While the Heart Beats

Author's Note: Apologies for being two days late with this update, everyone. To show my gratitude for your patience, you get not one but TWO special treats - an extra-long update below, and one special final chapter, because there's one more thing I want to do with the Reagan family before calling "While the Heart Beats" a wrap. Look for that chapter to be posted this Thursday, and I'll try to have part one of my next story, the two-part "Kingdom Come," ready soon after. I'm also going to try very hard to catch up on all of your kind messages and reviews this week.

So, this chapter tells the story of an NYPD funeral, and I think you'll find this update more descriptive and lost in that beautiful, solemn rite than most of what I normally do. I don't ever plan to write a funeral in one of my stories again, though, so I thought I would give it its due here. There are also plenty of religious overtones and frank discussions of spirituality. As this is a sensitive subject, I wouldn't have gone down this road if left to my own wacky devices, but Jamie was struggling with some mighty issues of faith in 3x23 that I wanted to respect and address in this story. So, be aware.

As always, this story contains spoilers for the season three finale of Blue Bloods. Enjoy!

In the silence of his bedroom sanctuary, alone for the first time since a hail of bullets flew seven days earlier at the Bitterman Housing Project, Frank Reagan leaned heavily on his bureau and looked himself in the eye.

A tired man stared back.

It had been a long week, this week that began with Jamie's breathless 10-85 call and was ending now with the funeral of Officer Vincent Cruz. It would have been bad enough had the pain and resulting problems been kept within the NYPD, as they had been three years earlier when Officer Michelle Martin was gunned down in the diamond district. As reprehensible as that crime had been, it was solved in short order and with little media attention beyond what was appropriate - the recognition of a hero cop who gave her life for the job. This, though, was something else entirely, as Cruz's death represented the fiery culmination of years of frustration, violence and poverty in the Bitterman projects. Bitterman had been an ugly bruise on the city for decades, and just as Frank had finally found the wherewithal to challenge it-

An officer dead. A cop shot down, and suddenly the pattern of violence in Bitterman that had led to Vinny's death leapt from the Post to the cover page of the Times to CNN and the cable channels, then to a lead story on CBS Nightly News and international attention. Garrett was being hammered 24/7, and Frank found himself under attack from every angle as well - city hall, state officials, the FBI, the press - even as he struggled to work the case and break open the Los Lourdes crime ring. And worst of all, Vinny Cruz had become a pseudo celebrity in that rush of attention, suddenly the poster child for violent inner-city gangs, and the death that had been needed for the avalanche of change to finally occur.

He deserved to be so much more than that.

So, it had been a busy week, juggling the Bitterman case with all the other myriad of business within the city, while fending off the Mayor's office at the same time. City Hall was pressing on him hard, and he had no answers for them - not yet, at least. He was absolutely confident that Danny and the other top detectives that his chief had put on the case would bust the crime ring wide open, but it would take a little time. On top of that, the wake had been even sadder than he imagined, teeming with Vinny's huge extended family and myriad of friends, and it had taken some effort to ensure that every need of the Cruz family was tended to. Frank's assistant chief in charge of protocol had been trying to get in front of him all week to run through the order of the funeral service, and he'd finally had to do it at the house at 9 p.m. the night before because Frank's schedule had been absolutely non-stop.

It was wearing him down. Frank could see the lines of exhaustion around his own eyes; the bags that had gathered there, and the weariness in the face that looked solemnly back in the mirror. But he couldn't stop. Not now, not ever - not until the job was done.

The funeral today would be the hardest. The Cruz family was Catholic, and Frank had offered them the full services of the Archdiocese of New York - the impressive domination of the massive St. Patrick's Cathedral in Midtown, the services of Archbishop Timothy Dolan - but they had politely refused. Vinny had been raised at the Church of Raphael the Archangel near his childhood home, and it was from that small church that he would be buried.

And so it was that Vinny Cruz would be remembered just blocks away from where his life was taken.

Frank refused to recognize the irony in that.

