Only two more to go now after this ... Here's Chapter 6: Bosco takes Faith and her kids to the hospital, then tries to comfort the dying Cruz ... Yes, that's right folks - this is the chapter where Cruz buys it ;)



It's the damndest thing; last week's episode of Third Watch starts out with Johnny Cash's cover of "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails. Funny, because that's one of the songs I've been using to get myself into the mood to write this story ...

Chapter 6

June 26

Day 5



Bosco had expected it to be bad, but this was absolutely monstrous.

Every chair in the ER's waiting area was occupied, though not one person appeared to be conscious and several were quite obviously dead. There were more people - more bodies - on the floor. Some were in sleeping bags, some wrapped in sheets or blankets, some simply lying uncovered. And above it all, the smell was already overpowering.

They stood just inside the automatic doors, silently digesting what they were seeing. Bosco was carrying the still-unconscious Charlie and a small, sad little overnight bag he'd slung over his shoulder. Faith, still in her bathrobe, stood next to him while Emily - who had still not spoken a single word since they'd left the apartment - clung to her mother's side, looking closer to seven than fourteen.

He turned to Faith, the obvious question in his expression; why the hell did you want to come here, and do you really want to stay?

Faith only looked at him blankly, and he knew her mind was made up. Not that he really cared anymore. He remembered the grim little funeral ceremony they'd had over Fred just before they'd left her apartment, how Fred had looked covered by the sheet, the outline of his nose and open mouth still discernable through the fabric. Bosco supposed that when it came down to it the hospital wasn't much worse than that little ritual had been.

"Let's find a place," she said.

Bosco shrugged wearily and they began to weave delicately through the field of bodies. He tried not to look down at them, but of course that was always exactly where his eyes ended up. He saw Nurse Mary Proctor, slumped dead against the wall next to a drinking fountain, and so he started concentrating on feet and hands rather than faces, being very careful not to tread on an arm or leg ... or maybe even a neck. He didn't really know what would be worse at this point; to step on someone and have them cry out ... or step on someone and get no reaction at all.

They made their way into an examination room. There were people in there as well, of course, but there was a clear space on the floor in the far corner.

Faith sat down heavily, back up against the wall, and gently took Charlie from him. She put her son across her lap and rested his head on her knee while Emily nuzzled in close next to her.

"I have to go check on somebody," Bosco said softly, taking one of the blankets Faith had brought with her and tucking it around Charlie. "But I'll be back as soon as I can."

Faith smiled faintly. "Cruz?"

Bosco looked at her and shrugged. "I have to. I owe her that much. She has nobody, Faith." He tried to curb a sudden jab of the old, familiar defensiveness and was unsuccessful. "You want me to let her die alone, is that it? You think she deserves that?"

"She could be here somewhere, you know. What makes you think she'll be at home?"

"She will be," he said shortly.

"Bosco," Faith said gently. "What makes you think she might not be dead already?"

He swallowed hard and looked away, eyes falling on the outstretched leg of a young boy who was lying either unconscious or dead across the room. Cruz could already be dead, how true. He knew that. But it didn't change what he felt he had to do.

Faith spoke before he could find a response. "Go to her, Bosco," she said. "I'm too tired and it's way too late in the game to hold a grudge. Help her, if you can."

Bosco squeezed Faith's shoulder warmly, then looked down at Charlie and tousled the boy's hair. "Back as soon as I can," he murmured.

He stood up and started in on the grim task of picking his way back.

"Bosco," she said just as he reached the exam room's door, and he turned. "Be ... be careful what you expect from her."

"What?"

Faith shook her head and smiled sadly. "I don't want to fight with you, Bos. But just keep one thing in mind; some people don't change. No matter what happens. Some people never change."



***



There had been that period of anarchy, of looting and arson and street battles erupting between gangs and the Army, between gangs and the police, between the Army and the police, between the Army and the Army, and so on and so on. But the streets were quieter now, only the aftermath of the bedlam visible in most places; bodies, burning cars, burning buildings, debris, broken glass, looted stores.

