Chapter 1

Bryant Hawkins felt positive as he took in the fresh sea air. Feeling positive was a rarity. His life hadn't lent itself to many good thoughts.

He was burned out. After more than 15 years as a police officer (first as an MP in the Army; and then as a cop in Chicago) he couldn't think of a single act of depravity that hadn't shown him its consequences. The sights that he couldn't seem to shake had taken a toll on his psyche.

A few weeks before driving southeast, Bryant had almost eaten his gun. Sitting in his lonely home after another shitty day in a shitty city, he'd almost killed himself. He'd put away six quick beers before switching to something harder. That day, he'd been called to the scene of a domestic dispute that had turned deadly. A man had killed his ex-wife and his two children in a tenement on the South Side before committing 'suicide by cop'.

The man didn't have the sense to simply reverse the order. No one would have cared if the man had killed himself first and left the rest of the world alone.

It was that thought that had Bryant reaching for his back-up piece. He had realized that no one would miss him, either. Oh, a few of his colleagues would have lifted a beer or four in his honor. A couple of his neighbors would have thought of him whenever they needed something fixed or wanted to borrow his lawnmower.

But no one would have missed him for very long.

He sat with the gun on his lap. He was pondering as to whether the people who found him would appreciate the consideration he'd shown by spreading a tarp across the floor, to catch the blood and brains that would land there in a minute.

Then he saw an Angel. She had not been a heavenly apparition; this Angel had been fully earthbound. She was his neighbor, the 14-year-old daughter of the couple who lived next door to him. She had been looking in his window, and her face had been white with fear.

He realized that lost in his thoughts, he hadn't noticed the frantic pounding on his door.

Despite his general disdain for humanity, there was no way he would force a teenager to witness his suicide. He had held up a finger to let her know that he was on his way. He put his gun on a side table, and stumbled to the door.

Her mother and father had stood beside her on the porch.

"Hi," Bryant said, weakly. "Need something?"

Angel, despite the fact she was a foot shorter and a hundred or so pounds lighter, pushed past him and into the room.

"Bryant, is everything all right?" her mother, Maria, asked in a gentle voice.

"Does it look like everything is all right, Mom?" Angel asked shrilly. "Jesus, what a stupid question."

"Angel..." her dad cautioned.

Angel responded by lifting up the edge of the tarp with her foot and giving her father a glare.

"Might as well come in," Bryant offered in a toneless voice.

The father, Dave, sighed but nodded.

He had looked around the room as he entered. He had seen the empty beer cans and the almost empty Jim Beam bottle. He had walked past Bryant — and past his daughter — to the gun. With practiced ease, Dave had ejected the clip and had ensured the chamber was cleared.

"I wasn't going to really do it," Bryant offered weakly.

"I've been outside for fifteen minutes!" Angel said. There were tears in her eyes and her voice cracked.

"Oh," Bryant offered.

He had been so lost in his preparations that he hadn't noticed someone looking in while he had dry-fired the weapon as it rested under his chin.

"Bryant, you're a good man," Maria said. "Please, get some help. We'll go with you if you want."

Bryant was embarrassed. Not about planning to kill himself, but that someone had caught him.

"I'm not a good man," he said. "Maybe I was once; but I don't think I am now."

"Is this about this afternoon?" Dave asked. He sat down softly on Bryant's couch. "Because I don't think anyone is going to cause you trouble over that one."

Bryant shrugged.

"Some of it, maybe," Bryant said. "It's complicated. Shooting that guy today didn't bother me. That's a big part of it ... I killed a man, and I don't even care."

"From what the news reports say, there is no question that you were justified," Maria offered.

"Oh, I was, that isn't the problem," Bryant admitted. "Dave, I know you were in Iraq. Did you ... did you have to do anything like that?"

Dave had glanced at his daughter briefly but nodded. Bryant returned the nod.

"Today was the fourth time I've killed a person," Bryant said. "The first one, I didn't sleep for a week. I cried for two days. Each time, it has gotten easier. I remember the first time like it was yesterday! He was a meth-head, who pointed a sawed-off shotgun at us. He would have killed us. I knew that then, and I know it now. But I still thought about trying to wound him for a split second. Then my training kicked in, and I emptied my weapon — center mass — just like they taught me at the academy and in the Army."

Angel sat down in the chair Bryant had planned to use for his exit. Bryant watched her move to the edge of the seat.

"I'm sorry, Angel," Bryant said. "Maybe we shouldn't talk about this."

"No, we should," Angel replied. "You need to talk about this, and we're here to listen."

"We are," Maria added. "If you need to talk about this, we won't leave until you've said everything you have to say."

"It doesn't change things," Bryant said with a shrug.

He pulled a chair from his kitchen table and plopped down.

"Each time, it got easier. Today, hell, I didn't even worry about it. I told him to put the gun down. He didn't, and I killed him. I didn't even know what was in the apartment. I had no idea he had just killed his family. As soon as he lifted the weapon past his waist, I fired. There was no hesitation. I didn't worry about wounding him, I didn't worry about anything."