Earlier that day, in his office, he had finally gotten the full report from the scene, complete with the radio transmissions that the media was desperate for. The 911 calls of Bitterman residents reporting two officers shot had been released, but not the NYPD communications, and Frank had sat at his desk and listened. He kept his hands in his lap so his chiefs wouldn't see how his right hand clutched his left, knuckles white, to try and stop the shaking.

"Attention all units, code three on this channel - shots fired at Driggs and Bedford, Bitterman Housing Project. 10-13. 911 callers reporting multiple officers down on scene. Proceed with extreme caution."

"Central, 12-Sergeant en route. Is 12-George communicating with you?"

"Responding units, be advised - officers involved on scene are unresponsive. Code three remains in effect. 10-46; ambulance ETA four minutes."

"Central, be advised we can confirm officers down on scene. I've identified two, possibly three hostiles on roof. Be advised, scene is hot!"

"Where is our backup? We've got an officer down; where the hell's our backup?"

"Central, Central - two officers down at Bitterman; repeating, two officers down..."

Even now, the memories of those shocked, frantic calls made Frank's stomach shrink, and he swallowed hard before he straightened before the mirror in his bedroom, straightening his uniform and focusing on the shield, medals, buttons and stars. Everything needed to be precise for this day. There was no room for loose threads or disjointed thoughts. He needed to focus. Steel up. There were pressing matters to attend to.

Frank checked his uniform again; each bit of trim, each piece of brass. His mind was spinning, and he breathed deeply, evenly, in an attempt to quiet it.

Hate wasn't a word that Frank used lightly, but he hated everything about this week. He hated Bitterman and the bureaucracy that had kept it a problem this long; that had forced the violence to such a head. He hated Los Lourdes and he hated the media that were whipping the public into a frenzy, putting national and international eyes on his city. He hated that Vinny Cruz was dead. He hated that when he died, it had been in Jamie's bloodied arms.

And he hated these damn funerals.

His eyes drifted, as they always did, to the photograph of Joe.

Lord, please. Give me the strength to get through this day. Give me words of comfort and encouragement. Help me lead the officers entrusted to me to find justice for what happened to Vinny Cruz, and for the people living every day under that violence. Thank you for watching over my family, especially Danny and Jamie. Watch over Vinny's family. Take care of him, and Joe and Mary and mom. Forgive me for not being able to protect them, dearest God... forgive me for not doing more.

"Dad?" Erin was hesitating in the doorway, wearing a demure black dress, her hair caught up at the nape of her neck. "Our ride's here."

"Okay." He took a moment, putting his eyes on the wood grain as he composed himself.

She stepped up beside him, placing a hand lightly on his arm. Her gaze trailed across the myriad of family photos lining the bureau before meeting her father's eyes in the mirror. "You going to be all right?"

"I'll be fine." He managed a smile for her and kissed her cheek.

She drew back to look at him, eyes knowing, before tucking his arm into hers and leading him to the hall.

Henry was waiting at the bottom of the steps, looking polished and crisp in his own NYPD brass, though his eyes were weighted with sorrow. Frank noticed that he was leaning against the banister a bit heavier than normal, too. Nicky was beside him, wearing a black dress similar to her mother's, and old enough now to understand the magnitude of what these funerals meant; she waited in silence, with respect. Linda was close by, Sean tucked against her in a neat suit and Jack at her other side. "Danny's outside," she said quietly, when Frank looked her way.

He hesitated, turning that piece of information over in his mind before nodding and motioning everyone towards the main door. As soon as Linda opened it, a hand on the other side guided it fully open - one of Frank's body men, who stood respectfully by as they were ushered to the waiting detail of SUVs at the curb. Frank was the last one out, closing the door with a click behind him. He glanced left and saw Danny standing in the front yard, kicking at the mulch around one of Mary's rosebushes. He looked wantonly out of place in his dress blues, hat tucked under his arm. Frank took a step towards him, but stopped at the edge of the front pavers. The grass had been mowed recently, and he didn't want the blades sticking to his shoes. On this day, everything had to be crisp. Perfect. They had to control what they could, after all. "Danny, you ready?"

His oldest son looked over, face sour, and slowly made his way to his father. "Ready to get this over with," he groused.

"You okay?"