That wasn't to say it was winding down just yet, though. Far from it. On the way to Cruz' building, Bosco passed the Pirate and his gang.

The Pirate was a big guy who looked like Jesse Ventura right down to the mustache. He had a red bandana tied around his bald head and an Army-issue M4 rifle cradled in his arms like a baby, looking every inch the nickname Bosco blessed him with. The Pirate was leading a group of six men, who flanked two pickup trucks in rows of three. The trucks were almost ridiculously overstuffed with TV sets, stereos, DVD players, furniture, even a few small kitchen appliances. They were rolling serenely along at parade-speed, probably scouting for their next target.

Bosco felt a moment of apprehension as he passed them; they were all heavily armed, and he could see two were Army deserters still wearing their fatigues. He gave them a wide berth, and as he passed, he caught the Pirate's eye. The Pirate, his nose running freely, grinned at him and flashed him the thumbs-up.

Bosco returned both the grin and the thumb, noting a large, obscenely beautiful widescreen TV in the back of the second truck. "Yeah, that's great," he hissed softly through the smile. "How are you gonna watch that thing once the power goes, jagoff?"

The Pirate and his gang continued on their way, Bosco on his. Four more blocks now and he'd be at Cruz' building.

And that raised the million-dollar question, didn't it? What was he gonna find there? Cruz dead in her bed, neck swollen, mouth hanging open, frozen in her final death-agonies just like poor ol' Fred Yokas? Or would she be alive? If the latter, would she want to see him? It was a selfish and despicable way to think, but Bosco didn't care; he really wanted to know. The last time they'd spoken Cruz had basically thrown him out of her life, but already that conversation felt like it took place a lifetime ago. Almost, you might say, in another world entirely. It would be different now. It had to be different now.

Some people never change.

Yeah, well, Faith didn't know everything. Cruz was dying, and would probably have realized it by now. Wouldn't she? She would understand the situation, right?

Maybe she'll be delirious, he thought suddenly. Fevered and confused, and maybe she'll have her gun nearby, and maybe she'll take a shot at me ...

Maybe maybe maybe. Fuck maybe. Three blocks to go now.

An ambulance drifted slowly and somewhat unsteadily across the intersection ahead, and Bosco actually found himself able to recognize the driver under the glow of the streetlights.

"I'll be goddamned," he muttered.

He caught up to the bus, gunning his engine a few times to get the driver's attention. The ambulance swerved drunkenly across the street and came to a jerky, stuttering halt.

Doc Parker stepped lethargically out of the bus and tottered shakily alongside it, bracing himself against the side.

"Did I do something wrong, officer?" Doc said with an eerily cheerful smile as Bosco came to meet him. His voice was thick and muddy and almost unintelligible.

"What the hell are you doin' out here, Doc?" Bosco asked tightly.

Doc bent almost double, coughed long and hard, and almost fell over. Bosco rushed forward and steadied him, helping him over to the back of the ambulance and opening the back doors. Doc gratefully sat down on the edge of the rear bay.

"Scouting," Doc said with a wan smile. "I'm out ... just lookin' for people who might need some help ..."

Bosco shook his head impatiently. "Doc, you gotta know by now that there's nothing you can do about this thing."

Doc offered a dismissive wave. "Morphine ... At this point ... I'm not too concerned about overdose. In fact" - he leaned forward and blew snot directly onto the street, then wiped his nose on his sleeve - "I'm thinking about saving a little back for myself."

"Yeah, well, lucky I ran into you. I might have a patient for ya."

"Yeah? Who?"

"A cop. Name's Cruz. Don't think you know her."

"I think I remember her," Doc murmured. "That drughouse a few weeks ago, right? Smoke inhalation, wasn't it? There was a meth junkie ... uh ... her sister, right ...?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever ... look, Doc, we gotta get moving."

