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.

The song "Hush Little Baby" used herein is a traditional lullaby and in the public domain.

IN THE AFTERMATH OF HELL

CHAPTER EIGHT

There is blood…so much blood…I can smell it in my nose, a thick cloying sweetness with a sharp coppery edge…I close my eyes…

"Hush little baby, don't say a word," I hear someone singing, and I open my eyes to see Johnny Gage approaching me, a black bulletproof vest over his blue paramedic shirt, the shirt stained with sweat and dust and grime. He cradles a little girl in a flowered sundress in his arms, looking down at her with a wide toothy smile on his face. "Hey, Pete," he says jovially. "I saved this little girl, whaddaya think of that?"

I look down at the child in his arms, horrified by what I see, for she's clearly dead, a huge hole blown in her gut, blood seeping out and trickling down Johnny's arms as the slimy grey-white worms of her intestines peek through the gaping wound. Her head lolls limply and her clouded green eyes stare sightlessly up at the blue sky overhead. "You didn't save her, Johnny," I tell him thickly, swallowing back bile as I stare at the bloody little rag doll that used to be a human being. "She's dead."

"No she's not!" he says angrily, his face settling into a stony glare, his dark eyes flashing fire at me. "She's still alive, damn it!" He looks back down at her tenderly. "Don't worry, sweetie," he soothes gently, clearly unaware of the horrific damage that has been done to the child, robbing her of her life. "We'll get you out of here and everything will be all right, you wait and see." He sways from side to side, rocking her in his arms as he begins to sing again. "Hush little baby, don't say a word, Johnny's gonna buy you a mockingbird…" he croons as her blood oozes down his arms, dripping onto the grass beneath his feet.

There is blood…so much blood…I close my eyes…

"Pete!" someone exclaims, suddenly clutching at my legs, and I open my eyes, looking down to see Judy at my feet, crimson and grey blotches dotting her pink checkered shirt and pink slacks. She smiles and gestures to her young son who is lying a-ways away from us on the Irish green grass, motionless. "David wants you to play catch with him," she says. "Remember you promised to do that the other day and you didn't get a chance because it was raining out?"

I look across the grass to where he lies, his body still and unmoving, his face blown away and replaced by a ghastly dark crater of shattered skull and brain matter and blood. I stare at him for a moment, my brain trying to comprehend what I'm seeing, then I turn sickened eyes to Judy. "He's dead, Judy," I tell her as gently as I can. "He's been shot."

"He's not dead, he's only sleeping, Pete!" she snaps at me, releasing her hold on me to crawl over to him, glaring at me as she picks him up, cradling him in her arms. "Shh, sweetie, go back to sleep," she murmurs, smoothing a lock of bloodstained hair away from what's left of his forehead. "Hush little David, don't say a word, Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird," she sings to him, a smile on her face as she gazes lovingly down at his shattered head, unaware that his face is completely gone.

There is blood…so much blood…I close my eyes…

"Pete, we gotta get outta here, somebody's shooting at people!" a voice at my side urges, and I open my eyes to see my partner, Jim Reed, standing there with a child cradled in his arms, this one alive and wailing loudly, clutching at Jim's bulletproof vest with frightened fingers, his blue eyes wide with fear as he cries and cowers in his father's arms, for it is Jim's own son that he holds tightly to him. "We gotta get Jimmy outta here before we all get killed!" Jim says in a panic, just as a shot rings out and little Jimmy's head explodes against his father's chest, a fine mist of blood, bone and grey brain matter spraying out across Jim's vest and black coveralls, dotting them like gory confetti. Jim's eyes meet mine in shocked horror. "Oh my God," he moans. "Jean's gonna be pissed at me. I got little Jimmy killed." Still cradling the limp body of his son, he turns away from me. "Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, what did I do?" he whimpers. He sways from side to side, rocking the dead body of his son in his arms as he begins to sing to soothe himself rather than his deceased son. "Hush little Jimmy, don't say a word, Daddy's gonna buy you a mockingbird…"

"This cannot be happening," I mutter to myself, staring at the figures of my three friends in abject shock. The voices of Johnny Gage, Jim Reed, and Judy Smith converge in eerie harmony, singing the familiar sweet lullaby like a beautiful funeral dirge, the notes of their voices echoing out across the still, silent park. "This cannot be happening," I murmur again in disbelief.

"Oh, but it is, Malloy!" booms a jolly voice from behind me, and I whip around to see Charlie Burnside standing there, dressed in camouflage fatigues, holding a rifle in his hands. His teeth flash whitely in his suntanned face as he grins at me. "How'd you like my little show out here today?"

Hatred rages boiling hot in my blood as I stare at him, realizing that he's the cause behind all of this evil done here today. "Burnside," I spit out venomously, his name a bad taste in my mouth. "You evil fucking sonofabitch, I hope you rot in the deepest bowels of Hell for what you've done out here."

"Tsk tsk," he clucks in a scold, shaking his head. "I knew you and Reed hated me, Malloy, but there's no reason to get nasty."

"That's because you made it easy for us TO hate you, Burnside," I growl, my eyes narrowed to slits as I glare at him, my hands clenched into fists so tightly, my nails are digging into my palms. "No one likes a dirty cop, and you were as dirty as they came, you asshole."

"Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me," he sing-songs in an eerily child-like tone as he approaches me, swinging the rifle by its strap so that it's around at his back. Reaching out and grabbing me by the collar of my coveralls, he yanks me close to me, his breath sour and rancid in my face, the odor of sweat and cordite and evil rolling off of him like a visible miasma. "Do you know what you and that goody-goody partner of yours did to me? DO YOU?" he asks in a harsh rasp, his eyes boring into mine with angry intensity as he shakes me by the collar a bit. I bring my hands up to try to break free from his grasp, but I'm powerless in his grip. "You two, along with that sniveling wimp, Al Porter, got me fired from the force for police brutality, plus I had assault charges filed against me and I was forced to plead guilty, spending sixty days in jail as my sentence. I couldn't get a decent job after that, and my wife left me, divorcing me for some jerk that had more money than I did. Do you know what I wound up doing? I wound up doing LABOR, that's what I wound up doing…shit jobs that no one else wanted to do, like working construction and hauling trash and landscaping."

"You got what you had coming to you, Burnside," I snarl at him, finally breaking myself free from his grip. "You were badge heavy and you threw your weight around when you roughed suspects up just to intimidate them. Jim Reed and Al Porter were right in taking up what they'd seen you do while on duty to the higher-ups. Any cop with a conscience woulda done the same damned thing."

"Yes," he says, nodding thoughtfully. "And it's too bad that I had to find out after transferring into Central Division just how conscientious my fellow officers were, too. In my old division, they woulda looked the other way and never said a word, maybe even got in on the action themselves." He smiles again, teeth flashing once more like a friendly piranha, just before it eats you. "After all, the criminals that we chased on a daily basis were nothing more than pond scum, and if they got a little banged up before they were brought into the jail, who cared? They got what they deserved."