"I hate funerals," he replied, then sighed before glancing up at his father. "They... they make me feel like I failed."

Frank pressed his lips together. "We'll get through it," he said. "Come on. We can't keep anyone waiting."

Danny nodded and walked with him, climbing into the rear SUV with Linda, the kids and Nicky. Frank stepped into the front vehicle, where Erin and Henry had slipped into the back row of seats. Once he was settled in and the smooth ride began, Henry leaned forward almost immediately. "Francis, do you remember Mickey Wallace from Harlem?"

"Not particularly." He knew better than to ask his father where he was going with this.

Henry smiled. "Goofball of a kid. I think he came up through the academy a few years after you. Anyway, he was under my command during one of my early assignments. He lost his partner, Tommy Hash, during a convenience store robbery in Alphabet City."

"I do remember that." Frank frowned. Another funeral, for another officer cut down in the line of duty.

"I was in my office the next day, and you were there," Henry said. "You had just made detective, I think? And Mickey came in, and I'll never forget what he said. He said to me, 'Cap, I don't think there was a thing Tommy would have done differently. He was brave from the first moment I met him until the last. But Cap, I'm gonna think about what I could've done differently for the rest of my life.'"

Frank sighed, letting those words sink in. "That about sums it up, doesn't it."

Quiet settled across them, and Frank looked over the shoulders of his driver and main body man in the front seats. He lost himself in the landscape around them as it slowly merged from quiet, sleepy houses tucked behind generous leafing trees to pavement, glass and steel.

"Dad," Erin said after a moment, pulling him from his solitude. "How is Jamie?"

"He's riding in with the 12th," Frank replied absently. "We'll meet him there."

"No, I mean... how is Jamie?" He turned to look at her, and her face was tight with concern. "He hasn't spoken to me at all this week."

"You know everyone deals with these things differently." He turned back, settling himself deeper into the seat. "You can't begrudge your brother some reflection time if that's what he wants."

"I don't mean that," she replied, voice clipping the words tight in frustration. "How is he really?"

Frank hesitated. "Danny's been checking in with him. Says he's doing all right."

He could almost hear his daughter's eyes narrow; feel her rising indignation from the seat behind him. "You've not talked to him?"

"I talked to him the day after. He's getting through it."

"But nothing since then?" she pressed.

Frank sighed. "I've been a little busy, hon."

"How could you possibly be 'a little busy' right now? Dad, his partner died in his arms. He got shot; he could've been killed!"

"Garrett is fielding nonstop calls from CNN, Fox News, MSNBC and all three major news channels," Frank snapped back. "I've got the mayor's office breathing down my neck and the FBI and ATF are getting interested, too. I care about Jamie's welfare as much as the rest of you, and that's why I've asked Danny to make sure he's all right. Like it or not, I'm the police commissioner and my city needs me to do my job right now. And I need him to do his."

Erin sat back, then crossed her legs sharply and turned away from her father towards her own window, simmering. Henry leaned forward again, this time placing a hand of understanding on Frank's shoulder. "Reminds you of Mary, doesn't it?"

Frank sighed. It did, more than he cared to admit, and he also wasn't keen to admit that his daughter was right. He hadn't been giving Jamie the check-ins he probably needed, but he could only do so much. They would get through this funeral, and then, perhaps, he would find time to touch base with Jamie. But Danny said he was doing all right. Danny would tell him if there was something he needed to know.

"Danny would tell me if there was something I needed to know," Frank blurted out.

He caught Erin's movement from the corner of his eye as she turned to pin him to the seat, her gaze a dagger. "Maybe that's something you should find out for yourself," she said. "Danny's intentions are good but he's in the zone right now with this case. So long as Jamie's vertical and breathing, he's okay in Danny's book. You know that."

"All right, fine," he replied shortly, and turned back to the window.

It was one more thing he needed to do. One more thing to file away. He wondered absently how much further he could stretch himself, even for this.

Then he wondered, with no small measure of surprise, just when things had gotten so hectic that he was finding trouble carving out time for his own son.