"I'm not in such great shape to drive here, Bosco ..."

Bosco felt a flicker of annoyance. "You were doin' well enough a minute ago."

Doc laughed bitterly. "Only by the skin o' my teeth, Bosco. Didn't you see me?"

Bosco looked uncertainly at his Mustang. Not that it would really matter in the long run, but if they had to choose a vehicle, then it probably should be the bus.

You've lost everything else, his mind snapped coldly, and now it had taken on the voice of Richard Farrell, that cop he'd met five years before and hadn't thought of since. May as well lose that phallic symbol you call a car while you're at it. Why not start putting the past behind you, a piece at a time?

Two minutes later Bosco was behind the wheel of the ambulance, the Mustang shrinking in the rearview mirror.

Doc leaned against the door, eyes closed, the way Faith had yesterday. "Carlos is dead," he muttered. "Jimmy ... we found him in a ladder truck last night. Shot himself, as far as we could tell ... Dunno where he got the gun, but I don't suppose it matters ... Did you know Joey died yesterday morning?"

Bosco nodded, but Doc wasn't paying attention to him anyway and seemed to be talking - rambling - for his own benefit.

"Nobody knows where Taylor is ... or Kim ..." Doc looked at him briefly. "You see either of 'em?"

-Bosco! Pick her up! Bosco! Pick Taylor up-

Bosco started to tell Doc about yesterday and immediately thought better of it. "No."

"How's Faith ... her family ...?"

"Fred's dead," Bosco said shortly, and found himself sorry that he'd run into Doc. "I just took Faith and the kids to the hospital."

"You got in?"

Bosco shrugged irritably. "Yeah, we found a spot."

"Mmm ... not such a hot place to be the last I saw ..." Doc coughed hard and winced. "Most of the guys from the firehouse are either dead or they've run ... I don't think anyone can get out of New York, though ... not yet anyway ... you know ... I don't really see how you could ... maybe if you waited ... waited for the soldiers to die ..."

Jesus, Doc, do you maybe want to shut the fuck up?

Apparently he didn't. "You know, Bosco, I keep thinking ... I keep thinking about Sarah. You know ... Dr. Morales. Remember her? I blew it there, Bosco, I really blew it ... why didn't I see ... you have to seize the moment, y'know ...? Where is she now? That's what I keep thinking, I keep wondering if she's got this thing, this flu ..."

"We're here," Bosco said tersely, pulling over to the curb.

And thank the Good Lawd for that.

He looked uncertainly at Doc. "You comin'?"

Doc lifted his head with what seemed a great amount of effort. "Yeah ... uh ... lemme get some stuff from the back ... the back of the bus ... you go on ahead up ... I'll be right behind you."

Bosco exhaled wearily and threw open the door.

***



The song was Superman by Eminem and it was threatening to shake Cruz' building to its foundations; someone had left their stereo on and cranked to maximum. The light fixtures were rattling in the ceiling and the doors were rattling in their frames. The walls hummed with it. Bosco walked slowly along the hall, his heart pounding in time with the music, which grew louder as he neared Cruz' apartment.

There was a man lying dead on the floor; Bosco had to step over his outstretched legs to get by. Again, he told himself he wouldn't look down, and again that was exactly what he did. The man's neck was swollen with superflu and the beginnings of decomposition. His death had left his face twisted into a grimace of pain and what might have been rage, eyes wide and glassy and deranged. He seemed to snarl up at Bosco as he passed, as if angry at such a disrespectful intrusion.

Bosco approached Cruz' door, realizing the music was coming directly from the neighboring apartment; it thrummed up through his legs and loosened his guts. Dimly he realized that the last time he'd been here had been after the fire, after the death of her sister, that honest attempt he'd made to offer some comfort, some support. The honest attempt which had gotten him one hell of a wild ride and a heap of trouble ...

She used you. Like a big ol' piece of Grade-A meat. Nothing more. You said it yourself.

