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"What?"
"Move back." Gently Johnno eased him to his feet. "They need to have a
look at her."
Dazed, Brian watched the ambulance attendants move in and
crouch over his daughter. "She must have fallen all the way down the
stairs."
"She'll be all right." Johnno sent a helpless look toward P.M. as they
flanked Brian. "Little girls are tougher than they look."
"That's right." A bit unsteady on his feet, Stevie stood behind Brian
with both hands on his shoulders. "Our Emma won't let a tumble down the
stairs hold her up for long."
"We'll go to the hospital with you." Pete moved over to join them.
Together they watched as Emma was carefully lifted onto a stretcher.
Upstairs, Bev screamed ... and screamed and screamed, until the
sound filled every corner of the house.
LOU KESSELRING SNORED like a wounded elephant. If he indulged in a beer
before bed, he snored like two wounded elephants. His wife of seventeen
years coped with the nightly event by wearing earplugs. Lou knew Marge
loved him in her own steady, no-nonsense way, and he considered himself
fortunate and smart for not sleeping with her before marriage. He was
honest, but had kept this one little secret. By the time she'd
discovered it, he'd had his ring on her finger.
He was really rattling the s.h.i.+ngles tonight. It had been nearly
thirty-six hours since he'd slept in his own bed. Now that the Calarmi
case was closed, he was going to enjoy not only a good night's sleep but
a whole weekend of sloth.
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."