Things moved quickly once they arrived in the Bitterman neighborhood. It was a true NYPD funeral, there was no doubt about that. Cops everywhere took it hard when one of their own was killed in the line, and in New York, there was enough blue to turn out in absolute droves without putting the safety of the city at stake. There were already hundreds, perhaps thousands of officers on the sidewalks and the closed streets, lining the route that Officer Cruz's hearse was to take. They were standing ten and fifteen deep in places, and as the SUVs whisked past them silently, the tension in Frank's vehicle cooled as the solemnity of the occasion took hold. Almost all the officers they passed were outfitted smartly in dress blues and white gloves but others, many dozens of others, were on duty. Those officers watched the crowds of local residents instead as the people gathered behind police barricades, some watching with fascination, others with unimpressed glares. It made Frank a special kind of sick to know that Vinny Cruz's killer was likely roaming these streets right now, still free, still cocky, and he vowed anew not to rest until the murderer was in custody or in the sights of an NYPD issue 9mm semiautomatic. Preferably the latter.

The Church of Raphael the Archangel was an old, tiny jewel box nestled within a series of teetering high-rise apartment buildings. On the east, it was framed by a small garden knotted together by tangles of roses, climbing vines and delicate morning glory flowers. City officials and brass were everywhere, and Frank allowed Henry and Erin to exit the car first once they pulled up in front of the building. Danny escorted Linda and the boys up the worn stone steps of the church, and Erin put an arm around Nicky's narrow shoulders as they ascended. Frank took a moment in the silence of the SUV to compose himself - deep breath, quick review of how the ceremony would proceed, a mental flick through his notes for the comments he would be expected to make. After straightening his uniform, he stepped into the warm, pale light of the morning sun and followed after his family, nodding at the officers who saluted him crisply from their places on the edges of the stairs and ignoring the clusters of media across the street who filmed and photographed him quietly. Thankfully, no one raised questions over the sea of officers, all of them respecting the solemn occasion.

Frank made his way inside, nodding to Garrett and several other chiefs and super chiefs who were waiting in the narthex, a small gathering space just inside the church's entrance. The interior was already overflowing with mourners; the church was so small, the NYPD had been forced to work closely with the mayor's office and the Cruz family to make sure the guest list was kept tight. Windows of stained glass stretched almost from floor to ceiling, and as the sunlight climbed eastward it fell in great slabs of green, violet and ruby across the gathered crowd, splashing color on the marble floor. The parish priest, a man named Father Steven Gomez, stood nearby, outfitted in flowing robes of gold and white for the Mass. "A pleasure to meet you, Father," Frank said quietly, stepping to the man's side. "I'm sorry it's not a better occasion."

"As am I, Commissioner," he said. "Did you know Officer Cruz well?"

Frank nodded. "He was my son's partner, as I'm sure you know. I had the chance to chat with him on several occasions. He was a very good officer, but more importantly, a good man."

The priest smiled sadly at that, but then turned to face Frank suddenly, robes swirling. "Of course - how is your son?" he asked. "I understand he was injured."

Frank opened his mouth to reply, and the words nearly lodged in his throat. "He's, uh... he's fine, Father. Thank you for asking."

Excusing himself, Frank took a moment to greet some of Vinny's extended family and friends, already seated toward the front of the small church, and shake hands with the governor and both state senators, who had flown in with small details to be present. They never would have come, he knew, had the case not been so high profile, but that didn't matter now and he set the bitter thoughts aside. His eyes lit on Danny, Linda, Erin, Henry and the kids already seated in the second row on the right, shifting on the hard pews, saving a place for him on the aisle. He caught Danny's eye and nodded a distant check-in - Danny, ever his father's son, nodded back an affirmation that all was well - then Frank moved with purpose to the back of the church. Because the narthex was so small, the introductory rite would be conducted on the main steps, and he moved quietly into place, guided by one of the NYPD's protocol officers into a narrow gap between the mayor and the church's deacon, waiting just behind Father Gomez and a small army of altar servers.