He pushed that away and reached out to knock -

- and saw the door was already ajar. The entire doorknob and lock assembly had been shot away, and Bosco felt a cold, razor-sharp knife of fear and apprehension slide into his belly.

"Cruz?" he called softly, drawing his gun.

No answer. He pushed lightly on the door, and as it swung open the smell hit him in the face like a sour, wet rag, a tacky mix of puke and sweat and human waste tinged with a thin layer of Vick's Vapo-rub, something that might have been lemon-flavored cough drops, and the pungent smell of hard liquor.

"First jagoff I see who isn't the rightful owner and occupant of this apartment is gonna be breathin' through his forehead," he barked as he went inside.

He remembered this apartment as a warm, earthy place, as sexy as Cruz herself. There had been scented candles everywhere, and he remembered that after they had finally satisfied each other, he'd wondered about that. Were the candles part of some personal ritual over her sister's death, or were they a usual thing for her? He'd kind of hoped they were part of the norm for her, perhaps indicating another layer of Cruz' personality he wouldn't have guessed at, that maybe the cold, ruthless Anti-Crime cop was only a mask after all.

All of that was gone now. The looters had been here, perhaps even the same gang he'd passed on the way over, and they'd done a number on the place. What they hadn't taken, they'd smashed. The furniture that was left was overturned, seemingly just for the sake of it. A mirror lay shattered in the middle of the floor, and it was one Bosco recognized immediately. He wasn't likely to forget it; he'd cracked that mirror himself. When Cruz had thrown herself on him, he'd slammed right back into that mirror and broken it, and now the looters had finished the job.

Cruz herself was face-down on the floor just outside the kitchen. Bosco rushed over to her, unconsciously running a cold cop's eye over the scene. There was no blood, no sign of gunshot wounds, and she didn't appear to have been attacked. She was in her bathrobe, and the way she was positioned and the direction she faced suggested that she'd been on her way to the kitchen and had simply collapsed.

He knelt hesitantly next to her. She was still alive, her entire body throbbing with an intense, volcanic heat, her breathing shallow and difficult and clotted with phlegm. He leaned in closer and saw she'd been attacked after all; she had a nasty gash on her right temple, her cheek streaked with long-dried blood. One of the jagoffs had dealt her a kick to the side of the head, probably only as an afterthought. They probably would have raped her as well, if not for the fact she looked like a corpse and smelled like an open sewer. Bosco's face darkened. Oh, to have been able to catch the bastards in the act! If only he could have caught them and made them sorry they'd ever come within ten miles of her ...

And where the hell was Doc, anyway?

He wasn't about to stand around and wait. He gripped Cruz' shoulders and gently began to lift her. There was a horrible, thin ripping sound, like weak velcro; her hair was stuck to the carpet by a caked mix of dried vomit and blood. Bosco winced and pulled her up, throwing her right arm around his shoulders and wrapping his own arm around her waist. As he stood upright, Cruz came alive.

"What are you doin' to my sister!" she screamed in a thick, curdled voice. "What ... what are you ... sister ... no ... stop ... fire ... fire ... too hot ..."

He dragged her across the room, holding his breath at the stench of her, that gruesome fever-heat seeming to sink right through his clothes, into his bones, throbbing in time with Superman, which still played at top-volume in the next apartment.

Oooooh, feel that! Richard Farrell's voice crooned gleefully in his head. She's just a-full o' that good old Latin passion!

"Fire ..." Cruz burbled, her breath hot and sour and reeking of alcohol. "Fire's too hot ... too hot ..."

"Shut up," he moaned aloud at both of them, yanking her along, her bare feet dragging on the carpet. He took her into the bathroom and dumped her none too gently in her own bathtub. He needed to cool her off. He had no idea if that was the right thing to do or not, but since Doc was taking his sweet fucking time, he wasn't about to let her suffer like this. He turned the taps.

There was a rusty groan somewhere deep in the walls, but no water.