"And so did you, you motherfucker," I growl angrily.

"Now so will you, Malloy, for what you and your partner have done to me," he retorts, his smile turning cold, his eyes like chips of granite as he pulls a revolver from the holster on his belt, cocking the hammer. He begins to sing softly as he aims the gun at John Gage standing across the way from us, still cradling the dead girl in his arms, blissfully unaware of what's going on around him. "Hush little baby, don't say a word, Charlie's gonna buy you a mockingbird…" With a strangled cry as I realize what he's about to do, I leap towards Burnside to knock his hand away but I'm too late, for Burnside pulls the trigger and John Gage is no more, Burnside's bullet catching Johnny right in the head, taking the top of his skull clean off with the precision of a surgeon. Johnny topples to the grass, now nothing more than a heap of bloody skin and bones dressed in a paramedic's uniform, the dead child rolling away from his slackened arms. "And if that mockingbird don't sing, Daddy's gonna buy you a diamond ring…" Burnside continues to sing as he swings the gun around to aim at Judy, who is still seated on the grass, stroking David's blood-soaked hair away from his shattered head. Screaming, I lunge at him once more, but he swats me away like I'm nothing more than an annoying gnat as he pulls the trigger, catching Judy square in the heart and crumpling her over the body of her dead son. "Isn't this fun, Malloy?" Burnside chortles gleefully, a maniacal kid opening presents of death and destruction on Christmas Eve. "And look, I've saved the best for last!" He gestures to Jim.

"Don't," I hoarse out, fear shooting cold through my veins. "Don't kill him. You've already murdered his son, don't murder him, too." I gesture with a shaking hand to the dead bodies of Judy and David, Johnny and the little girl. "Isn't what hell you've committed out here enough?"

Burnside cocks his head at me, a queer little expression of malicious amusement on his face. "Oh, I'm not going to be the one to pull the trigger on your best friend," he sneers delightedly. "YOU are, Pete." He holds the revolver out to me.

I shake my head vehemently. "Nuh-uh," I say, backing away from him. "There's no fucking way in HELL I'm killing my best friend. I don't want the blood of innocents on my hands."

"It's a little late for that, don'tcha think, Malloy?" he asks. "After all, it's because of you that I began this shooting rampage."

"You can't blame me for what you've done out here, Burnside," I growl out. "You're the sick fuck who couldn't handle what life threw at him and decided to take it out on innocent society." I gesture to Jim. "And there's no way that I'm pulling the trigger on Jim. You can't make me do it, either."

Burnside laughs as he reaches out, grabbing my right hand in a cast-iron grip I can't shake free of. "Oh, I can't, can I?" he asks with a giggle, pressing down on my hand with inhuman strenght…suddenly there is the sound of cracking bone and an explosion of white-hot pain sears across me, blinding me, and I suck my breath in with a sharp gasp, letting it out in a whimper of pain, groaning and sagging to my knees in the grass, Burnside still holding my hand like an illicit lover. "Hurts, doesn't it?" he gloats.

"You evil motherfucker," I gasp, gritting my teeth against the pain and trying hard to hide from him, knowing that he's feeding off of it like a succubus.

"Get up!" he orders me, shaking me by the hand he still clasps. "I said, GET UP!" He twists my hand, sending bright glints of agony across me, and I slowly haul myself to my feet with a sharp rasp of breath, sweat breaking out upon my forehead. Still gripping my hand, Burnside pries my crushed fingers open, slapping the revolver into my palm, forcing my index finger over the trigger with his own, raising the gun towards Jim. "And if that diamond ring turns brass, Daddy's gonna buy you a looking-glass," he begins to sing once more, picking up the nursery song as if he never left it.

"Run!" I yell at Jim, who stares back at me with a mournful gaze, his face tracked with tears, his dead son Jimmy still cradled in his arms. "He's gonna make me kill you!"

Jim shrugs complacently. "Que sera sera, isn't that what you always say?" he asks sorrowfully. He looks down at the headless body of Jimmy. "And what do I have to live for now, anyway?" he asks softly. "Jean's leaving me and now my son is dead. I have nothing more to keep me here, Pete. Killing me would be a mercy, really."

"See?" Burnside chuckles maniacally. "Reed's got the right idea, for once." He begins to sing once more as he forces me to raise the gun towards Jim's head. "Que sera sera, whatever will be, will be," he croons, switching to the Doris Day tune instead of the nursery song, his finger tightening over mine…"The future's not ours to see"…and then he makes me pull the trigger on my best friend. With a soundless scream, I watch in horror as Jim's head shatters before my eyes, dropping him and his son to the ground, where their crimson lifeblood stains the emerald-green lifeblood of the grass.

There is blood…so much blood…innocent blood…

"Oh my god," I moan as Burnside releases me from his unearthly grip then, allowing me to drop to my knees on the ground, the smell of cordite pepper-sharp in my nose as I wrap my arms around my midsection, rocking back and forth, trying to soothe myself as if I were a child. "Oh my god," I whimper again, sickened by what has happened in front of me.

"Don't you know, Peter J.?" Burnside asks, towering over me, looking down at me with those cold, lifeless eyes. "There is no God. Not here, not there, not anywhere," he says in a spooky Dr. Seuss chant. "There is no God…just me." He throws his head back, laughing. "And now I'm sure you'd like to exact a little revenge of your own upon me, wouldn't you, Malloy?" he asks. He kneels down next to me, slinging a comradely arm across my back as he holds the revolver out to me, butt first. "Here," he offers. "Take it. Shoot me with it." He grins whitely at me in a teeth-gleaming taunt as he spins the cylinder on the gun, the chambers clicking crisply. "You know you want to, Malloy. Que sera sera."

I stare at the proffered gun for a moment…I've never shot someone in revenge, but the hatred and blood lust rises in my veins, and I snatch it from him with a shaking left hand, pointing it right between his eyes as I grin back at him, my lips curled back in a sneer of distaste, my index finger caressing the trigger lovingly, my thumb cocking the hammer. "I can't wait to see you die, you sonofabitch," I gloat as I pull the trigger and…

Nothing happens.

"What the hell?" I growl angrily, glaring at the weapon clutched in my fingers as Burnside laughs uproariously at my predicament.

"Looks like you lost, Malloy," he giggles, taking the weapon from my trembling hand. "Can't you count? It's a six-shot revolver, and we've already used up three shots on your friends over there." He cocks his head at me, looking at me with curiosity. "Ever play Russian Roulette, Malloy?" he asks casually.

Fear curdles cold in my chest as I realize what he's suggesting. "No. And I'm not about to start now, either. I'm not the type to think of suicide as a way out of my problems, no matter how bad they may be."