Frank didn't have to wait long before he heard the unmistakable sounds of the approaching procession, but he would have waited forever if it meant not having to hear those motors, those bagpipes; not having to see the sea of officers below him straightening to attention. He forced his expression to remain locked in quiet solemnity and tightened down on the grief that swelled as a swarm of officers moved past on motorcycles, their formation tight and progress even and slow, red and blue lights painting across the assembled crowd. The NYPD Emerald Society Pipes and Drums followed, their staccato drumbeats proceeding them, setting a deep, sad rhythm for his heart. The city was curiously silent around him, as quiet as it ever got, as those haunting drumbeats carried on, tugging at Frank's heart and wrenching it back in time four agonizing years.

The hearse was next, framed on either side by a quartet of officers moving in measured and respectful silence, and as it passed, every officer within sight raised a gloved right hand in salute. Behind it was the limousine that carried Vinny's immediate family, and behind that, on foot, moved almost every officer of Manhattan's 12th precinct, whose jurisdiction had been transferred to the 16th for a few hours to let the closest members of Vinny's NYPD family be present for the funeral. Once the hearse stopped in front of the church, just past the main steps, everything stopped with it, and it was in that silence that the officers of the Pipes and Drums began playing the mournful "An Inspector's Funeral," a song played at every NYPD funeral since well before his own grandfather's days on the force.

The notes gashed him to the bone.

Breathing deeply, Frank listened as the last bars died away and watched, could only watch, as the coffin was lifted from the hearse. It was draped in the NYPD flag of white, navy blue and green, and hoisted onto the shoulders of the solemn-faced escorting officers. As they lifted the coffin up to the crowd's eye-level, its colors glistening in the morning light, a bagpipe warmed the still air with the familiar melody of "Amazing Grace." It played until the officers brought the casket halfway up the stairs and halted in front of Father Gomez, who gazed down upon it with soft eyes.

Frank, too, stared down at the coffin.

"The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all," Father Gomez said, voice measured and calm.

"And with your spirit," Frank replied, as did all Catholics within earshot.

Two waiting officers gently lifted the flag from Vinny's coffin. It would be removed only temporarily, just for the funeral, and as it was taken aside, two of the altar servers draped a beautiful white funeral pall across it instead.

And Frank stared on.

Another officer gone. Another family shattered. Another failure, with this young and vibrant officer lying dead before him.

It felt like Joe.

Then a thought occurred, so sudden and so devastating that he nearly lost his balance and he had to take a quick intake of breath to steady himself.

It could have been Jamie.

"In the waters of baptism, Vincent died with Christ and rose with him to new life," Father Gomez said quietly, sprinkling Holy Water across the cloth and casket. "May he now share with him in eternal glory."

And as the first strains of "How Great Thou Art" filtered to them from inside the church and the priest turned to enter, the pallbearers just behind, Frank suddenly saw his youngest son, standing right at the front of the large group of men and women from the 12th, moving with quiet and orderly precision up the steps. He was in a place of some honor in the front row, with the captains and lieutenants, and Sergeant Renzulli was just behind him.

Their eyes locked, just for a moment.

Jamie was expressionless.

)()()()()()()()()()(

Jamie had never spent a lot of time thinking through best and worst moments when it came to his life. He had a lot of unforgettable days - his first hours in London as a college junior, the acceptance letter to Harvard Law, proposing to Sydney, pinning the NYPD shield to his uniform for the first time - but he'd never given them a ranking or thought about them in some measured sequence, as though he was supposed to give an accounting of his life and needed a top ten list in order. In similar fashion, he'd never put a lot of thought into his worst moments, though his mind only needed to skim lightly past the concept before those endless, awful times broke through in garish color.

The night his father had been shot in the line of duty. He'd been only seven when it happened, and his mother's screams had meant the worst to him. He had spent hours hiding under his own bed, sobbing into the elbow of his Power Rangers pajamas, before Erin had found him and dragged him out into her arms.

Saying goodbye to Danny the day he left for Afghanistan.

Standing on Church Street and Walker on September 11, watching as the World Trade Center was attacked and wishing, with a hunger he'd never before recognized, that he could be one of those police officers rushing deep into Lower Manhattan.

His mom, diagnosed with cancer, then slowly, achingly, withering away.

Joe.

And now, this.