"What the hell?" he murmured, twisting the knobs all the way around.

Still nothing.

"Aw, what the hell!?" he howled. There was a small, empty clothes hamper at the foot of the tub, and Bosco kicked it, kicked it hard and smashed it in. "What the HELL!?"

Stop being a fuckin' baby. Go to the kitchen and get some ice.

Bosco ran to the kitchen, threw open the freezer, and found nothing inside but two half-empty ice-cube trays, a frozen chunk of chicken breast, and three Stouffer's microwave dinners. He cursed and scooped up everything.

On the way back he stopped by her bedroom, intending to get some of her clothes to wrap the ice in, and realized they'd done it in here as well. The floor in the living room first, but after a few hours they'd gotten their wind back and they'd fucked in her bed, too. And that was what you had to call it, too - fucked. You couldn't pretty it up into anything else.

Now this place was a sickroom. Much like it had been at Faith's, a table on one side of the bed was arranged with a haphazard collection of over-the-counter cold remedies. Tylenol, Tylenol Cough & Cold, Vick's, Halls' cough drops. There was a half-full bottle of Buckley's cough syrup next to two empty ones, and Bosco saw a spoon lying on the floor as if tossed away; eventually Cruz had simply resorted to drinking the medicine straight from the bottle. And next to that, for when all else failed, was a bottle of Jack Daniels Tennessee Whiskey.

And next to that, there was that baggie of cocaine she'd always carried with her. That handy little bit of leverage.

Bosco picked it up; it was still sealed and he didn't think she'd used any. But the fact that it was here, left out in the open, was testament to how desperate she'd become. She'd been thinking about it. He swallowed hard and tossed the baggie back on the table.

And suddenly, unexpectedly, he was angry at Faith Yokas. Faith had called Cruz a snake. A sociopath. Faith had talked about her like she wasn't even human, just a cold, unfeeling monster, and yet look at this; this was the room of someone in pain, someone trying to make herself comfortable and not understanding why it wasn't working, someone just wanting some relief, to rest comfortably.

And she'd been alone. All this time, she'd been alone here.

Bosco gathered the pathetic collection of ice cubes and food, took a few of Cruz' shirts from the bureau across the room, and went back to the bathroom.

He wrapped the ice and the lump of frozen chicken and the microwave dinners, placing them around her as best he could. Cruz was muttering, most of it in Spanish. Her skin, formerly that healthy, sexy bronze, was now dusky gray. Bosco wished bitterly and petulantly that Faith could see her like this, could see Cruz' bedroom and that sad little row of failed remedies, the baggie of cocaine she'd thought of using to ease her suffering.

He sat down on the toilet seat next to the tub, put his head back against the tile and closed his eyes. He was becoming more and more sure Doc wasn't coming. The stereo in the other apartment droned on; why couldn't the looters have looted the goddam thing?

Superman ended and a new song came on, one Bosco actually found vaguely familiar:



"Ba-by, you can tell me if anyone can

Baby, can you dig your man?

He's a righteous man

Baby, can you dig your man?"



The car. That was it. That was the song that had come blaring out of the radio when he'd flipped it on that night, that night Cruz had ended up wanting to kill Dougie Francis.

The night he'd almost let her.

Bosco looked over at her. Cruz's head lolled bonelessly over her left shoulder, lips moving faintly as she whispered, murmured, talked to herself and to people who weren't there. English for a little while, and then abruptly it would turn to Spanish, then back again, then sometimes a slurred, overlapping mix of both.

"No Papa ..." she muttered as he watched her. "I won't ... I won't ... she's dead to me ... not my sister ... let her die ..." Cruz' face screwed into a scowl of petulant rage and she rasped fiercely, "Let her die, I'm through ... I'm through protecting her from herself ..."

