I always thought I would be prepared when the time came. I always thought the end would be different.

The end came when a drunk driver ran a red light and plowed into my father's car. He didn't die peacefully in his sleep, as I had always imagined. He was conscious long enough to comprehend the magnitude of what had happened to him; what was, in all likelihood, going to happen to him.

He was rushed to the hospital where they worked on him for hours. He had hovered in the space between life and death for most of the night before breathing his last at 6:18 AM Mountain Time.

I could feel my knees buckle under me as the nurse spoke, and I leaned against the counter to keep from collapsing on the kitchen floor.

And then, it's as if I were watching myself from outside my own body. It's another of those coping mechanisms that happens to you in times of tragedy, I'm told. It's a strange, detached sensation, as if you are moving through a foggy haze.

I thanked the nurse for her call and gently placed the phone back on its cradle.

I watched myself calmly take a shower, dress. I called Garret and left him a message telling him what happened and that I wouldn't be in work for the next few days, left a message at the Pogue. I called the airlines to get a flight, called the rental car agency. I didn't know where Glendale, Arizona was, let alone what my father was doing there. As it turns out, it is outside of Phoenix.

I called Woody then. He was just back from Mass. I heard myself tell him that my father was dead, and I had to fly to Phoenix to bring him home. It was all so strangely calm, as if I was telling him that my father's car had broken down in Cambridge, and I had to go give him a lift.

"I'll be right there, Jordan." It was the first thing he said.

"No, that's not necessary. I'm taking the 12:05 flight on Northwest. I'm heading out now. I just...wanted you to know, Woody."

"I'm glad you called." And then a pause. "Jordan....are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'll be fine, Woody. Thanks. I guess it all hasn't sunk in yet."

I quickly threw some things in a bag and headed out and hoped I would make it there on time. I knew there were things I was supposed to be feeling: grief, anger, guilt, but now I just felt as if my whole body had been shot full of Novacaine.

All I could feel was a sense of urgency. I had to get there, had to see him, had to bring him home.

I made it on time, parked in longterm, stood in the long line for my ticket. I got a bereavement fare on Northwest, and the ticket agent pinched her face up and gave me a, "I'm sorry for your loss."

How can you be sorry for someone you don't even know? It puzzled me, people saying what they think they should say.

The line through security was hopelessly slow, but I made it through with just enough time. I was standing at the gate getting ready to board when I saw from the corner of my eye someone running down the concourse.

It was Woody, dodging passengers in the crowded terminal.

"Jordan..." he huffed breathlessly when he reached the gate. "I thought I wasn't going to make it."

"Woody...What are you doing here? How did you get through security?"

He held up a ticket and gave me a sheepish smile. "I thought you could use the company."

XXXXX

My first reaction was anger, I admit. Who the hell did he think he was? I didn't need Woody Hoyt, Boy Detective, riding to my rescue. This was about me, not about him.

He meant well, I knew, but I said nothing to him, and I didn't cooperate when he asked several passengers to shift their seats so he could sit with me. At least he knew better than to chatter or offer any empty platitudes on the meaning of it all.

We didn't speak for a long time. Finally, he cleared his throat and proceeded with cautious tones. "I know Max wasn't on the best terms with the P.D. when he left," he began slowly. "And with everything that's happened since." His voice dropped. "You know. With Malden. But he still has friends. I know a guy in homicide who plays the bagpipes. If you want, I can make a call..."

"No. No funeral." I shook my head.

"No funeral? What do you mean?"

"No. Funeral. What word didn't you understand?" I snapped. He looked away with hurt eyes. I felt guilty, but I didn't apologize. "There won't be any funeral. Why? So people can stand around and cluck? 'Isn't it a tragedy? What a shame! Poor Jordan!' No." I shook my head violently. "My grief isn't for public consumption."

I stuck my nose in the in-flight magazine then. There was a long, long silence. My mind had been so occupied with the details of the trip, I had been able to keep thoughts of my father at bay. But I had finally re-entered my body and found it a painful place to be.

It had been months since I had seen my father. He had returned to Boston briefly after a trip to Ireland to visit distant relatives.

We'd had dinner, and he was full of stories about his travels. He spoke with excitement about an upcoming trip to see old Army buddies and a few friends from the force who had retired out West.

I told him about a few interesting cases I was working on, gave him an update on the Pogue. It was as if we were nothing more than old acquaintances catching up at a high school reunion.

"So, dad. When do you think you're coming home? To stay," I asked as we parted that night.

He looked at me. His eyes were sad. He felt the distance, too. "Soon, Jordan. Just this one last trip, and I'll be home. I promise."

"Promise."

He wrapped me in his arms then, and I tucked my head under his chin. "I do. I promise."

My mother had been taken from me in the most cruel and unnatural of ways. It seemed to me as if each person should be allotted no more than one tragedy in a lifetime. It was part of the bargain, and that bargain had been broken.

The words on the page of the magazine began to blur from the tears that rimmed my eyes.

Woody's hand reached up for mine, and I let him take it. I leaned against him then, and he dropped a soft kiss on the top of my head, without the implication or expectation of anything more.

Maybe company was not such a bad idea after all.

We landed soon afterwards. I sat up and dried my eyes with the heel of my hand.

"It's late, Jordan," he said softly. "You must be exhausted. Maybe we should check into the hotel first."

"No. No, I want to go to the hospital." My own voice sounded thin and strange in my ear. "I want to see my father."