He shakes his head mournfully. "Oh, but you lie, you lie, you lie, Malloy," he chides gently, wagging a finger at me. "You thought of it when Howie Parker was murdered, didn't you? And you considered it during the Walters investigation, even putting the gun under your chin on the night of your own Gethsemane, but you couldn't bring yourself to pull the trigger. You were too fucking chicken." He spins the cylinder again. "But I'm not," he says, smiling as he points the gun right between my eyes, the muzzle of the gun warm against my skin. "Any famous last words ya wanna say, Malloy?" he asks with malicious glee. "Feel like begging a bit for your own life?"

I stare back at him, my heart pounding wildly, hatred flaming out of my eyes. "I'll be damned if I'm gonna beg, Burnside," I spit out harshly. "I didn't beg for it in front of Steve Deal and I sure as hell ain't gonna beg for my life in front of you, you fucking asshole."

"Pride goeth before a fall," he murmurs, his finger caressing the trigger of the revolver. "Hush little baby, don't say a sound…" he sings softly, putting a finger to his lips in a shushing motion. Closing my eyes, I draw my breath in in a sharp gasp, waiting for the explosion of the bullet blasting through my brain. I hear the snap of the trigger and it doesn't come, and I let the breath out in a shaky sigh, opening my eyes. He spins the cylinder again, sending the chambers clicking wildly once more like bone dice dancing on a craps table. "Daddy's gonna kill you with this round…" he whispers, his finger tightening on the trigger. He gives me a salute, raising two fingers to his forehead. "Que sera sera, Malloy."

And the gun goes off then, exploding once…exploding twice…exploding three times in my skull, but I don't feel it as it keeps ringing and ringing and ringing…

And ringing…my eyes fly open in a sudden flash and I gasp, wrenched out of the nightmare by the jarringly insistent ringing of the phone on my nightstand. I roll over to answer it and promptly fall off the bed, meeting the floor with my face instead, getting a mouthful of brown shag carpeting as something slides off of the bed and lands next to me with a thunk. What the hell? my fuzzy mind asks as I lie there for a moment, face mushed against the carpeting, momentarily stunned by this rather startling turn of events, for I haven't fallen out of bed since I was three. As the phone keeps ringing, I gather my addled wits about me, getting sweaty palms beneath myself, flipping myself over onto my back with a grunt, just as the phone mercifully stops ringing. I remain there on my back, trying hard to figure out how I went from THERE to HERE, running a sandpaper tongue across desert-dry lips, the taste of what apparently has been a herd of sheep gamboling about in my mouth, staring glassy-eyed up at the liver-shaped water stain on my ceiling…oh god, liver…my stomach gives a queasy roll and saliva quickly fills my mouth with a sour thickness. My heart hammers wildly and I press a hand to keep it from leaping out of my chest, ignoring the pain of the bruise over my heart when I bump it, closing my eyes as I breathe harshly through my nose, willing my stomach to stay where it's at, a chilly sweat breaking out across me. It relents a little, settling somewhere in the vicinity of my lungs, and I flick my eyes open, still breathing through my nose, swiping a shaky palm across my forehead as I blink sleep-grit and sweat out of my eyes. Jungle drums begin to take up a vicious throbbing beat in my head, accompanying the conga-line pounding of my heart.

Carefully avoiding looking at the water stain on my ceiling again, lest it rile my stomach up once more, I stare at the blue-diamond pattern of my bedspread instead, trying to gather the remnants of memory about me, searching hard in my still-fuzzy brain for the clues as to why I wound up on the floor instead of in the bed. Why wasn't I lying in bed like I normally would have been if I'd been asleep? Judging from the angle of my ungraceful fall, I must have been sprawled across the foot of the mattress. I squint in bleary recall, brief snatches of last night coming back to me here and there…watching coverage of the sniper attack on tv, screaming at Judy to get out, throwing the drinking glass at the door and watching it shatter, picking up the pieces and cutting myself on a tiny shard…I remember nothing after that. I hold my palm out in front of me, eyes searching for the injury, seeing the scabbed and dried blood where the little cut is, reassuring myself that I did indeed cut myself last night. I frown, furrowing my brow as my tongue scrapes thickly across the roof of my mouth, sliding against the sour film on my teeth. What in the hell happened to me last night? Why can't I remember anything after I got cut? Was I somehow injured yesterday during the sniper attack and now I'm suffering from amnesia?

Remembering that something fell from the bed at the same time I did, I turn my head, spotting an empty bottle of Jack Daniels lying inches away from me, a few amber drops of whiskey still clinging stubbornly to the sides. I close my eyes in sickened realization…oh fuck, I musta got totally wasted last night, and wandered back here and passed out on the bed. I try to recall how much whiskey was left in the bottle before I got into it…half a bottle? three-fourths of a bottle? Surely I couldn't have drunk THAT much, could I have?...and I realize that I cannot remember. Hot shame at what I've done sweeps through me, for it's been a long, LONG time since I've gotten that goddamned drunk. I take in a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh at my stupidity, because getting that drunk is something my dad would do, not me, and I've always prided myself that despite what I often witness in the job as a cop, I don't let it turn me into a raging alcoholic like my dad's life experiences have done to him. I dislike the idea of losing control, of allowing booze to do my thinking and acting for me, and it's not too often that I let myself get totally blitzed like I apparently did last night.

But I just wanted to forget the horror and the hell of yesterday, that's all, a little voice whispers in my head.

"Still, that's no goddamned excuse for getting that drunk," I mutter in thick-tongued response.

It can be forgiven, though, the little voice whispers. What you experienced, what you witnessed yesterday…you needed the whiskey to ease the pain of what you went through. Any sane man would have done the same damned thing. So quit beating yourself up over it. What's done is done.

"Why am I arguing with the voice in my head anyway?" I mumble. "Is it a sign I'm going crazy?"

No, it's a sign you're human, Pete, that's all, the voice answers back.

"Right now, that's debatable," I reply.

The floor begins to feel uncomfortable against my back, so with a heavy groan, I slowly heave myself into a sitting position, my stomach complaining sourly, the jungle drums beating violently in my head as I sit propped against one palm flat on the carpet, scrubbing at the sweat on my face with the other palm, the room spinning sickeningly for a second before it settles back into place around me. I rest like that for a moment, then carefully, oh so carefully so that my aching head doesn't explode all over the room and my stomach doesn't revolt, I begin to ease myself back onto the bed, gripping the mattress and bedspread for dear life as I climb gingerly aboard, the mattress a life raft in a storm-tossed sea. I crawl up to the headboard, gently lowering my head onto one of my pillows, resting a fevered cheek against the cool cotton pillowcase as I curl myself up into a fetal ball and wish like hell I were dead right now. I know I need aspirin and something in my stomach to soak up the poison of the alcohol, but all I can do is press sweating palms against sweating temples, trying to keep my skull from shattering into a million little pieces. I can smell fresh-brewed coffee coming from the kitchen, Judy apparently having put it on last night to brew this morning, but it sounds about appealing as beating my head against the wall. I whimper pitifully at my deeply hung-over state…for what good's getting drunk if you can't regret it in the morning?...grinding my cheek into the pillow as I flail an arm about, fingers searching for the other pillow on my bed. Finding it, I grab it and jam it tightly over my head, closing out the world. Maybe if I can get back to some semblance of sleep, I'll feel better when I wake up…

And, as if on cue, the damned phone starts ringing once more, and I wish I'd remembered to shut the fucker off before I wandered back here and passed out with the whiskey bottle in my hand last night. "Shut up," I rasp at it hoarsely, my words muffled by the weight of the pillow atop me. "Go 'way. Don' bother me." I squinch my eyes shut even tighter than they already are, willing the phone to stop ringing. But it continues to shrill, so with a groan, I flail my arm out once more, fumbling thick fingers for the receiver, grabbing it and shoving it to my ear without even knocking the pillow away from my head. "Speak, damn it!" I growl into it, wincing at the sharp sound of my own voice echoing in my skull.