Bosco took two of the ice cubes and melted them in a blue tank-top he'd taken from her room. Then, almost tenderly, he did his best to wash the blood and vomit from her face. Whatever Cruz was, whatever she had been, it didn't matter now. As far as he was concerned she'd been a good cop, regardless of her methods, even regardless of the fact she probably would have shot Dougie Francis in cold blood that night. And it wouldn't have mattered to Bosco if she had. All that mattered to him now was making sure she died with at least some dignity.

As he leaned over her, her eyes focused on him.

"Hey, handsome," she wheezed, and she was actually smiling a bit now. "Do ... do somethin' for me ... would ya?"

Bosco nodded and smiled back. "Anything."

"Tell ... tell that bitch Cassie ... you tell that bitch that I'll kill her if she ever ... if she ever tells anyone ... about the money I took ..." Her dark eyes bored into him from their sunken sockets. "Right?"

Bosco nodded. "Sure. Sure thing. I'll tell her."

He hadn't the slightest idea what she was talking about.

"Good," Cruz muttered, lowering her head. "Good ... you're a good ... friend, James ... a good friend ..."

Bosco hated himself a little for what he did next, but the plain fact was that he didn't want her to die not knowing who he was. Again it was a particularly vulgar sort of selfishness, and again he didn't care. He wanted Cruz to know that he was there for her at the end.

"Cruz," he whispered, putting a gentle hand on her cheek and turning her head to face him again. "Cruz, it's Boscorelli, not James. Maurice Boscorelli. Remember? Remember Anti-Crime?"

Cruz looked at him blankly, eyes muddy and stupid.

Then, suddenly, she shrank away from him, face twisting into a mask of perfect terror.

"The devil," she whimpered, fat tears forming at the corners of her eyes and rolling down her pasty cheeks. "The devil, the devil is coming, the man with no face, oh please no, oh please no, he's coming to get me, don't let him get me, please ... please no ... the devil ... the man with no face ... the dark man ..." It was a breathless, sobbing litany, the words tripping all over each other. Finally she fell back against the tub, exhausted, and began to cough weakly.

Bosco recoiled a bit. There had been something about her eyes just then, a cold clarity ... she'd known him, he was sure. In that brief moment, she'd known exactly who he was.

Bullshit she knew. She's out of it. She's out of it for good.

In the other apartment, Baby, Can You Dig Your Man came to an end. After about two minutes of silence a voice suddenly came on, a young man's voice, unsteady and broken with tears. It wasn't a CD over there, it seemed; it was a radio station, and it was loud enough to be intelligible even through the walls.

"I hope ... hope you all enjoyed the music ..." the young man on the radio said with a high, hysterical laugh. "I've been here at the KRPO station for ... for about two hours now, and I don't ... uh ... I'm trying to figure how to work all this equipment ... uh ... I didn't work here, you see, I was a ... uh ... just a computer tech ..."

The self-appointed DJ coughed and went on, "I've been ... uh ... trying to get some useful information here, but it isn't easy ... it seems that all routes out of the city are jammed up pretty tight ... those of you who aren't sick ... if there are any of you ... don't bother with any of the major highways ... I think most of the Army posts are abandoned or dead now ... uh ... there's a paper in front of me that says the death-toll is officially listed as two thousand people across North America, but a friend of mine worked at the New York Times and he said ... he said ... oh God ..." The young man swallowed audibly and suddenly screamed through his tears, "THERE ARE OVER ONE HUNDRED MILLION PEOPLE DEAD IN THE U.S. ALONE! AND ... and ... and ... I have to ... I can't stay here anymore ... I gotta go, gotta get out of here ..." -he uttered another of those high, hysterical giggles- "Show's over folks ... show's fucking over ..."

Sitting next to Cruz, Bosco began to weep, and it was a hollow and pointless sound in the stuffy little bathroom. Cruz took no notice of him, caught irrevocably in the grip of her delirium. She was giving that little bug one hell of a fight, and he realized that he wished her dead. Wished she would just die and let him be free of her, free of any lingering responsibility to her.

He closed his eyes and wept, and gradually slipped into an uneasy sleep.