Jamie honestly wasn't sure if it got worse than this. He knew, logically, that there was nothing he could have done to protect Vinny in that dirty concrete quad in Bitterman, but he hadn't been prepared for the second-guessing, or the awful guilt that crushed his chest and made every breath a struggle. He hadn't taken a deep, cleansing pull of air in a week, and that had nothing to do with the bruise on his chest and everything to do with the twenty-pound weight that had hung itself around his neck the moment Vinny was torn from his arms by the first responding officers who showed up on the scene.

A thick elbow drove itself into his ribs, and Jamie glanced over at Renzulli, who was scowling at him and looking pointedly toward the front of the church. The cantor had just finished proclaiming the Psalm for the Mass, the twenty-third, of course, and she was making her way down, which meant it was time for him to make his way up.

His captain at the 12th had been the one who relayed the news to him. "Vinny's family wants you to be part of the funeral, Jamie," he said, the compassion in his voice traveling through the phone. "It's important to them."

He had gripped the edge of his kitchen counter. "I don't know if I should speak, sir."

"You just have to be a lector, that's all. Second reading. Vinny's mom said she always liked the fact that Vinny had a practicing Catholic as a partner." He chuckled a little. "Go figure with moms, huh? C'mon, don't make me have to be an asshole and tell her you won't do it."

So, in the tiny church replete with morning color and gold accents of crosses and etchings that looked like icing decorations on a cake, he stood from his place at the far side of the second aisle, and moved silently to the ambo at the front of the church. He purposefully entered from the side, keeping his distance from the casket, and did not look at the assembled crowd until he was behind the podium, the lectionary before him and the microphone primed.

Even then, as he took a moment to compose himself and run eyes over the hundreds of faces tipped up to him, he didn't register a single one. Not even Danny's, who was fumbling with confusion through his program and elbowing his father next to him, no doubt in the dark about Jamie's role in the service. Frank shrugged back, equally clueless.

He lowered his eyes to the page and began.

"A reading from the Letter of Saint Paul to the Romans. Brothers and sisters, no one lives for oneself, and no one dies for oneself. For, if we live, we live for the Lord, and if we die, we die for the Lord. So then, whether we live or die, we are the Lord's."

It was a beautiful reading; one of his favorites from childhood, in fact, even though he would never confess such a thing to anyone. He knew it well, and delivered it perfectly, impassively, even the final line: "So then, each of us shall give an accounting of himself to God."

Jamie looked up, into the crowd, seeing nothing. "The word of the Lord," he finished.

"Thanks be to God," they responded.

He didn't remember getting back to his seat, and he barely felt Renzulli's gentle punch that meant a job well done. He registered little of the homily that followed from Father Gomez and only caught fractions of the remarks his own father delivered, beyond a few snippets - "To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord," he said at one point, when Jamie's consciousness drifted toward awareness, and he caught the Latin phrase "fidelis ad mortem" some time after that, which his brain immediately and helpfully translated. Fidelis ad mortem. Faithful unto death. He turned that over and over, ignoring the rest of his father's delivery and the comments from the mayor that followed, letting the words like "remarkable" and "enthusiastic" flow mindlessly past him, only picking up vaguely on the praises they heaped upon Vinny for his love of the city, his dedication to the mission of the NYPD, his special way with kids and the toughness of his own childhood that had led him to become a cop. It was good, and it was true enough, but Jamie couldn't bear to listen to another word.

To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.

Fidelis ad mortem. Faithful unto death.

So then, each of us shall give an accounting of himself to God.

He went to Communion on autopilot, and only stood for the closing song when Renzulli's hand came down on his good shoulder and squeezed it, hard. Jamie leaned into him, raising his voice only enough to be heard over the thick strains of the pipe organ above them. "Go ahead without me, Sarge."

"Huh?" Renzulli leaned in closer to him.

"I said, go ahead without me."

"That's what I thought you said." His eyes cut fervently left and right, as though he was scandalized by whispering in church. "Why?"

"I need a minute. Please," he added, and was grateful to see Renzulli press his lips together and nod, gently, as though he understood. Of course, right? Jamie needed to have a few moments to compose himself for the world outside the walls of the Church of Raphael the Archangel; to be ready to be the officer his family and fellow brothers in arms needed him to be. Jamie knew, of course, that that wasn't it at all, but it would do fine for Renzulli to believe it. Whatever got his sergeant out of the church at this point, honestly, was fine by Jamie's estimation.

