Chapter Twenty-Seven

Jim was apprehensive as he walked home. It was almost Halloween, but the scariest thing he could think of was about confronting Uncle Josiah tomorrow. He would just have to keep his wits about him and think of what Dr. Galloway had told him. He had a better idea of who he was as a person, and he hoped that would be enough. Having Karen there would help. He trusted her, amazingly enough. He actually trusted her more than a lot of people he'd met over the years, more than people he'd known eons longer.

He felt a little jealous, thinking of Karen going to some party in a few days. He missed his party days a little. All he had to look forward to this year was maybe a pumpkin, if Christie remembered. And even then, he wouldn't be able to look deep into its eyes and see the candle glowing within. He was almost tempted, for a moment, to take Karen up on that offer to chaperone her and her blind date. He'd like to spend the evening with friends, like he used to. Karen didn't quite fit into the category yet, but maybe someday. For now, he had a wife waiting for him at home.

It was late, almost eleven, what with waiting around for the confession and trying to tie up any loose ends on the case. A long day and all the detectives had admitted to feeling drained, glad the case was pretty much over. Karen said she had a date with a gallon of ice cream. Marty was going late-night candy shopping for trick-or-treaters because that was his job, to buy candy, and he'd procrastinated too long this year. Tom said he was going out to watch one of the games at a bar, and Marty was going to join him later. They invited Jim and Karen, but Jim begged off to spend time with his wife and Karen informed them she'd had enough of bars to last a lifetime.

"Christie?" He shut the door behind him and let Hank off the harness. The dog shook himself, then ran off to relax, maybe to find a toy or a bone to play with. "Christie?" he called a little louder.

"Shh," she said, running up. She put a hand on his arm to make sure he didn't worry about where she was. "We have a project tonight," she said quietly, conspiratorially.

Jim pulled off his coat and hung it from the coat rack. He smiled. "No kiss?"

She leaned up to kiss him. "Remember watching the kid this morning?"

He nodded. "I've been looking forward to carving a pumpkin the whole way home."

"Good. Keep that enthusiasm. I got five."

"Five?" Jim laughed. "Isn't that overkill?"

"Just in case. See, his pumpkin didn't turn out so well. It sort of went to pumpkin hell."

Jim grimaced. "Are all his fingers still intact?"

"Yeah. I just thought it might be nice to send a pumpkin over. And we'll keep one for ourselves."

"And three to practice on?"

"If they turn out okay, I thought we could put them in the lobby." She took his hand and pulled him across the apartment to the kitchen.

Jim felt the floor change under his feet. "Newspaper?"

"Tons. There's no way anything's getting on the floor." She pulled him further, toward the bedroom. "You change, I have the pumpkins sitting on the counter, waiting."

Jim pulled off his tie as he walked into the bedroom. "I just love a good lobotomy," he said. Christie had already pulled out an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt for him. He pulled off his work clothes and handed them to her while he changed. Barefoot, he headed back to the kitchen. Hank was sniffing at the counter. "He's gonna love this," Jim called to Christie. He ran a hand over the counter until it encountered the first pumpkin, then grabbed it and hefted it to the floor. "How'd you get these all home?"

He heard her walk up. "Conspiracy with the neighbor lady. She and I both walked out of the building at the same time to see the disaster the kid had made of the pumpkin, so we went shopping together."

"Is she making any jack-o'-lanterns, too?"

"Just one."

"This thing's ten pounds, at least."

"That's the small one," Christie told him. "It took us three trips to get them up here."

Jim knelt on the floor next to the small pumpkin, suddenly at a loss. When he was younger he would take a marker and draw on the face before cutting. He hadn't thought of the practical aspects, just the fact that he'd be able to feel the incisions. "Now what?"

"Now we be careful," Christie said. She was rifling around one of the drawers.