There's a gasp of horror from the other end of the line. "Peter Joseph Malloy, is that any way to answer a phone?" squawks my mother's shocked voice, all the way from Seattle. "How RUDE!"

Oh fuck, my mother…I shoulda known she was going to be calling bright and early to check on me, since I didn't call her back last night when I got in. Shoving the pillow from my head, I pinch the bridge of my nose as I sigh, for my mother is the LAST person I want to deal with right now. "Sorry, Mom," I mumble in apology, hoping that she won't hear the insincerity in my tone.

"Peter, why didn't you call me back last night?" she asks, managing to sound bewildered and pissed at the same time. "I left several messages with Judy for you to call me when you got in, no matter what the time was. Didn't she give them to you?"

Now I know I could be a complete ass and toss Judy to the wolves, using the excuse that no, she didn't give me the messages to call Mom last night, but I honestly can't throw her under the bus like that and expect her to take the blame for my own failure. I'm not that kind of guy, and besides, as mind-numbingly dull as it truly is at times, I would definitely miss the nookie I get on a semi-regular basis from Judy, who doles it out to me like she's doling out gold stars for great achievements to her second graders, except I'm not apt to wet my pants if called to the chalkboard, nor do I have any desire to fashion pictures of puppies out of macaroni and glitter, nor do I want to eat paste or cram crayons up my nose…ever. "No, Mom," I sigh. "Judy gave me the messages. It was just too late for me to call you when I got in, and plus, all I really wanted to do was get a shower and hit the sack for the next decade or so."

"Oh…" my mom's voice hesitates. "I'm sorry, did I wake you, sweetie?"

"Isn't that what most people are still doing at…" I pause, opening an eye and glancing at the alarm clock on my nightstand, "Six-thirty in the morning?" I can't help the somewhat snide tone to my voice, for my mother KNOWS not to call me before ten a.m. EVER. Unless someone is dead, of course, and even then, it had damned well better be someone close to me, like ME for instance. I refrain from telling her that I wasn't as much sleeping as I was passed out from being drunk, for that's not something one really wants one's mother to know.

"Oh, honey, I'm sorry, I just wanted to call and see if you were okay," she apologizes. "Your father and I were worried about you after we heard about the sniper killings on tv last night."

"Dad was worried about me?" I snort derisively at the mention of my father. "That's a good one, Mom. Tell me another. I need a good laugh this morning." Bitterness edges my voice.

"Now honey, you know he loves you in his own way," she chides gently, skirting the issue of my father and I like a seasoned square dancer, do-si-do-ing away from it with practiced ease. Hell, she should…she's had thirty odd years of experience in doing it. "Anyway, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Mom," I mumble. "Just peachy."

She falls silent for a moment, and I can almost see her picking at the wool of her old grey sweater, worrying the soft little nubs of fabric between her fingers like rosary beads. "Were you involved in that sniper situation yesterday, Peter?" she asks softly, fearfully, for while my mother realizes on some level that I'm a cop, and as such, I face danger and death every time I put on the shiny metal shield and blue dacron uniform, but she'd rather not think of that. No, she'd prefer to think of me as a meter maid that packs heat, for what's the worst a meter maid faces? Bunions, sore feet, paper cuts, and the occasional tongue-lashing from an irate parking violator. "From what we saw on tv, it looked very bad, with a lot of people killed," she says quietly. "Were you involved in it, honey?"

Now it's my turn to fall silent, static hissing over the long distance line as my fingers play with the pigtail of the phone cord, twisting it as I debate whether or not to tell her the truth, staring at the dust motes that drift lazily before me on the little shafts of early morning sun that peep in through the closed curtains at my window. I know she wants to hear that I was only a bit actor on the sidelines of the incident, involved only with the roadblocks or traffic control, rather than the actual killing ground itself. Finally I speak. "Yeah, I was, Mom," I tell her evasively, because yea verily, the truth shall set me free, and besides, mothers ALWAYS know when their kid is lying, it's an unerring instinct. "I was involved in it and let's just leave it at that, okay?"

"How bad was it, Peter?" she asks gingerly, not wanting to know but needing to ask anyway.

"It was…" my voice trails off into misery as her motherly concern rings poignant in my soul, wrapping tight arms around me in a long-distance embrace, making me feel like I'm five years old again and need to tell my mommy about the monsters that reside under my bed, especially the scary ones that go up on the roofs of buildings with guns and kill people. I scrub at gritty eyes that have suddenly become damp, a lump riding up in my throat as I long to spill yesterday's horror to her, but I fight it, for how do I tell her that I watched a woman take a bullet meant for me, simply because she refused to leave her dead children behind? How do I tell her that I saw a little girl's head explode in my partner's arms as she was seconds away from safety and survival, just because she happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time with her preschool group? How do I tell her that I spent an eternity in that stinking, wallowing Armadillo, witnessing so much damage and fear and death and blood that I can still see it when I close my eyes, still taste it on my tongue, still hear it ringing in my ears, still smell it in burning in my nose, the whole horrific experience seared into my heart, my mind, my soul like a cattlebrand…how in the fuck do I tell my mom that? I can't, I just can't. I cannot explain to her something I cannot understand myself, why some madman would go up on top of a building and start gunning people down in the park below, just because he hated the world that created him. I cough, clearing my throat before I speak. "It was bad, Mom, real bad," I manage to rasp out, trying hard to keep the emotion from my voice and failing miserably at it. "That's all I'm gonna tell you, too, so please don't ask me anymore about it."

She clearly hears the anguish in my words. "Oh, honey," she says gently, soothingly. "This is why I wish you'd quit your job and take something else, something safer and less depressing."

"Mom, please," I complain wearily. "We've been over this before. I'm not quitting my job over something like this." Even though you already did, my fuzzy brain reminds me, blearily remembering the scene in Mac's office last night when I tossed my badge onto his desk and told him to shove it up his ass, then stormed out with Jim Reed right behind me, having done the same. I smirk sourly at the recall…what I would do, Reed surely would follow, the two of us blood brothers to the goddamned bitter end.