Jamie watched as Vinny's coffin was guided to the back of the church, escorted by the priest and altar servers and his own family, the Reagans standing in solidarity with Vinny's mother and siblings. He saw the elected officials filter into the aisle behind them, and as the other officers from the 12th began to file out, he heard "Taps" begin to play outside.

Slowly, gripping the old wood of the pew before him, Jamie eased himself to a seat as the gathered congregation continued to file out down the center aisle, following Vinny's casket for the final portion of his journey. They were taking him to St. John's Cemetery in Brooklyn, if he remembered right. He wasn't completely sure. The only thing he knew for certain at that moment was that he was glad, damn glad, that his family and the guys from the 12th were already gone. He wanted no one here, no one around him.

Resting his hands still on the pew before him, he crossed them at the wrist and slowly dropped his head into the cradle of his arms.

God, I have no idea if you can hear me. I always thought you could. But if you're there, you'd better answer me because you've got a hell of a lot of explaining to do.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

I've never doubted you. Even when I had every reason to. I've always believed in you and I've tried to follow your way my whole life. I've been faithful. I've loved you and I've loved everyone around me - well, most of the time, at least. I've tried to never return evil for evil, or ugly for ugly.

He could hear the church emptying around him. Quiet was easing down over him, like the settling of stirred dust.

I knew there would be things I couldn't understand. I never understood why so many people had to die on September 11th. I still don't get why you took mom away when you did. She was such a wonderful person, God. She deserved so much more than the suffering you left her with. And then you had to go and take Joe, too.

Tears slipped, unbidden, from his eyes.

God, how could you do that to him? How could you do that to us, to me? Mom wasn't enough? I guess if you're there and you know every heart like they say you do, you know I'll never heal from what you did to me the day he died. You know there's a place in my soul that's ripped out that isn't ever going to get better. But I'm here. I've kept on, because I trusted that you had some kind of damn plan that would make sense one day, and that maybe, somewhere, it would make sense that somebody as good and loving and kind as him could die when I see thousands of worthless, awful people living and breathing around me every single day.

He breathed.

It hurt to breathe.

He lifted his head, slowly, and focused on the crucifix through blurry eyes.

Now my partner's dead, and I don't think you even know, God. Or if you do, I sure as hell don't think you care because you're so removed from everything that it doesn't make a damn bit of difference to you what happens to us. Joe and Vinny had their whole lives in front of them. Why don't they get to get married and have kids? Why don't they get to go on vacation and walk on the beach, or look up at the stars at night? Why don't they get to eat a damn hot dog at a baseball game, or laugh, or sleep in on a Saturday morning? Why do some of us get that and people who do everything right, like they did, don't? I understand, I do, that you gave man free will and maybe we get to just blame each other for the bad things that happen, but you're supposed to be good. You're supposed to be good. What am I supposed to do now? Can you tell me that? What in the hell am I supposed to even believe in?

The sunlight shifted gently, as though it had been filtered through a cloud, and the warmth of gold and green, amethyst and orange, brightened across the empty aisles.

Oh, no. I'm not falling for that. It's going to take more than a little sunlight through stained glass. You want an accounting of me, God? How about you give me an accounting of you this time? All-powerful. All good. All-knowing. You explain to me right now, right goddamn now, how any of this can ever be right. I want to know how anything is ever going to be right again.

A hand came down on Jamie's shoulder, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Easy, kid." Danny slumped into the pew just behind him, draping his free arm over the back of Jamie's row. "What's going on?"

"What are you doing here?" he snapped, pulling away from Danny and curving his body away from him, too. He scrubbed at his face with both hands.

"I was looking for you. Saw you didn't come out, so I decided to hang back."

"I just needed some time, that all. Go on; they'll be missing you."

Danny looked at him curiously. "The procession's been gone for ten minutes already. You know how it is with the NYPD and this stuff. They wait for no man."

"Well, I'm fine." He sat back, hard, against the wood of the pew.