Jim ran his hands over the pumpkin. It felt cold, the shell hard over the soft flesh inside. At the top the stem was rougher than he remembered. He guessed he'd never paid much attention to the way it actually felt. He counted the ridges in the smooth shell and felt a lopsidedness on the right. He turned the pumpkin, trying to figure out the best place for the face.

"Here," Christie said.

Jim reached up carefully, knowing she would have a large, sharp knife in hand. He gently touched the blade to get a feel for it. He looked back up at his wife. "Honestly, now what?"

She was sliding another pumpkin around the countertop, but stopped and was quiet. "Good luck?" She bent down and kissed the top of his head. "Don't cut off any fingers?"

Jim held the knife in his right hand and ran his left around the pumpkin again. He shook his head. "What if you draw it on there for me?"

"Then what?"

Jim stared at the pumpkin in his mind, trying to picture it. "Score it. If I can feel it, I can follow the cut and carve off the top."

Christie knelt down next to him. She took the knife and he heard her scratch a line around the pumpkin with the tip. "Can you feel that?"

Jim ran his hand over the top and smiled. "Perfect." She handed the knife back.

"I'll draw out the others for you, too."

Jim bit his tongue as he concentrated on sliding the knife through the skin, then pulling in around. He turned the pumpkin and slowly followed the ridge Christie had scratched for him, careful to keep his guide hand out of the way. "I should apply to medical school," he joked when he pulled the new lid off the pumpkin. He set the top aside and held up the rest. "You wanna scoop out the innards while I lop the tops off?"

"Jim," she said distastefully, "don't use words like innards."

He laughed. "What do you want me to say? It's gonna look like a head. You want me to call this the brains?" He stuck his hand into the seedy goop and pulled out a handful, letting it run between his fingers and onto the newspaper beside him.

Hank had been lying right behind Jim, keeping an eye on the whole operation, but he backed away in a crouched position when he saw what hit the newspaper. He whined.

Christie handed Jim a towel. "How can you stick your hand in there?" It sounded like she was wrinkling up her nose.

"Roll your sleeves up, darling, and I'll show you." He pulled her down beside him, taking one of her hands even as she struggled.

"Men," she said, then gasped as her fingers submerged in the innards.

"Here's to teamwork," Jim said as he let go of her hand and moved over. He got up and lined the other pumpkins up on the floor. "This isn't so bad," he said as he moved between pumpkins.

"Just wait until you see what I have marked out for the faces," Christie said wickedly.

He heard her flicking seeds onto the floor.

"Revenge is sweet," she told him.

Jim sniffed, the scent of pumpkin almost overwhelming. "I wouldn't call it sweet. More of an earthy smell." He rubbed his nose on the sleeve of his t-shirt to wipe off a bit of juice that Christie flicked at him. He ran his hand along the line she had cut. "Last one. Did you already do the faces?"

"Sure did." She grunted.

Jim pulled off the last top by the stem and set it aside. He sat back and turned. She seemed to be a few pumpkins behind, from her position in the line-up. "Tell me what you're doing?"

"You know what I'm doing," she said shortly.

He tried to picture her, probably wearing jeans, her sleeves pushed up. She'd be wearing a long-sleeve shirt of some sort because it was cold out. Her hair was probably straggling into her face, the wisps covered in slime from where she kept sweeping at them to get them out of her face. The way she was breathing, she wasn't having that good of a time. That was probably why she'd hung up on him when he suggested they take a pottery class together. She wasn't much for getting things under her fingernails.

Jim slid over slowly, careful to avoid a pile of seeds. He moved behind her and knelt, one arm to either side of her.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I know this isn't your favorite part."

She sighed. "It's just the easy part. That's why I get stuck with it."

He shrugged, close enough he knew she could feel it from where he was behind her. He leaned forward and worked alongside her, scooping as many seeds as he could.

They scooted over to the next pumpkin. Jim nuzzled her neck as he scooped seeds.

She giggled. "You're good at multi-tasking."