"Peter, just hear me out," she pleads. "Why not leave L.A. and come back home to work here at the Seattle police department? Surely it wouldn't be as dangerous as it is there in Los Angeles."

"A cop is a cop is a cop, Mom," I tell her with a tired sigh. "No matter WHAT city they work for. It's just as dangerous a job in Corncob City, Iowa as it is in L.A. or Seattle."

"Yes, but…" she quails.

"Mom, I'm not discussing this with you any further," I interrupt a bit sharply. I glance at the clock. "Look, Mom, I've gotta go," I say, deciding to feign being busy. "I've got some things I gotta get done before I go to work."

"But, Peter…" she begins.

"Bye, Mom, I love you," I say quickly, cutting her off as I gently replace the phone in the cradle. I wait a moment to see if she calls me back, but she doesn't, so I flop over on my other side with a groan, burrowing my head back into the pillow beneath my cheek, reaching for the other pillow to cram over my head. My fingers land on a wad of paper and I roll it around between thumb and forefinger, then I open my eyes, bringing the crumpled ball up to investigate it further. I pluck carefully at it, opening the edges, trying hard to focus bleary eyes on what's written on it…a phone number printed out in Judy's neat penmanship…I squint at the name she wrote down, then my eyes widen…Oh fuck, Evie's number! my fried brain blurts at me. I stare at the number for a moment, then on impulse, I flip back over to the phone, picking the receiver up as I prop myself up, dialing the numbers in, then I realize with horror what I'm about to do, and I slam the phone back down before I can complete the call, my fingers shaking as I stare at the slip of paper in front of me. "What in the fuck are you THINKING, Malloy?" I whisper in shock to myself.

Then another realization hits me…if I was willing to call Evie when I'm halfway sober, what was I willing to do while I was drunk off my ass? Fear races through me, panicking me as my brain scrambles hard to remember if I DID call Evie last night. "Oh shit, what did I DO?" I moan, my eyes darting back and forth between the number on the paper and the phone on my nightstand. I don't dare call Evie and ask her if I contacted her last night, because if I DIDN'T, then that is a stone better left unturned on a rocky path that ended on a sharp cliff overlooking the ocean oh so long ago, to mix many metaphors to describe my relationship with the woman who is…WAS…my ex-wife. But if I did call her…if I did…oh dear God…I close my eyes, surmising that the only way I'll find out is when I get my phone bill, unless Evie contacts me again. Opening my eyes with a sigh, I crumple the paper back into a little ball and toss it into the trash basket next to the nightstand. Then, on second thought, I reach down and pick up the trash basket, plucking the little shred of paper back out, putting it next to the alarm clock. I'm not sure WHY I don't want to throw it away just yet, other than it is a lifeline of sorts for me, a lifeline that I'll likely never use.

With a weary groan, I ease myself out of bed, swinging my legs around and setting my feet gently on the floor, testing my sea legs as I slowly stand up. The room maintains its equilibrium and so do I, the jungle drums still beating a vicious tattoo in my skull as I gingerly cross the carpeting to my bathroom in search of a couple of aspirin, the brown shag rug rough beneath my bare feet. Without even turning on the bathroom light, I find the bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet and open it, shaking two tablets out, running water in the sink to take them, but then I decide it might be best if I take them with a cup of coffee, the combination of the analgesic and caffeine working together to break the hangover headache. Tablets in hand, I leave the bathroom and retrace my steps in the bedroom as I head to the kitchen. The empty bottle of whiskey still lying on my floor catches my eye and I stop for a moment to pick it up, instantly regretting it when the jungle drums increase to a mambo inside my skull when I lean over. I straighten back up with a small whimper of misery...god, I am never getting drunk like that again, at least not for another few years or so.

Just as I enter the living room, empty whiskey bottle in one hand, savior aspirin in the other, there is a sharp knock at my door and I freeze, startled by the sudden intrusion of sound into the otherwise quiet atmosphere. Telepathically I command whoever is on the other side of the door to go away and leave me the hell alone, for I'm not in the mood for company right now. I do not wish to be proselytized to by fast-talking, fake-smiling idiots selling vacuums, encyclopedias, glossy magazines full of ads, nor do I wish to be preached at by folks about the hallowed word of God which is also full of ads. The foul mood I'm in, I'm liable to grab the literature out of their hands and start whacking them over the heads with it, thusly causing myself some embarrassment when the headline in tomorrow's paper reads "LAPD OFFICER ASSAULTS INNOCENT JEHOVAH'S WITNESSES WITH WATCHTOWER MAGAZINES". The knocking starts up again, this time sharper, more insistently, and with a dismayed shake of my head, I set the empty bottle of whiskey down on the coffee table. "Go away!" I yell, wincing at the loudness of my own voice. "I don't wanna be bothered!"

"Pete, open the door!" comes the voice of Captain Val Moore. "We need to talk!"

"No, we don't!" I holler back.

The doorknob rattles as he shakes it vigorously, pounding on the door again. "Damn it, Pete, open this door! You don't want to wake your neighbors up, do you?"

Realizing he has a point, since I already probably disturbed the neighbors when I had the spat with Judy earlier and to bother them again would be a further injustice, so with a heavy sigh, I cross the room to answer the door, careful to avoid stepping where there might be shards of glass left from the drinking glass I shattered against the door last night. I undo the deadbolt and the knob lock, but leave the chain lock on as I open the door. "Look, whatever the hell you're sellin', I ain't buyin'," I tell Val sharply, peeping out at him through the crack allowed by the chain, scowling at him and giving him the most vicious hairy eyeball I can manage with a thudding hangover. It is a look designed to scare off even the hardiest of salesmen and religious blatherers, and unfortunately for me, Val is damnably impervious to it, having been scowled at by me many times in the past, probably more than he can count.

"Here's your paper," he says, holding the morning edition of the LA Times out to me through the crack in the door. He's dressed this morning in his crisp blue uniform instead of his customary suit and tie, his black oxfords and leather holster holding his gun spit shined to perfection, a neat row of his service awards and meritorious ribbons marching across the top of the left breast pocket of his uniform. His gold captain's stars are pinned neatly to his collar tabs, his silver badge glinting bright in the sun, his rectangular nameplate spelling out "Moore" in precise block letters.

"You're pretty old for a paperboy, ain't ya?" I ask dryly, taking the paper from him and tossing it on the top of the tv set without looking at it, for I know that the headlines will be all about the sniper rampage, which is THE LAST thing I want to read about right now.

"I'm thinking of taking that job up when I retire," he replies magnanimously. "Good exercise and fresh air and all that happy crap, you know."

"Right," I say skeptically, cocking an eyebrow at him. "But you didn't come by this morning to discuss what kind of a job you're going to do after you retire, did you?"

"No, we have some other matters to discuss," he says. "Matters that really are better talked over in the privacy of your own apartment, rather than the balcony."

