brief moment, saying, "Thank you, Peter;" then I woke up, tears rolling down my face. But they were not tears of sorrow, they were tears of joy. Melissa and her little ones had finally found their peace…and so have I.

And just today, while we were on our seven, Reed asked me something that had evidently been bouncing around in his brain for a while. "Hey, Pete," he says, chewing a bite of his hamburger thoughtfully. "I wanna know something."

I steal one of his french fries, my own having long been eaten. "Shoot," I tell him with a grin as I catch his dismay at his pilfered fry.

"Stop stealing my food," he says with a frown, covering his fries up and scooting them out of my reach.

"That's what you wanted to know?" I ask him sarcastically.

"No, that's not it," he says, taking a swig of his coffee. "That afternoon in the hospital, right after the Walters case, when I was still laid up, remember?"

I shrug. "Yeah, what about it?" I filch another fry from him.

He scowls. "Order another bag of fries, Pete, if you're that hungry. But stop eating mine!"

"Ah, but has no one ever taught you, young grasshopper, that the taste of stolen french fries are the sweetest of all?" I reply. "They're like manna from heaven."

"Yeah, well, get your own manna from heaven!" he says. He grabs my wrist and stops my hand from snaking toward another delectable fry. "I swear to God, if you snag one more fry, I'm gonna lick all of them!"

I grimace. "Eww, where'd you learn that from?" I ask with disgust.

He smirks. "Your godson, that's who."

"Bright kid."

"Takes after his old man," Jim says with a grin.

"In looks only. He gets his brains from his Uncle Pete. I'm teaching that kid all of what I know."

"That's what I'm afraid of," he remarks wryly. "It's bad enough having YOU around, I don't need a mini-Malloy at home." He takes another bite of his hamburger. "Anyway, I was wondering…"

"Who wrote the book of love?" I ask.

"Can't you be serious for once?" he asks.

"Aren't I always?"

He studies me for a moment. "I'm gonna hafta plead the fifth on that, Pete." He sighs. "That day in the hospital, when you and Mac came to see me, Mac said something to you. I've tried to figure it out, but for the life of me, I can't. So I'm asking you to explain it to me."

"I'll try. Mac says a lot of things, some of which I manage to conveniently forget the minute his back is turned." I lean forward, pretending like I'm interested in what Reed is going to say. In reality, I'm angling for another fry.

Drat, he reads my mind, grabbing the bag of fries up and setting them on the seat next to him. "Mac told you 'two years.' He was holding you to two years, he had it marked on his calendar. What in the hell did he mean by that, Pete?"

I smile at him, my best Pete Malloy grin guaranteed to win myself another fry. "Gimmie a fry and I'll tell you," I wheedle.

"Oh, here," he says with disgust, tossing the bag on the table between us. "I can't bear the thought of you going starved the rest of the afternoon, for lack of french fry fulfillment. The guilt alone would be overwhelming."

I stare at the fries with abject disappointment. "Now they're not as interesting," I mumble. "Stolen fries are best, freely given ones aren't." Still, I snatch up a couple, popping them into my mouth.

"Are you going to tell me?" Jim demands.

"Tell you what?" I ask innocently.

"What the hell Mac meant that day! It's driving me nuts!"

"Ah, that," I muse, rubbing my chin thoughtfully. "Yes, I DO seem to recall that conversation."

"WELL?" Impatience flushes his face.

"Hmm, let me think…" I say, looking thoughtfully up to the ceiling as I pretend to try to remember the conversation, one that I actually recall quite well.

"Damn it, Pete, you're driving me insane!" he snaps. "Tell me what Mac meant, please!"

"Have you never learned the art of patience, young grasshopper?" I ask.

"Pete, I swear to GOD, if you don't tell me what Mac meant, I will whack you up alongside your thick skull with my nightstick!" he growls.

"My, my, threatening your superior officer with violence," I remark. "What is this world coming to, when a junior officer threatens his senior officer?" I shake my head sadly. "Such a sad state of affairs. Sounds like you're giving into your dark side, Reed."

"Hey, you only got that promotion because they were sick and tired of you being the oldest one on the watch without ever having advanced," he says. "At the rate you're going, old man, by the time you get ready to be promoted to Sergeant, you'll be hauling a walker and an oxygen tank around."

"Ooh, testy, aren't we?" I snark. "And I'm not that old, Reed. I'm only older than you by eight years."

"Is that in dog years or human years?" he quips. "By my standards, that makes you ancient." He grins. "Tell me, Pete. Did you have a yabba-dabba doo time back in the good old days? Didja hafta drive your car with your feet?"

"Speaking of cars, did you have any hope to drive Adam-12 sometime in the future?" I ask, grinning back. "Because I can tell you without a doubt, you just blew any chance you might have right now."

"I'll drive it when you retire," he says.

"Oh, but you'll be head of the detectives by that time," I tell him. "You'll have your own car to drive."

He finishes off the rest of his hamburger in a single bite. "You gonna tell me what Mac meant that day?" he asks around the mouthful of food.

I frown. "Didn't your mother ever teach you not to chew with your mouth open?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "Nope. Now tell me. Or I'll go to Mac myself and ask him."