Jim tipped the pumpkin to the side and let juice drip into a bowl she had set out. This pumpkin was massive, almost two feet in diameter.

"Shouldn't you be doing your own part?" she asked.

"I might need a bit of a guide on the faces, so I thought I'd better help you."

"You just felt sorry for me, admit it." She reached back and touched his arm with a cold and slimy hand.

Jim grimaced.

"Sorry," she said.

"It's okay. I've been covered in worse things."

She laughed.

"Done," Jim said a half hour later. He grabbed for the towel, but found it already saturated. He stood up carefully among the mess and walked over to the sink to rinse off. "Now comes the hard part."

"We get five chances," Christie said, joining him at the sink.

Jim flicked water at her.

"Let me get the seeds out of the way." He listened as she rolled up newspaper, stepping out of her way as she tugged pages out from under his feet. He grabbed the garbage can and brought it over, helping her stuff the trash inside. "There," she said. "Ready."

Jim put the garbage can back and knelt beside the biggest pumpkin. "Let's start big, that'll be easier, right?" He felt along the floor for the knife. Christie sat beside him, out of the way, but ready to help if needed. Jim felt the small incisions Christie had made for the face, tipping the pumpkin so he had a better angle to look it over. He frowned. "I don't think you should have made teeth."

"Too frightening?"

"Too hard." There were gaps between teeth, seven teeth in a gaping mouth. "He had periodontal disease?"

Christie giggled nervously as Jim took up the knife.

Jim swallowed hard as he started on one triangular eye. The triangle was pretty big. He held the pumpkin tilted between his knees, his tongue held between his teeth. He concentrated on the shape and keeping his hand out of the way. The triangle dropped inside the pumpkin. Jim grinned and reached in, handing the piece to Christie. "Easy." He held the pumpkin up for inspection. "How's it look?"

She laughed. "That's just the first eye. You have nine more eyes, five mouths, and three noses. Oh, and I made hair on one, so you'll have to cut around the top a little."

Jim laughed at her. "I better get busy. Get me a beer?"

"Alcohol and a carving knife?" But Christie opened the fridge and carefully stepped around pumpkins to set the beer on the floor.

The eyes and nose were easy enough, but the mouth and seven teeth were much more difficult. "If I break off a tooth, we can just glue it back on, right?"

"I don't think you can glue a wet pumpkin."

Jim shrugged. He slowly moved the knife through Christie's rough sketch, breaking off bits to make it easier to cut. When the last piece broke off he smoothed out the cuts with the knife, then set it aside and brailled the face. Starting at the top with both hands he ran his fingers down the front, checking the evenness of the eyes, which weren't quite symmetrical, but he hoped that with the ridges of the pumpkin skin it wouldn't be noticeable. The nose was in place beneath the eyes, then the mouth with the lumpy teeth.

"It looks okay," Christie said from where she was sitting nearby.

Jim looked up while still exploring the face. "Just okay?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"It looks like an ugly face, just like it's supposed to. Who do you think you are, Picasso?"

"It looks like something one of the Impressionists would have done. Hideous and grotesque, but almost recognizable as human." Jim let a couple fingers stray into the mouth, then pulled back quickly with a pained yelp and put them in his mouth. "He bit me!" he mumbled around his fingers.

Christie seized his hand.

Jim laughed. "Never insult a jack-o'-lantern."

She threw his hand back. "Oh, you're fine," she complained.

Jim hefted the jack-o'-lantern over to her. "Here you go, ma'am. If it's good enough, you want to deliver it?"

"You want to give the kid the big one?"

"Why not?" Jim shrugged. "The bigger, the better, right? Do we have any little candles? You could put one in and take it over."

"Sure." She stood up, setting the pumpkin next to him. "Keep an eye on him," she instructed.

"He's not going anywhere."

"I wasn't talking to you." She made a noise like she was sticking her tongue out at him.

Jim grinned as he picked up the knife and scooted over to the next victim. He felt like a kid, younger than even when he met Christie.