"I'm sure you worried about some things," Dave had said. "I'm positive you made sure you had a clear backstop. I'm positive you ensured that no one else was in danger from your shots. That's who you are."

"It's not who I am," Bryant insisted. "It might be how I was trained, but that's all. I wasn't worried about my safety. I wasn't concerned about the safety of those behind me. I think I just felt like shooting the ass- ... the jerk, for making me come out in the heat."

"I doubt that," Maria said. "Look, you say it didn't bother you... ?"

She had gestured to the room.

"This doesn't look like you are unconcerned by today," she said.

Bryant glanced around the room and sighed, heavily.

"This is less about today, and more about tomorrow, I think," Bryant said.

"You don't think the PPB will get involved do you?" Dave asked.

PPB was the acronym for "Police Professional Board". It used to be called Internal Affairs.

"Maybe," Bryant said. "It's the fourth time in twelve years. That is something they need to consider — particularly given the circumstance in each one."

"What circumstances?" Angel asked.

Bryant had glanced toward Dave and Maria before answering.

"They were all minorities," Bryant answered. "Two blacks, an Arab and a Hispanic."

"So?" Angel asked.

David, Maria and Angel shared the last name of Jimenez. David was a native of Puerto Rico. Maria was an African-American from San Diego. Angel was the product of their marriage.

"I'm white," Bryant said flatly. "That matters ... to some people."

"That's stupid," Angel declared.

"Well, maybe," Maria said. "But I can see where that might create problems for Bryant."

"It doesn't matter," Bryant told them. "Look, most cops never even pull their weapon. I know cops who have been on the force for twenty-five years, and they never removed their weapon from its holster, except at the range."

"Maybe in Lake Forest or Highland Park," Dave said sympathetically. "But you've been on the South Side your whole career, haven't you?"

"I'm not sure if I even care if the PPB pulls my shield," Bryant admitted. "It might be way past time for them to do that, anyway."

"Bullshit," Maria said. "You know where I work, Bryant. I hear everything there."

Maria worked in the public relations department of the City Council.

"When anything big hits in your precinct, the council hopes it will land on your desk because they know you'll get to the bottom of things," she added.

"And maybe shoot the person who did it," Bryant said. "Particularly if he or she doesn't look like me."

"Not true," Maria asserted.

"Not true, yesterday," Bryant said. "Maybe true, tomorrow. But I'm OK with that, too."

"Then why?" Angel asked.

Bryant looked at her. She was sitting on the edge of the chair, a look of intense interest and sympathy mingled on her face.

"I realized that I'm not that much different than the poor bastard I put in the morgue," Bryant said. "The world doesn't care that he's gone, and the same is true of me."

Angel's mouth dropped open.

"Do you really think that?" Dave asked.

Bryant had shifted his gaze to him, but didn't answer.

"Angel came racing across the lawn like her butt was on fire," Maria said. "She was frantic about what you were thinking of doing. We came back across as fast as she did. We stood out there and pounded for ten minutes. Dave was getting ready to break your door down. If you had reached for what was on your lap, he was coming in."

"I might have shot him," Bryant said softly.

"I knew that," Dave answered. "I was willing to risk it."

Bryant nodded slightly. Although he appreciated what Dave said, it had not change anything.

"What are you selling?" Bryant asked Angel.

"Huh?" the girl said, unsure of the question.

Bryant offered a small smile.

"Look, we're not friends," Bryant said. "I know it. If you came over it was because you had some fund-raiser going on. Outside of that, we nod when we see each other. But this is probably the first time any of you have been inside my house. Outside of helping Dave put the new water heater in, I've never been inside yours. We've been neighbors now for what, four years? So if you were knocking on my door, it was because you know I'm a sucker for school fund-raisers."

Angel had looked down guiltily.

"It's okay. I'm not saying there is anything wrong," Bryant said, "but it's the truth."

"I, uh, I always got the impression that you didn't want to be friends," Maria said. "We tried, you know, when you first moved in here. I mean, we didn't invite you over but..."

She frowned.

"I guess we didn't really try," she said in a soft voice. "I think a part of it is because you're a single guy. You're the only single person living in this neighborhood."

"We're not friends with the married couples either," Dave said.

He, too, looked troubled by where his thoughts went.

"Why aren't you married?" Angel asked. "Are you gay?"

"Angel!" Maria said, embarrassed by both of her daughter's questions.

"No," Bryant answered with a short chuckle, "but I might as well be. I was married once. My ex-wife is an attorney. I guess she still is. We haven't really spoken in a while. Outside of that, a cop's life is pretty hard to share with someone. It takes someone pretty special to be a cop's wife ... the constant worry about the job, the constant changes in mood, and the pay is pretty lousy."

Angel nodded as though she understood.

Chapter 2 »