Part 54 (2/2)

He actually dreamed about puttering around the yard, pruning roses,

playing a bit of catch with his son. They'd barbecue some burgers on

the grill and Marge would make her potato salad.

He'd had to kill a man twelve hours before. It wasn't the first time,

though, thank G.o.d, it was still a rare occurrence. Whenever his work

took him that far, he needed, badly, the ordinary, the everyday. Potato

salad and charred burgers, the feel of his wife's firm body against his

during the night. His son's laughter.

He was a cop. A good one. In the six years he'd been with Homicide,

this was only the second time he'd had to discharge his weapon. Like

most of his colleagues he knew that law enforcement consisted of days of

monotony-legwork, paperwork, phone calls. And moments, split seconds,

of terror.

He also knew, as a cop, that he would see things, touch things,

experience things that most of the world was unaware of-murder, ghetto

wars, back-alley knifings, blood, gore, waste.

Lou was aware, but he didn't dream of his work. He was forty, and had

never, since picking up his badge at the age of twenty-four, brought his

work home.

But sometimes it followed him.

He rolled over, breaking off in mid-snore as the phone rang.

Instinctively he reached out, and with his eyes still closed, rattled

the receiver off the hook.

”Yeah. Kesselring.”

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