"I'll be back," she said, walking into the room, now with shoes on. He heard her stop and pick up the gift. "It looks good," she said, "really." She kissed the top of his head and walked off.

Jim ran his hand over the next pumpkin, feeling her cuts. "Christie!" He wrinkled his nose as she opened the door to the apartment to leave. "Hearts? This is supposed to be scary!"

"This was revenge, remember?" she asked sweetly.

He heard the door click shut.

Jim was half-done with the third pumpkin by the time Christie came back. "Success," she said.

"Good." He glanced up. "Did it really look okay?"

"Yes, it really did look okay." She slipped her shoes off. "How're you doing?"

"Couldn't be better." He grinned, waiting.

"Jim!"

He laughed. He'd gotten his own revenge for the heart-shaped eyes. Instead of changing the shape, he'd done exactly as she'd drawn, though he wasn't sure just how pretty they looked. Then he'd gone through the kitchen utensils and pulled out the butcher knife, jamming it into the side of the jack-o'-lantern's head. He'd even gone through the closet and found a velvet Christmas bow to wrap around the stem like a pretty hair ribbon.

Christie ruffled his hair. "She was supposed to be pretty."

"I would have done a little red paint for blood, but I wasn't sure which tube was the red. You should label them."

"You know where I keep my craft paint?" she asked, surprised.

"I know where everything in this apartment is." It had been a long year, learning his way around New York. While Christie'd been at work, Jim had been alone at home a lot with nothing to do but familiarize himself with the place or listen to the radio. After battling the city, it was a relief to be able to search through boxes and closets in the apartment. Christie was less precise with how the cupboards and closets were organized, anything out of sight she might have figured Jim wouldn't need access to, and so she didn't bother to keep them precisely ordered like she kept the rest of the apartment, but she was close enough he still felt confident he could find anything if he needed.

Christie made a little wondering noise as she squatted beside him to get a good look at what he'd done to her pretty pumpkin.

Jim ran his hand over the half-moon eyes he'd just carved. "This one doesn't have a nose?" he asked.

"I couldn't think of a good shape, so I figured he wouldn't need one."

"Who needs a nose?" Jim mumbled as he carved out the mouth, a grimace with two fangs hanging down. That was the easy mouth and he set the knife down to braille the finished face. "You're right, he's gruesome enough without a nose." He held the pumpkin up for inspection.

"Yup," Christie said from near the sink where she was fitting the girly pumpkin with a tea candle. Jim heard her light a match. "Do you think it'll be okay with the knife?"

"We definitely won't put her down in the lobby, that's for sure."

Christie laughed, but it was the laugh she used when she thought she'd figured out an ulterior motive of her husband's, or if she was just starting to get angry with him. "You didn't want her in the lobby, did you?"

Jim shrugged. "I don't think hearts are exactly a good Halloween shape."

"And you're embarrassed—"

"Christie, it's a pumpkin." He turned to her, abandoning the project, but staying seated on the floor. "There's absolutely nothing embarrassing about a pumpkin. Unless I do a really bad job carving it. But I'd hope you'd tell me if I did poorly."

"I promise I would," she said.

"I thought it would be funny. I'm sorry. A carving knife in the head at Halloween…" He tried to smile at her.

"Don't worry. It's not like I was serious. I was just trying something different."

Jim turned back, knife in hand, to the pumpkin. Holidays were always stressful, and Halloween was no different. He didn't even want to think about their first Christmas after he'd been shot. He bit his lip and forced himself to concentrate on what he was doing. He'd been truthful when he asked for a mulligan—there was a lot about the whole year he would like to forget, or wished had never even happened. And she'd put up with him through the whole thing.

His cell phone rang. "Can you get that?" Jim felt the goop and grit from the pumpkin on his fingers, but just kept carving.

Christie sighed. "You know it's work," she said as she crossed over to the table by the door.