The sunrays glinting off of Val's brass nearly blinds me. "Christ, you're awfully…eh…shiny to take in by someone who hasn't had his morning cup of coffee yet," I say with a wince, shielding my eyes with a palm. "Too damned chipper and alert, too."

"And you look like hell yourself, Malloy," Val counters softly. "And don't think that I don't know a hangover when I see one, and I'd say you have one hell of a doozy right now, don't you?"

"What, I'm not allowed to self-medicate after yesterday's horrors?" I ask sharply. "Any sane man would have done the same damned thing, Val. And if you've come here to judge me, then you can just go…"

"Fuck myself?" he interrupts, a small smirk playing about his lips. "Like you told Mac to do last night? Yes, I've heard all about THAT little set-to."

"Then you know Reed and I quit the force last night," I tell him flatly. "We're no longer members of the LAPD. So really, you and I have nothing to discuss, do we?"

Val holds a palm up in pleading supplication. "Look, will you please at least hear me out, Pete, and listen to what I have to say? And if you don't like it, I promise you can throw me out on my crisply uniformed ass, okay?" He offers me a half-hearted grin.

"Promise?" I ask, trying to return the grin but failing, my face not feeling like smiling right now. "Oh hell," I sigh wearily, shaking my head as I close the door long enough to undo the chain lock, opening it back up to admit Val. "I know you're gonna stand out here all day if I don't let you in, so I might as well get it over with, I guess." I gesture to the kitchen as Val enters my apartment. "Can I get you a cup of coffee? I'm gonna have one."

"Oh lord no," he says with a grimace and a wave of his hand. "I've had enough coffee in the last 24 hours to power a nuclear energy plant. I think my kidneys would go on strike if I forced more coffee down them." He pauses, his eyes scanning over the kitchen trashcan still sitting in the middle of the living room floor with shards of broken glass inside of it, the empty whiskey bottle sitting on my coffee table, the mark on the door from where I shattered the glass. "What happened here last night, Pete?" he asks softly, his grey eyes going wide with surprise.

"Whaddaya think happened, Val?" I ask snidely as I go into the kitchen and take a ceramic mug from the hook beneath my cabinet, pouring myself a steaming cup of bitter black brew from the nearby coffeepot. "I needed to vent after yesterday's little ordeal." I blow on the coffee to cool it for a moment, then I toss the two aspirin tablets into my mouth, grimacing to myself as I wash them down with a couple of quick burning swallows from the mug. The liquid settles pleasantly in my stomach, calming it down a bit. I carry the mug into the living room, sitting it down atop the coffee table as I have a seat on the couch.

"You call that venting?" Val asks, pointing to the bottle of whiskey as he takes a seat in my recliner.

"Whaddaya want me to do instead?" I ask with a sour smile. "Go up onto the roof of a building and start gunning people down like Burnside did?"

Val winces at my gallows humor. "Pete, please. Don't even joke about that."

"Sorry," I begrudge a bit shamefacedly. "Now no offense, but I'd appreciate it if you'd state your piece and get out, Val. I'm really not up to dealing with life right now."

Wordlessly, he opens the flap of the breast pocket of his uniform, pulling forth my badge and laying it gently down on the table in front of me, the metal shield clinking softly against the dark polished wood of the table. "I think this belongs to you, Pete," he says softly.

I stare at my badge, the one that has graced my uniform for nearly 14 years, the one that I have been so proud to wear on my chest…and the one I turned in without a second thought last night. "Not any more, it doesn't," I say dully, shaking my head.

"Pete, do you honestly think I'm just going to let one of my best officers on the force walk away from the career that they've held for the last fourteen years?" he asks. "Do you think I'm honestly going to let you shuck all that training and experience and damned hard work down the tubes, just because of yesterday's ordeal?"

"Honestly, yeah," I shrug sourly. "Why not?"

"Pete," he sighs. "Remember when we went through this the last time you were determined to quit, right after Howie Parker was murdered? And you wound up changing your mind and staying with the job anyway?"

"That's because you purposely threw Jim Reed in my path in an attempt to stop me," I say bitterly. I point a finger at him. "But there is no Reed this time, Val. Nothing you can say or do will make me change my mind. I stand by the decision I made last night."

"So, what do you plan on doing then until you retire?" he asks, cocking his head and giving me a curious look.

"Judy knows someone who owns a hardware store in Fresno," I tell him, shrugging again. "I could always get a job there, if I wanted."

"Oh, yes, I can just SEE that," he nods, voice filled with sarcasm. "You working around bins of nuts and bolts and screws, shoveling nails into sacks by the pound, advising customers on the differences between phillips-head screwdrivers and slotted-head screwdrivers, discussing the joys of power sanding versus sanding by hand."

"Hey, it's a job," I say, picking my coffee up and taking a sip. "Don't knock it, Val. After all, you're gonna be a paperboy when you retire." I try to shoot him a smartass smirk, but my heart isn't in it, so it comes off looking like a deflated grin.

"But is that what you REALLY want to do with the rest of your life, Pete?" Val asks quietly. "Do you honestly think you're going to be happy working behind the counter of a hardware store…in Fresno, no less? Because I don't think you will be. I don't think you're going to be content to be stuck behind a counter, waiting on people, working the same job day in and day out, never varying routine…"

"Maybe that's what I WANT in my life right now," I bite out sharply. "Maybe I CRAVE a little routine and everyday sameness, Val, and how the fuck do you know I DON'T?"

He studies me for a long moment, face drawn with grey-edged fatigue. "Because I know you, Pete. And I know you'd hate that job in five seconds flat, for being a cop is all you've ever known, all you've ever wanted to do. It's in your blood, Pete, and to try to force yourself into another career at this point in your life, I'm afraid you're setting yourself up for a failure."

"Then that's my business to find that out for myself," I snap with irritation, for I know that Val is right, damn it. No matter what kind of job I'd set myself up in, I'd hate it in no time at all, and I'd wind up hating myself even more for forcing myself to make such a switch. I wave a hand at Val, trying to convince him as much as myself that I'm right, anyway. "If I don't go for the hardware store job, I can always return to Seattle and get a job on a fishing trawler up there or something. Or I can go out East and look for something…anything…out there that doesn't involve me strapping on a gun and badge and playing John Wayne."

Val smirks a little, a glimmer of humor in his grey eyes. "You're a little too baby-faced to be compared to John Wayne, Pete," he joshes. "And I thought you hated Seattle for the lousy weather they have. You told me that was one of the reasons you moved here to LA after you got out of the service."

"It was one of them," I say evasively, not revealing the others to him. "But if I got a job on one of the fishing trawlers, I'd be doing something I enjoy doing as a hobby and that's fishing."

"You also like to go dancing, so does that mean you're going to be the next Ginger Rogers?" Val asks with a chuckle. "Pete, don't you realize that if you take on a job that is closely related to your favorite hobby, you'll wind up hating it?"