Danny was quiet for a moment. "You did good up there with that reading. I didn't realize they had pegged you for a lector."

"Vinny's mother asked me to do it. I couldn't say no."

"Yeah, well, you did a nice job." Danny's hand curled around the top of the pew. "I hate funerals."

Jamie didn't reply, and instead stared at his hands in his lap.

"I wish I could help you, Jamie," Danny said softly. "You know I would move heaven and earth to take this away from you."

Jamie blinked and, oddly touched, turned to glance back at his older brother. "Thanks."

He shrugged. "What's a brother for?"

Jamie sighed shakily and ran a hand down his face once again before glancing behind him at the church. It was almost completely cleared out, except for a few stragglers towards the back and an altar server in front, her white robes exchanged for jeans and Sketchers, carefully extinguishing the candles. "This is making me question a lot of things I used to be sure about, Danny. I don't know how to get through it."

Danny sighed, peering thoughtfully at the stained glass windows that arced up next to them. "This is probably not the time to remind you that I never thought you should be a cop in the first place."

"No, probably not," he sighed, but smiling despite himself. The debate was so old now it had become a joke between them, which suited Jamie just fine.

"Look at it this way, then. You know there's a lot of stuff we don't have answers for. Never gonna get answers, either. At least not down here. It's like gramps always says, 'I can't wait to get to heaven 'cause I got a list for God a mile long.'" Danny smirked and cuffed Jamie gently on the head. "You can spend your whole life wondering and being pissed and not figuring it out, or you can just take it a day at a time and see what happens. I bet you'll be surprised, kid. I mean, I watched my buddies get killed in Afghanistan - you remember Chuckles, that teenage kid that got killed in my place one night when I couldn't go on patrol. I've seen cops get killed. I watched our brother die, Jamie. I know about guilt."

"So what did you do?" he asked hollowly, twisting to meet his brother's eyes. "Where do you even start?"

Danny smirked at him. Jamie watched as Danny slowly uncurled one finger from the back of the pew, pointing upward. "Gotta give it over, kid," he said softly.

Jamie frowned. "I don't think that's the answer."

"You've got to turn off that higher education brain of yours, Jamie. Stuff like this, you don't find the answers in your head. They're in your heart. You have to stop looking outside and start looking inside." Danny leaned back, comfortably sprawled, and waved a hand over himself. "Don't you remember what mom used to say? 'Be still.' You remember that?"

"I think she was talking to you, and I think she wanted you to quit tearing up the house," he muttered.

"Well, yeah, but she used to tell me that at night before prayers, too. 'Be still.' You know, open yourself up. 'Draw near to God, and he will draw near to you.'" Danny looked quite pleased. "I taught the boys that, too."

"I get it, Danny, but..." Jamie sighed. "I need something concrete right now. Something fair. This doesn't make sense to me."

"Well, this probably won't be much of a news flash, but life's not fair, Jamie. I thought I taught you that when you were five and I used to steal your cookies when mom wasn't looking." He grinned. "In all fairness, I took your brussel sprouts too, so you owed me."

"How can you be so glib about this?" Jamie snapped back. "Danny, I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"You're supposed to keep living, Jamie." His gaze was steady; his eyes, surprisingly assured. "You're supposed to carry on."

"And what if I can't?" His voice cracked.

"Well, then I carry on for both of us," he said, and stood, calmly extending a hand over the back of the pew to Jamie. "And that includes taking my little brother along when he doesn't think he can make it. So c'mon."

Jamie hesitated. Danny waggled his hand. "Come on, Jamie. If you don't come willingly I'm picking you up and you know how badly that goes."

He smiled despite himself.

And as Danny pulled him back out into the light, Jamie still didn't know how the hell anything was going to be right again, and he didn't understand anything more than he did before.

But he couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, his prayer had been answered after all.

"I hit the deck, I hit rock bottom
But you saw me, then you caught me
Shining like a ray of hope, swift like a turning sea
Angel to comfort me
Cradling my head in your hands
I looked up at the sun, and the fog cleared; I saw you..."

- Darren Hayes, "Taken By the Sea"