"You don't have to tell me no one else calls, just answer it." Jim rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. He'd been concentrating too hard on the shapes and trying to make them presentable to sighted people, and he was giving himself a headache. One pumpkin had been fun, but five? He almost hoped there'd been another homicide and they were getting a new case already.

"Hello?" Christie said into the phone.

Jim tilted his head, one ear toward her. She listened a moment, making agreeable little grunts like someone was asking her questions.

Christie crossed over and held the phone next to his ear. Jim pinned it to his ear with his shoulder and kept working on the pumpkins slowly. "Dunbar," he said.

"Jim, I hate to do this to you," Fisk said, "but I think you need to be here. Michael Hershach's down in the Tombs. It sounds like he's screaming bloody murder. I'm on my way in right now. I thought, since you're the only one who's really gotten him to talk…"

"No problem. I'll have Christie bring me in."

"I already asked Russo to pick you up. He's right by you."

"Oh." The buzzer rang from the street and Jim flinched as Christie answered and Russo's voice filled the intercom.

Fisk filled him in on what was going on, everything the officers had told him so far. Jim tried to ignore the knock on the door and Christie playing hostess and Marty standing near the coat rack, sounding uncomfortable.

"One of the officers said Michael keeps yelling, "I want to confess,"" Fisk was telling him.

Marty yawned as he checked the address of the building. He sighed. If Karen had answered her phone, he wouldn't be there, but with her gone, the boss had immediately called him and asked him to pick up Dunbar and bring him down.

He couldn't imagine anything important that kid could have to tell them, not in the middle of the night like this. They already had a confession, however much of it might be bogus. It had better be good, dragging them down there now when they'd just left, but Marty had a suspicion that maybe Michael'd planned it as revenge of some sort, just a joke to get them down there. He really didn't trust the kid. He also didn't understand why the boss didn't just let Dunbar's wife take him down there.

Marty rang the buzzer of the building next to Dunbar's name. His wife answered and buzzed him up. He wanted to just let her know he was there and have her send her husband down, but there was a chance Fisk hadn't gotten a hold of them yet and they wouldn't know why he was there, so he trudged to the elevator and rode it up to the sixth floor, hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped.

He was wondering how he was supposed to look Christie in the eye, knowing how Jim had cheated on her. He'd said it didn't matter and he wasn't supposed to know about it. And he could work with Jim, he knew, like normal. But he hadn't seen Christie since Walter Clark's retirement party when he met her, back when he was just starting to respect Jim. Then he'd thought she was great, beautiful, a perfect wife for Dunbar. But now Marty couldn't understand how she could just ignore what her husband had done, not when she could have any number of guys who would worship the ground she walked on and never look away.

All he could keep thinking was maybe she'd stayed because Jim had gotten shot and gone blind. But that was pity, and Marty knew that was one thing Jim couldn't stand. He wouldn't be the kind of guy to let her stay with him just because she felt bad for him. He would never allow it.

And maybe Christie wasn't the kind of girl to feel sorry for anyone. So why had she stayed with a jerk like Dunbar?

Marty rocked back and forth from the balls of his feet to his heels. He knocked and waited nervously.

Christie Dunbar answered the door, looking concerned and mildly confused. She smiled a little and let him in, no questions asked. She must be used to this sort of thing, in the middle of the night, getting calls about cases. Marty's wife sometimes still couldn't quite accept it.

Marty looked down at his shoes and stayed by the door. He let his eyes roam around, though he kept his head down. The place was nice, like it was professionally decorated. His own place was homey and lived-in, but he had to admit it didn't have a lot of character, unless you called kids' toys strewn on the floor "décor." His apartment was practical, this one was more stylish. He wondered if Jim had helped, or if it had just been Christie's doing.

Jim was on the phone, sitting on the floor in the kitchen in front of a line of pumpkins. One jack-o'-lantern with a carving knife stuck in the head was sitting next to the sink on the counter, glowing brightly, a red bow almost blood-like adorning the stem. Jim was listening intently, probably talking to Fisk right then.