"Hobby or no hobby, career switch or no career switch, my mind's made up. I'm no longer a cop for the LAPD," I tell him flatly, determinedly, folding my arms across my chest with a glare.

"But once you quit, there's really no coming back, you DO realize that, don't you?" he asks. "Remember Art McCall?"

I scowl at him. "I'm far from being like Art McCall," I tell him defensively. "Art couldn't hack coming back because the job had changed so dramatically from the way it was before he went on medical disability."

"Look," Val placates, holding his hands out in supplication. "You're at the point in your career when you could make an advancement in rank and move out of the trenches. Both the sergeant's exam and the investigator's exam is coming up in December, and why not consider taking one of them and wrangle yourself a promotion? I mean, you can't remain a Senior Lead Officer until you retire, Pete."

"I don't take the exams or opportunities for promotion 'cuz I'd never be happy riding a desk," I tell him.

Ignoring me, Val continues. "The Chief has already decided to put you and Reed up for the Medal Of Valor award, for your brave actions during yesterday's incident."

"You mean yesterday's fucking hell," I snort derisively. "And it wasn't brave of us, we were just doin' our damned jobs, that's all. And ya can't award the Medal Of Valor to a cop that is no longer on the force."

He decides to play his trump card, for Val is a clever man and definitely knows when to play his final ace, which is why he's a damned good poker player. "I've already been to Reed's house and spoken to him. He's agreed to stay on at least through the course of the investigation into yesterday's incident."

"Well, bully for him," I snark, unimpressed by Reed's willingness. "Whaddaya want me to do, throw him a goddamned ticker tape parade?"

"Damn it, Pete, are you so consumed with your own selfish plans that you cannot see what is right in front of you?" Val snaps at me, finally losing his cool, his grey eyes flashing anger. "Your partner, the man you consider to be your best friend, will be forced to go through this trauma and turmoil all on his own, because you won't be there to help him out."

"Don't play that 'pity' card with me," I snap back. "In case you haven't noticed, Reed's no longer the green little rookie you and Mac tossed at me to train seven years ago. He's matured into a fine cop, and he's a big boy to boot. He don't need me to sit there and hold his hand, Val. Jim's perfectly capable of handling this on his own without my assistance, I assure you."

He points an indignant finger at me. "Goddamn it, you mean to tell me that you care so little for the years of friendship that the two of you have shared, and you're willing to just throw that young man to the wolves, simply because you cannot see past your own emotions and needs right now?" He shakes his head. "If that's the case, I'm highly disappointed in you, Pete Malloy. You're not even half the man I thought you were."

"If you're trying to shame me into staying on the job, it won't work," I tell Val coldly, giving him an icy glare. "Jim Reed will be fine, I'm sure of it. Now if you don't mind, I'd like you to…"

"I'm not so sure Reed will be fine myself, though," he interrupts quietly, urgent concern edging his voice and flickering in his eyes.

I frown. "Why, what the hell d'ya mean by that?" I ask sharply.

"When I stopped by to speak with him this morning, he seemed very distraught and upset," Val sighs worriedly. "I mean, the poor kid looks like he's carrying the weight of the world upon him, and that wife of his didn't look like she was willing to help shoulder much of the load, I'm afraid."

"So?" I shrug negligently. "We all have to carry the weight of the world upon us sometime, Val. It's nothing new and it's nothing I can really help with, either. And I don't think Jim would want my help anyway." I can't quite keep the tone of bitterness out of my voice as I think of how angry Jim was last night, how…disgusted and pissed he was with the world, not to mention with me.

He looks at me then, his grey eyes meeting mine. "Pete, what you and Jim went through out there yesterday was something no one should ever have to go through in their careers as police officers, but the fact of the matter is, it happened and you two were the ones to deal with Burnside's rampage. And now it will be you two that will have to deal with the aftermath…"

"Oh, like the survivors and the loved ones of those shot and killed yesterday won't have to suffer through the aftermath themselves?" I ask snidely. "What about those preschool kids, Val? What about the other survivors that were Burnside's victims in the park?" The memory of the woman dying in my arms hits me suddenly and I pause a moment, looking down at my hands, ashamed to meet Val's gaze lest he see the emotions in my eyes. "And what about the families of those murdered in the park?" I ask softly. "Like the woman who took a bullet meant for me, or the little girl killed in Jim's arms, or the young woman who was gunned down because she went back for her purse? What kind of aftermath will they have to go through?"

"Each will have to endure their own hellish aftermath, I'm afraid, dealing with it in the way best for them as individuals," Val tells me gently, leaning forward. "But don't you think that what experiences you and Jim shared out there in yesterday's horror, they would be best dealt with if the two of you faced them together, supporting one another when the going gets tough? Isn't that what friends do, they lean on one another when they need to?"

"I'm not overly sure Jim and I are still friends," I tell him bitterly, my mouth twisting downward in a sour smile. "He was pretty pissed at me last night when I dropped him off."

"Over what?" Val asks.

I shake my head. "The shootings. The stupidity of the world. The cruelty of Burnside. The little girl that died in his arms. The faces of the victims we saw out there, both the ones we saved and the ones we didn't. The fact that I had no ready words or wisdom to dispense to him. The whole goddamned fucking senseless injustice of it all." I hesitate a moment, scouring a hand down my face. "And Jim's got some other issues he's trying to cope with…"

"Family issues?" Val inquires gently. "Yes, I gathered that by the attitude of his wife. I take it all is not well in the Reed paradise, right?"

"It's up to him to tell you what's going on, not me," I say. "But yes, things aren't going quite well between Jim and Jean at this point."

"Look, Pete, I think you know in your heart that you simply cannot turn your back and walk away from a career that you've loved and found rewarding for fourteen years now, nor can you turn your back and walk away from your best friend and leave him to deal with this mess all alone. That's not the kind of man you are, Pete. I know it and you know it. You've been there for Jim all the years you've worked together, seeing him through the tough times just as much as he's seen you through yours. He needs you now, Pete, more than ever, and you need him, even if you can't see that right now." Val's voice holds a strong conviction, for he clearly believes that he's right…and who knows, maybe he is.

"You said almost those exact same words to me on a warm February night, oh so long ago," I say softly, leaning forward and picking up my badge with a sigh, settling back on the couch as the metal of my shield warms quickly in my palm, the silver casting glints of light across my ceiling.

"Not so long ago," Val says with a shrug. "Only seven years."

"That's a whole lifetime, Val," I say, a tone of melancholy creeping into my voice. I look over at Val Moore then…really looking at the man who has been a good friend to me for fourteen years, noticing that there's more silver threading through his brown hair than I remember, more lines etched on his face than I recall, for some part of me still sees Val as the hard-nosed and stern training officer who took a brash youngster named Malloy in hand and taught him the ropes with steely-eyed determination, cast-iron will, and gentle kindness where needed. And it seems so long ago that a hard-nosed and stern training officer named Malloy did the same with a brash youngster named Jim Reed, staying on to teach him the ropes despite a desire to quit the force, training him much the same way that Val trained me, except there was more to it…the kid saved me from myself, saved me from making the biggest mistake of my life, gave me something…something to hold onto; hope, faith, the renewed will to LIVE, whatever you want to call it, goddamn it…and for that, I'm eternally grateful. "When the hell did we get so old?" I ask mournfully, staring at the badge I hold in my palm.