***

He woke up screaming. His leg jerked spastically and kicked the side of the bathtub, and he lost his balance and fell off the toilet seat onto the floor, stiff joints and numb muscles howling in protest.

Morning sunlight washed into the bathroom from the small window set high in the far wall, and Bosco looked blearily down at his watch; 10:34 AM. Jesus. He'd gone to sleep at about .. what? One-thirty AM, or thereabouts.

Bosco sat up and ran his hands over his face, feeling the slick, cold sweat there. The dreams had been pretty bad, but most of the details were already dissipating, and he wasn't about to argue with that. Something about corn, fighting blindly through tall stalks of corn ... something about rats, rats in the corn, crawling up his legs, gnawing on his ankles ...

He shook it away and turned to Cruz.

Cruz was looking back at him, her eyes wide, lips slightly parted.

"Hey," he murmured. "How you holdin' up?"

Nothing. Not even a blink.

Oh shit.

"Cruz?" he asked softly, heavy, acidic dread rising in his chest. He knew what he was looking at, he'd been expecting this, but ... but he still didn't want it to be true.

And maybe it isn't, he thought desperately. She'd fooled him before, after all, that day in the hospital after her sister's death. He'd found her at the end of a quiet hallway, sitting next to a window, perfectly still. She hadn't responded to anything he'd said, only staring blankly at him, not so much as a muscle twitching in her face. He remembered that for a brief moment he'd wondered if she was dead, if she'd died of some weird kind of delayed-reaction smoke inhalation, or had somehow managed to kill herself without leaving a mark.

But that had only been Sergeant Cruz being Sergeant Cruz, the great enigma, the great emotional puzzle. This was a lot simpler.

Sergeant Cruz was dead.

"Cruz?" he said again, his voice very small. He put a hand on her shoulder and shook her gently.

A fly crawled out of her open mouth, trundled halfway up her cheek, and did a kind of shuffling hop-skip the rest of the way to land directly on one glazed and unseeing eyeball, where it stayed.

Bosco didn't quite manage to stifle the cry of revulsion as he recoiled from her, scrambling to his feet and backing up against the wall.

Cruz' dead eyes seemed to follow him.

And another door closes, he thought colorlessly.

Slowly, without taking his eyes off her, he reached up, grabbed the plastic shower curtain, and yanked it off its rings. As he began to tuck it around her, he made one abortive attempt at brushing her eyes closed. Then he remembered the fly, the way it had sat there right on her iris, rubbing its little legs together as if contemplating the huge and wonderful meal spread before it.

Bosco pulled the curtain over her face and stood up quickly.

I should say something now. A few words.

But he could think of absolutely nothing, and with that came the puzzling realization that he didn't even know what he was supposed to feel right now. He hadn't known Cruz that well, and he couldn't rightly say that he had loved her. Lust, yes, but it would be fair to say any lust he'd had for her was pretty much a thing of the past.

And so what was really left?

Nothing, Farrell's voice chuckled softly. Face it, buddy; she meant no more to you than you did to her. She was a piece of ass. One you could go out and spend quality time with bullying jagoff drug dealers, but still a piece of ass. That's all.

Bosco shook his head adamantly. "No," he said aloud. "She was a good cop." He looked at the corpse in its plastic shroud and jabbed a finger at it. "You hear me, Cruz? You were a good cop ... and ... and you don't deserve this. You didn't deserve to die this way, and you deserve better than to be left here like this."

Cruz didn't seem to have anything to say to that.

Bosco turned and stalked out of the bathroom, through the living room, and out the door, without once looking back. He started back down the hall, barely noticing the dead man he'd stepped over earlier. Glassy, white-hot rage was burning in his chest, righteous and sweet.

And in his head the thought began to take shape, his new Mantra, his new purpose, flashing in the center of his mind like a neon sign: Somebody was going to pay for this, all of it.

Maurice Boscorelli was going to see to it somebody paid in blood.