"Uh, something else came up in the case," Marty said to Christie, in case she didn't yet know anything.

She raised her eyebrows. "Business as usual." She walked into the kitchen behind Jim and blew out the candle. She bent down and took the knife from her husband's hand, even as he was absently smoothing out a cut in a triangular eye, but mostly listening to the phone.

Jim relinquished the knife and stood, following Christie to the sink, leaning over her to rinse his hands, then reaching for the kitchen towel to dry them, every movement easy, even more precise than he was at work. Marty could tell the difference as he moved about the kitchen and into the rest of the apartment, that this was his home and he was comfortable there, even multi-tasking.

He wondered, after what Jim had once admitted to him about moving around freely only at home and the squad, if Michael moving the furniture at the squad really had shaken Jim up, even more than he let on. Thinking about it, he'd only been blind, what, a year and a half? That didn't seem all that long, not considering he was already back on the streets, working, just like he must have before.

Marty didn't want to think about it. As far as he was concerned, Jim had always been blind and that's just the way things were. He wasn't about to start thinking of Jim before he'd been shot, before he'd been assigned to make their lives hell at the 8th. Jim was Jim and that's all he needed to know. He didn't need to know anything about his infidelity and problems with his wife, especially if all that was over now.

Marty took a few more steps in so he could see the jack-o'-lanterns better. He screwed up his mouth appreciatively. "Not bad," he said. Christie looked up from where she'd been cleaning the counter. "My kid and I usually carve a pumpkin, but I've been working so late the past couple weeks, we haven't gotten a chance yet."

"You want one?" Christie asked sweetly.

Marty shook his head. "Nah. I'm sure we'll get around to it."

"Take one. I got five sort of as a joke."

"I couldn't—"

"What am I going to do with four pumpkins? We gave one to the kid downstairs already. Take one, Marty." She lifted the one Jim had just been working on and evened up a bit of the mouth he hadn't quite finished. "She's mine," she said with a small grin, gesturing behind her at the one with the heart-shaped eyes. "But this one has absolutely no sentimental value."

"Um… thanks. Really." Marty looked over as Jim came out of the bedroom wearing socks and carrying a pair of tennis shoes. Jim settled onto the couch, the phone still to his ear, nodding occasionally, and slipping into the shoes.

"We'll be there shortly," he said, then flipped the phone closed.

Marty cleared his throat as Jim looked up, looking like he was searching the apartment for Marty. Jim's gaze settled on him. "I'll go get the car, if you're ready. I had to park a block away."

Jim nodded, tying his shoes. "Yeah, I'll be down in just a second." He whistled for Hank and the dog came bounding out of the bedroom. The dog wagged its tail when it looked up and saw Marty.

"Here's the pumpkin," Christie said, settling the lid on top.

The dog looked up, almost looking concerned when it saw the pumpkin. Hank's head cocked to the side, muscles tense.

Marty took the gift and hurried out, breathing deeper once he was in the hall.

Jim put one hand in the pocket of his leather jacket as he waited for Marty's car to pull up in front of the building. His hand was clenched and he was chewing on his lip. Fisk had run through the original confession a little with him, speculating what Michael could mean. He wanted them all to be prepared for whatever might jump up. Jim had to admit, he couldn't fathom what else there could be. He'd been sure they were done with the case and all he'd have to worry about would be crossing paths with Uncle Josiah on some other case because he was pretty sure they weren't done with him.

A car drove by, not stopping, but Jim's heart raced anyway and his whole body leaned forward. Hank shifted position, thinking Jim might be ready to go.

Another one. This one stopped and Jim headed in that direction, hoping it wasn't just a taxi thinking he needed a lift. He heard an automatic window slide down.

"You got it?" Marty asked.