"Time's passage waits for no one, Pete," Val tells me, understanding flashing kind in his eyes. "Not even us, I'm afraid." And I detect a touch of melancholy in his tone, too, for maybe it's a little bit of nostalgic longing, but one really can't look back on all those years gone past and not feel a bit sad at the water that has flowed under the bridge, a bit sorrowful for the younger and not-so-jaded us that existed back then.

I run a fingertip across my badge, feeling out the ridges and bumps cast into the metal, rubbing across my numbers of '744'. "What about Mac?" I ask hesitantly, eyes fixed on the badge. "What I said to him last night was serious insubordination, a fireable, cue-bow offense."

"Mac's well aware that both you and Jim were under extreme emotional pressure last night," Val tells me. "And while what the two of you said to him was wrong in the manner it was delivered, he does realize that you had a point to what you said, and he's willing to overlook the insubordination issue as long as I reprimand you." Val pats my arm, smiling gently at me. "So consider yourself reprimanded, Pete."

"What about the news conference?" I press. "I mean, neither Reed nor I is really willing to do it, ya know. Isn't there some way we can get out of it, Val?"

"Yes, I'm aware of that fact, but there's no getting around it, I'm afraid," he says. "It's not a long news conference that's planned, just a quick one to introduce you and Reed as the men who worked the situation yesterday and finally brought an end to Burnside's attack. And as I said, you will be coached as to what kinds of answers to give the reporters when they ask their questions, so you won't be going into this totally blind, nor will the two of you be alone on that stage, either. Your two paramedic friends, Roy DeSoto and John Gage will also be in attendance, for the media wants to get their angle on yesterday's tragedy, since they were the first ones that called out that they and the people in Granite Park were under sniper attack. And I will be there to deflect any of the tougher answers."

"Great," I snark, scowling darkly. "Fucking vultures, the media, always gotta know the gory little details."

"And it's only just beginning, I'm afraid," Val cautions. He gives me a thoughtful look. "Now then, are you still willing to be a member of the LAPD?"

I turn the badge so that the sunrays dance across the ceiling. "I'm only doing this for Jim," I say finally, resignedly, knowing when I'm beaten…and actually a bit glad and relieved that Val has won the battle, for truly, I WOULD miss being a cop. "I'm only staying on to be there for him and nothing more. And once this crisis has passed, I will be considering the other options available to me."

Val raises an eyebrow. "Such as?"

"Such as taking one of those damned exams, either the Sergeant's or the Investigator's, and getting a promotion." I let my gaze meet Val's then, allowing myself a little smirk that doesn't feel TOO out of place on my face, a glimmer of hope that Pete Malloy is still human. "I mean, as someone reminded me, I can't remain a Senior Lead Officer until I retire."

Val returns the smirk. "I think you'll make Lieutenant yet, Pete."

"Lieutenant, hell," I scoff. "I'm shootin' for the position of Captain eventually."

He cocks his head as he regards me with amusement. "And you know, I think you just might make it, Pete."

Something comes to me then. "Hey, what about Al Porter?" I ask with curiosity. "Burnside had such a hard-on for him and hated him for getting him canned from the force, why didn't he do something to Porter, too?"

"Ah, and therein lies the fact that Al Porter is one helluva lucky man," Val says, holding a finger up and wagging it. "Burnside DID intend to take revenge upon Porter, planting a car bomb inside of one of Porter's vehicles, a bomb that was rigged to detonate the moment that the ignition turned over." Val allows himself a real grin then. "But, what Burnside didn't realize was that the car he planted the bomb IN didn't work, and actually hadn't for a few days. The vehicle was due to be towed to a garage for repairs today, and Al Porter had been driving his wife's vehicle in the meantime, something Burnside didn't know. The bomb squad in Al's division discovered the explosives yesterday afternoon, after it was confirmed that Burnside was the sniper."

I let out a low whistle, shaking my head in amazement. "Man, Al IS lucky…lucky as hell."

Val glances at his watch then and comes to his feet. "I've gotta get going, Pete, I've got some things I need to do before I get briefed for the news conference I'm a part of this morning. But on your way into the station, you might stop by your young partner's house, see how he's doing, make sure he's okay. He was a bit of a nervous wreck when I left him just a bit ago."

"I'll try," I say a bit grudgingly as I see Val to the door. "Don't know how well my presence will be received, though."

"Pete, remember," he chides gently, opening the door. "Jim needs you just as much as you need him right now. The two of you won't be able to get through this turmoil and tragedy without the support of each other." He opens the door then, closing it with a click behind him.

I stare at the door for a long moment, then I relock it with a sigh, turning away and heading into the bedroom with weary resignation. I cross the bedroom floor to my dresser, reaching out and picking up the little wooden box that I got when I was stationed over in Germany with the Army. I open the lid, eyes sifting over the items tucked within…a pair of gold cufflinks and matching tie tack that was a high school graduation present from my parents; my high school class ring with an opal as the center stone; a little replica of my LAPD badge that I bought in a fit of whimsy right after my graduation from the Academy; a watch that broke long ago and has yet to be repaired; some buttons that have popped off of clothing long since discarded; a little medallion of a silver fox that a girlfriend gave me in reference to my nickname "The Strawberry Fox"; a fishing lure that my grandfather Malloy gave to me before he died…but it's none of those that I'm in search of right now.

Reaching inside the box, I push on the little button that is so well hidden in the construction of the box that it is invisible to the naked eye, for the box holds as many secrets inside of it as I do inside of myself. A little compartment in the bottom of the box pops out, revealing a silver key on an LAPD key chain and a clear plastic container that holds the various service awards and meritorious ribbons I've earned over my years on the force. I'm not sure why I've kept them hidden, other than I really don't like to have to explain to anyone snooping through my stuff how I got some of them, for a few of the circumstances in which I was awarded them aren't pleasant to remember. I pull out the plastic box with my ribbons, for I will have to wear them on my uniform for the news conference, as ordered by the "dress blues" command. I start to close the compartment back up, but I hesitate a moment, thinking, then I turn away, crossing over to the nightstand and picking up the crumpled ball of paper that has Evie's phone number on it. I open the piece of paper up, smoothing it out in my palm, eyes straying across the numbers written upon it, then I take it over to the little wooden box, carefully folding the slip of paper in half before tucking it into the secret compartment, sliding the compartment shut with a click.

Because even though we don't always intend to use the lifelines that are given to us, sometimes it's a saving grace to just know that they're THERE, tucked away and hidden in reserve when we so desperately need them, a little thread of hope to cling to when it seems everything else is gone.