I smile. "Mac won't tell you either, Jim." I sigh, deciding to put him out of his misery…at least a little bit. "It's a promise for the future," I tell him.

"What?" he asks with dismay, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "What kind of answer is THAT?"

"The truth," I tell him, standing up and taking my lunch discards over to the trash.

Reed follows. "The truth? I don't get it, Pete."

I turn around and look at him. I shrug. "It's just what I said, Jim. The conversation between Mac and I that day in the hospital was a promise for the future. That's it."

He tosses his garbage into the trash barrel. "You know, sometimes I think talking to you is like talking to the Sphinx," he says, shaking his head. He snorts. "The truth…a promise for the future."

"Trust me, young grasshopper, eventually you will learn," I tell him in my wisest-elder voice as I head over to the black-and-white squad car.

He starts to climb in on the passenger side, sulking. Then he brightens. "Okay, can I at least have SOME idea of what this so-called 'promise for the future' is?"

I cock my head, pretending to consider it quite seriously. "Well, I WOULD tell you," I drawl. "But I don't want to spoil the surprise."

He studies me. "Somehow, I get the feeling that you're enjoying this rather immensely."

"You bet. Clear us."

He picks up the mike and clears us from our seven. "So what's the surprise?" he asks casually, obviously hoping that maybe I'll let it slip. "And don't tell me it's a promise for the future, either."

"Reed, if I tell you now, it won't be a surprise, will it?" I ask. "Besides, didn't anyone ever tell you that good things come to those that wait?"

"But I can't wait two whole years to find out what it is!" he groans. He looks at me with a frown. "You're not gonna tell me, are you?"

I shake my head, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Nope."

"You know what, Pete? Keep your silly, stupid ol' secret," he grumbles, looking out the window as he sulks once more. "I probably don't really want to know what it is. It's probably something incredibly dull, like buying yourself a new car."

"I wouldn't exactly consider buying myself a new car all that dull, Reed. It's actually pretty exciting," I say, steering the car down Wilshire Boulevard. "And as far as trying to discover what my secret is, all I can say is, you're learning."

A faint smile appears on his face. "Yeah, from the best," he replies. Then he shrugs nonchalantly. "Eh, don't worry, I'll eventually figure it out, and then your big secret won't be a secret any longer."

"Maybe," is all I'll tell him as we settle back into our routine patrol. "It's taken all this time and you still haven't got a clue, so what makes you think you'll figure it out eventually?"

"I have two years to do it in, don't I?" he asks wryly.

"That you do, partner, that you do," I say. "And it's gonna be fun torturing you until you do."

"Gee, THANKS, Pete," he says sarcastically. "Can't I have at least ONE little hint?" he wheedles. "Just a tiny one?"

"Okay," I sigh. "Just one. That's it. No more. Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies. Got it?"

He nods eagerly. "Lay it on me, daddy-o."

I glance over at him. "Daddy-o?" I ask with a snort.

"An Elvis Presley movie was on last night and Jean and I watched it," he says. "So give me a hint," he says, rubbing his hands together in gleeful anticipation.

"The hint is…" I play it out as long as I can.

"Yeah, c'mon Pete. I don't want to die of old age before you reveal it," he says, impatience creeping into his voice.

"I'd probably die of old age first, thereby taking the secret to my grave with me," I tell him. "Anyway, the hint is…"

"Yeah, yeah, tell me already!" he says with avid curiosity. "I'll bet I can guess it with just the hint you give me."

"I seriously doubt it," I tell him. "The hint is…it's in the future."

"That's not a hint!" he cries. "No fair! You've already TOLD me THAT, Pete!"

I look over at him. "What can I say?" I ask with a shrug. "That's all I can tell you about it. The conversation between Mac and I is just a promise for the future. Nothing more than that." He starts to say something, but I hold my hand up, interrupting him. "And quit asking me now. I'm not telling you anymore."

He slouches in the seat, pouting one of his patented Jim Reed pouts. "You know, Pete, sometimes I really hate you," he mutters. Looking dejectedly out the window at the cityscape passing by, he shakes his head. "Promise for the future, right."

"You got it," I tell him, chuckling. "Daddy-o."

And, you know, it truly IS promise for the future, for both of us. But THAT, my friends, is a whole 'nother story…

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to the wonderful folks that brought the world of Adam-12 to us so many years ago. Without such fabulous actors as Martin Milner, Kent McCord, and William Boyett, the characters of Pete Malloy, Jim Reed, and Sergeant MacDonald would not be as enjoyable to watch on the small screen. And it would be even harder to bring them to life in the written word, giving them the voices and storylines that should so rightfully go on, even though the show has long since ended. Of course, Jack Webb was truly the master at bringing us such excellent and enjoyable shows back then…his creative genius belongs to a bygone era of television that is rather sadly missed in today's tv world. And I gotta admit, it was kind of fun casting good ol' Sergeant Friday as a bit of a heavy in this story.

I'd like to thank all the wonderful readers and reviewers who have stayed with this tale from the very beginning, I have truly appreciated the support and encouragement.