"Yeah." Jim headed for the open window, feeling around for the handle. It was difficult to find handles sometimes on unfamiliar cars. He could tell it was a lower, sportier car, so he ran his hand down the door near the crease and grasped the handle finally, pulling it open. Then he moved back, wondering where the handle would be for the back door.

"You'll have to, uh, just flip the seat up," Marty said. "There's only two doors."

Jim stopped his search, letting go of Hank's harness and just keeping the leash on his wrist as he reached in and pushed the seat back up. He ordered Hank in, pushed the seat back, then hurried in, still tense.

Marty shifted and pulled away from the curb. Jim stared out the window, feeling the movements of the car and knowing when Marty was ready to shift gears. He'd had a manual transmission years ago himself, before he married Christie, and he got rid of it because she wanted an automatic. He'd tried to teach her to drive a stick shift, but she never did get the hang of it. She complained she had more important things to think about while driving.

"You can relax, Dunbar. Or do you want to drive?"

Jim turned away from the window, not having realized both of his hands were again clenched on his knees as he sat there. "It's your car; I'll let you drive."

"Then relax. I'll get there as fast as I can."

Jim shook his head and faced straight ahead. "You know, standing on the sidewalk back there, waiting what, thirty seconds for you? A whole thirty seconds or less, when I could have been on my way to the station… I just want to be there already. I don't like waiting any more than I like not having control over every little thing." Jim drummed his fingers on the arm of the door. "I'd probably feel better just walking there, even if it took longer, because I'd feel like I was getting somewhere."

"Would it make you feel better if I weave in and out of traffic?"

Jim smiled. "Is Tom coming?"

"I dunno. Fisk couldn't get a hold of him or Karen. I'm sure he's going to keep trying, though. I stopped by the bar I was supposed to meet Tom at, but he wasn't there."

"Are we there yet?" Jim asked a minute later to fill the silence.

"That's not funny," Marty said without any humor in his voice.

Jim laughed.

"I have a kid, Dunbar. It's not funny." Marty pulled over. "But yeah, we're here."

Jim opened the door as soon as the car was in park, before Marty had even turned it off. He pushed up the seat and let Hank out. "Which way?" he asked when Marty joined him.

"This way." Marty snickered.

Jim looked over at him as he followed Marty toward the station. "What?"

"Nice shirt."

Jim cocked his head to the side. He didn't want to ask Marty of all people, but he had a lot of old shirts, given to him over the years with different slogans. "Which one is it?"

""NYPD Mascot,"" Marty said, laughing. "We should get you one that says, K-9 Unit, or something."

Jim grinned. "Hank would love that. He's a police dog at heart."

"You, uh, like having the dog?"

"I like him better than my cane," Jim said. "He's a great dog."

Marty was quiet a second and Jim didn't want to think what was going through Marty's mind. But he didn't want Marty to think he enjoyed needing to rely on Hank or anything. It was better just to be honest.

"My kid keeps bugging me to get a dog." Marty opened the door to the building.

Jim entered in front of Marty. "All you have to do is get shot; you can get one just like him."

"Thanks, but no thanks."

Jim led the way, hurrying Hank down the hall, almost leading him. His cell rang and he flipped it out. "Dunbar."

"Where the hell are you?" Fisk barked.

Jim didn't slacken his pace at all. "We're here. We're upstairs. Give us ten seconds." He flipped the phone closed. "Ready?" he asked Marty in the elevator.

"Yeah. You?"

Jim shook his head. "No idea."

"You know, we've never interviewed together before…"

Jim bit his lip. "And we definitely have different styles." The doors dinged open.

"Ready?" Fisk asked.

Jim took the back as always. Fisk was in the lead. Jim listened in the corridor. Quiet, mostly. It was late, after midnight, after lights-out, and he was pretty sure the lights in the area had been dimmed.

He could hear Michael whispering. Fisk stopped walking, then Marty stopped. Jim and Hank joined them.

"There you are! It's about time!" Michael exclaimed when he looked up from his cell to see the detectives and the lieutenant there. He sounded exasperated and impatient.

