CHAPTER 1

IT WAS COMING on three a.m. when I finally managed to get myself smuggled out ofHarlem by a uniform who owed me a favor.

As we negotiated the gridlock maze of news satellite vans, barricades, andmounted crowd-control cops, there still wasn't the slightest hint about who hadkilled D-Ray.

Any standoff that led to a death would have been bad enough, but this bizarreshooting was the department's worst nightmare come true. No matter how muchevidence suggested that the NYPD wasn't responsible, it looked like wewere. The rabble-rousers, conspiracy theorists, and their many friends in theNew York City media were going to have a field day.

And if that wasn't enough to make me rip into a blister pack of Prilosec, therewas the mountain of reports and other red tape I'd be facing come morning. I'dhave gladly accepted another caning from D-Ray's grandaunt instead.

When the cop dropped me off in front of my West End Avenue apartment building, Iwas so burnt out from fatigue, unresolved tension, and worry about what layahead that I almost stumbled to the door. I craved a few hours of peaceful sleepas a man who'd been crawling for days through the desert craves an oasis.

But the oasis turned out to be a mirage. Right off the bat, my crazy Dominicandoorman, Ralph, seemed pissed off that I had to wake him up. I liked Ralph, butI was in no mood for petty surliness, and I gave him a look that told him so.

"Any time you want to trade jobs, Ralph, just let me know," I said.

He lowered his eyes apologetically. "Rough night, Mr. Bennett?"

"You'll read about it tomorrow in the Times."

When I finally made it into my darkened apartment, the Crayola products andPolly Pocket debris that crunched underfoot were actually welcoming. I musteredup enough energy to lock up my service weapon and ammo in the pistol safe in myfront hall closet. Then, totally wiped, I collapsed onto one of the high stoolsat the kitchen island.

If my wife, Maeve, were still here, she'd be standing at the stove right now,handing me an icy Bud while something wonderful fried—chicken wings or acheeseburger, heavy on the bacon. With divinely sent, cop-wife wisdom, she knewthat the only panaceas for the grim reality of the streets were grease, coldbeer, a shower, and bed, with her warm beside me.

A strange moment of clarity pierced my weariness, and I realized that she hadn'tjust been my love—she'd been my life support. On nights like this, thereally bad ones, she'd listen for hours if I needed to talk, and understandcompletely when I couldn't.

Right then, more than anything in the world, I longed to feel her fingers caressthe back of my neck as she told me that I'd tried my best. That sometimesthere's nothing we can do. I would circle her waist with my hands, and her magicwould make all my doubts and guilt and stress disappear.

Maeve had been dead for almost a year now, and in all that time, I hadn't foundany new ways to cope with it—only new ways to miss her.

I'd been at the funeral of a homicide victim one time and heard his mother quotea poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay. It kept ringing in my ears lately, like asong you can't get out of your head.

Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender the kind ...

I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

I don't know how much longer I can live without you, Maeve, I thought. My headsagged, and I leaned my forearms on the counter for support.

But I jerked back upright when I noticed that my left hand was resting in a poolof something sticky. I examined the stuff, sniffed it, then tasted it: grapejelly, Welch's finest, covering not just my hand, but my whole suit jacketsleeve.

Living without you isn't the only thing that's impossible, I told Maevewhile I stood up on tired legs to search for a paper towel.

How can I take care of all our kids the way only you could?

CHAPTER 2

I WAS HOPELESS on the domestic front, all right. I couldn't even find a papertowel. I rinsed off the jelly with water as well as I could, and put the suitcoat in a closet with some other clothes that were waiting to be dry-cleaned. Myluck started looking better when I poked around inside the fridge. There was aSaran-wrapped plate of baked ziti on a shelf, and I dug up a can of Coors Lightburied beneath half a case of Capri Suns in the drink drawer. I set themicrowave humming, and I was just crunching open my Silver Bullet when a hair-raisingsound emanated from the dark interior of my apartment—a sort ofhowling moan followed by a long, unholy splatter. Then it happened again, onlyin a different tone.

As I slowly lowered my untouched brew, I was visited by one of those blinkmoments I'd read about. Though my conscious mind wasn't sure what was causingthose noises, some deeper instinct warned me that it signaled a danger that anysane person would flee with all his might.

Against my better judgment, I staggered down the hall in that direction. Peeringaround a corner, I spotted a bar of light under the rear bathroom door. Itiptoed to it and slowly twisted the knob.

I stood rooted there, speechless with visceral horror. My instincts had been alltoo correct. I should have fled when I had the chance.

Not one, not two, but three of my children were projectile-vomiting into thetub. It was like looking at an outtake from The Exorcist while you wereseeing triple. I reared back as Ricky, Bridget, and Chrissy hurled again, eachone's upchuck triggered by the previous one, like they were trying to puke acampfire round. Think Vesuvius, Krakatoa, and Mount Saint Helens all going offin musical succession.

Before I could catch myself, I made the mistake of breathing through my nose. Mystomach lurched precariously. I blessed my stars that I hadn't had a chance toeat during the Harlem siege, or to get started on the ziti. Otherwise, yourstruly would have chimed in a fourth eruption of his own.

My Irish nanny, Mary Catherine, was right beside the kids, her golden ringletsbouncing out from beneath a red bandanna as she mopped furiously at the blowbackthey left. She had wisely put on elbow-length, industrial rubber gloves andcovered her face with another bandanna, but I could see from hereyes—usually crisp blue, but now damp and faded—that she was asexhausted as I was.

She gave me a quick wave, then pulled off the bandanna and said, in her liltingbrogue, "Mike, remember before you left for work, I told you Chrissy was lookinga little green?"

I nodded mutely, still struggling to absorb the enormity of the situation.

"I think that flu that's been going around school has arrived," Mary Catherinesaid. "Repent, for the plague is upon us."

I crossed myself solemnly, trying to pick up her joke to make us both feel alittle better. But a nervous part of me wasn't entirely kidding. The way thingshad been going, maybe this was the plague.

"I've got it from here, Mary," I said, taking the mop from her. "You'reofficially off duty."

"That, I most certainly am not," she said indignantly. "Now, the Tylenol is inthe cabinet over the sink, but we're running out of cough syrup, and—"

"And enough," I said, pointing toward the stairs to her upstairs apartment,formerly the maid's quarters. "I don't need any more patients to take care of."

"Oh? What makes you think you won't get sick?" She folded her arms in stubbornloyalty,...