Jim kept his hold on Hank's harness. If Michael was calm enough, they'd move him into an interview room.

"They want me to shut up," Michael continued. "Tell them I can't, if I value my life. If they leave me alone… If I'm alone… The bigger the scene, the more witnesses." He was tense, pacing.

"He's just been loud," an officer said. "He hasn't tried to hurt himself."

"I don't need to hurt myself! My life is in danger!"

The officer snorted, a little laugh of disbelief. "We haven't laid a hand on him."

"Don't laugh," Michael said, his voice getting low, but far from calm.

"You want to talk?" Jim asked him.

"Oh, fck me," Michael said, sounding like he'd noticed Jim for the first time. "Do I think a cop with a fcking guide dog's going to be able to keep me safe? You're completely blind, aren't you?" He really sounded shocked. "I thought at least you could see something. Fck, I'm completely dead." He kicked something, probably the bed. "Where's the lady?"

"She's not coming," Jim said evenly, ignoring his tirade. "You're dealing with us tonight."

"Good."

Jim raised his eyebrows above his sunglasses, but didn't say anything.

"There's no reason for her to be involved." Michael came over, close to the bars. "Chances are, if you go much further with this investigation, you're gonna be on the list, too."

Jim looked over at him, the first time they'd been face to face since the fight. He sounded smaller, more vulnerable. Like he was just a kid who wouldn't be able to put up much of a fight. Jim felt his shoulder start to ache again. This kid could hold his own, he knew that first-hand, right? Or was Jim just overestimating his own abilities?

"They gave me a message," Michael whispered. "I'm next."

"Who gave you a message?" Jim asked. "If you talk to us, maybe we can help."

Michael laughed.

"You said you wanted to confess."

"To a priest, dim shit. I already confessed to you, didn't I? I was asking for my last rites."

"How'd you get a message?"

"From heaven."

Michael started to move away. Jim reached out and touched a bar to orient himself to the cell. "If we can't help you, who can?"

"Not God, that's for sure." It sounded like he stopped in the far corner of the cell, facing away from the officers.

"Michael!" Jim reprimanded. "Talk to us!"

"Get me a fcking priest," Michael whispered, sounding near tears.

Jim turned to where he thought Fisk and Russo were standing. He nodded his head toward the cell. "Can we move him?"

"Yeah," Fisk said quietly. "Let's get him in a room and get a priest."

Jim followed them toward an interview room. Fisk broke away to get a priest.

Jim stopped Marty when they got inside, a hand on his arm. "Can you read him? When he's talking, his facial expressions and… the way he moves?"

"You want to know if you're missing anything?" Marty hesitated and moved away, pacing a little in the small room.

Jim walked Hank over to the far side of the table and pulled out a chair. He sat, leaning forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped at his mouth. He blew on his hands, puffing his cheeks out, thinking desperately of anything Michael had ever said that could help, of any clue they might have.

"He looked… really bad," Marty said. "Like he was on something. Pale, shaking. He looked skinny. I mean, he was skinny before, but now he looks sick."

"You think someone slipped him something?"

"Normally I'd say, how could they get down here, but after the fiasco with the Mulhaney kid… I don't know, Dunbar."

Jim rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Damn."

"You want to help him?"

"I don't want him to die, Marty, if that's what you mean. Something's going on here, and if anything's true… What are we supposed to do about it? There's no way we can protect him if Uncle Josiah has someone on the inside." Jim leaned back in the chair, looking somewhere above Marty's head, thinking.

"I'll keep an eye on him and see what I think," Marty offered.

Jim nodded.

"You want me to keep my mouth shut? I mean, it's your case."

Jim laughed. "Yeah, right, Marty. If you think of anything you want to ask, just say it."

"You sure? I'm not Karen…"

"Yeah. I know. And I value your opinion, skewed as it may be. We're on the same team, and any insight, I appreciate it."