"Father, I guess I'm here for absolution. Absolution for a sin I'm yet to commit. Does that make sense?"

"And what sin is that?"

"Breaking my wedding vows. Cheating on my wife."

"You've already made up your mind you're going to pursue this relationship?"

"That's where the guilt comes in. I realize that Colette is never coming back to life, life as we know it, but a voice inside me is demanding that I stay faithful to her, regardless of her physical condition."

"You said before her doctors all agree that she will never regain consciousness. Right?"

"Right."

"Aside from how you perceive the Catholic Church would look at your circumstances, what advice would your wife give you, if she could?"

"Colette was my best friend. I'm beginning to believe she would understand. Am I just looking to sidestep my vows here?"

"I think the answer to that question lies within you. You've got to live with yourself. But, let me say this. Jesus Christ, who walked this earth as a human being, chose twelve apostles, not one. And his love for each one of them was immeasurable."

"Are you condoning a relationship with this other woman?"

"It wouldn't mean you stopped loving your wife. It's important you realize that." McMahon leaned his small frame across the top of the desk and let his eyes fall level with Driscoll's. "You said before Colette was your best friend."

"That's right."

"Well, then, I'd say it's time you had a conversation with your best friend."

Chapter 41.

Driscoll approached the house. He felt like his knees were going to collapse. He steadied himself, and as he reached for the brass doorknob, he felt his stomach curdle. Like a schoolboy late for class, he guiltily turned the knob and stepped inside. The whirring sounds of his wife's life-support system, which before had gone unnoticed, clamored in his ears.

"Are you OK, Lieutenant? You look like you're gonna throw up." It was Colette's nurse, Lucinda.

Driscoll forced a smile. "I'll live," he said as his eyes fell upon Colette's ashen face. "Would you excuse us, Lucinda? I need some time with my wife."

"You got it," the nurse replied, then quickly disappeared as the Lieutenant straddled a bedside chair.

Behind him, an orchestra of high-tech medical gadgetry played their monotonous and repetitive symphony. Before him lay his wife, his beautiful and loving wife. How could he love again? How could he run the risk? He often felt it was his doing, somehow, that brought about his wife's fate. Punishment for some unconfessed dereliction, perhaps. Would he then imperil Margaret? Would she fall victim to his ill fortune?

Driscoll took hold of his wife's hand. How lifeless her skin felt. Tears blossomed as he fingered the wedding band that encircled her finger. He opened the drawer to her night table and reached for the emollient Thomlinson had given him, then applied the lotion to her hands and arms, the same hands and arms that had held him lovingly through the years. In sickness and in health In sickness and in health, a tiny voice sounded. He grimaced. What was he about to do? How could he trample on his wedding vows? He played back the message Father McMahon so reverently had given him. Christ had chosen twelve apostles, not one.

"I met someone," he murmured as his heart pounded in his chest. "Her name is Margaret." His admission was greeted with silence.

He leaned in and planted a kiss on his wife's forehead while pushing away two strands of errant hair from her face. "I met her on the job. She and I are working together on a case. She's a caring woman who would like to further our relationship."

Driscoll stood up and walked over to the wall unit, which contained a small wine rack and an assortment of liquors. He poured himself two fingers of Tullamore Dew and returned to his wife's bedside, slowly sipping the whiskey, hoping the spirits would give him the courage to tell her what he knew needed to be said. Hell, he'd bite the bullet. "She would like to further our relationship," he said. "And so would I."

Again his disclosure was greeted by silence. He had half expected his wife to sit upright and scold him, take him to task for such a selfish transgression. Driscoll had hoped, on some level, that the admission would bring her to consciousness, allow her to break free from the forceful grip that held her so unmercifully. Of course, it did not.

Driscoll leaned forward and held his head in his hand. He thought of the once-vibrant Colette, a wonderful and doting woman who would change heaven and earth for him.

An epiphany unfolded. It was a vision of Colette, his loving wife, who smiled and took hold of his hand. You poor soul You poor soul, he heard her say. You poor troubled soul You poor troubled soul. It's all right, my dear. I know you love me It's all right, my dear. I know you love me, and I know you always will. But, it's time you moved on. Beyond my illness. Beyond your worries. It's time for you, my darling, to live among the living and I know you always will. But, it's time you moved on. Beyond my illness. Beyond your worries. It's time for you, my darling, to live among the living.

He felt a rush, not unlike the surge of adrenaline he felt when he apprehended a criminal. Then a calmness settled over him. He had thought his guilt would cripple him, but it did not. Relief. That's what he felt. He knew in his heart she understood.

Chapter 42.

The five-year-old boy stuck his head out the Maxima's rear passenger-side window. "Whirr! Whirr!" he intoned, mimicking the sound of the emergency vehicle sirens that could be heard in the distance.

The boy's mother veered the sedan off onto East Fifty-seventh Street. She'd have to travel four blocks to Mill Avenue to avoid the traffic jam, but the detour would be worth it.

A beep erupted, startling her. "What was that? Robbie, did you unfasten your seat belt?"

"No, Mom."

The boy stuck his hand in the pocket of his jacket and produced a telephone pager.

"Where'd that come from?" his mother asked, craning her neck.

"I found it."

"You found it? Where?"

"At the mall. In the store with the candy."

"Sweet Delights?"

"Uh-huh."

"But that was last week."

The boy shrugged.

A phone number showed on the device. She used her cell phone to punch in the number.

"Hello?" It was a male voice.

"Hi! Did you just beep someone?"

"Ah! I see you found my pager. I've been trying the number for days."

"Well, my son found it."

"Thank God! Where are you?"

"On the Belt Parkway. Why don't you give me your address? I'd be happy to drop it in the mail."

"Are you near Exit 10? We could meet at The Lobster Trap. It's a great new eatery on Emmons Avenue. I can retrieve the pager and thank you personally."

"That's the sweetest offer I've had in weeks. But I really can't. I teach violin, and my class is giving a recital on Sunday. I'll be tied up with practice tonight, tomorrow, and into Sunday morning. I'm on my way now to drop my son off at his grandmother's."

"Oh, a single parent?"

"Well, yes."

"That makes two of us. C'mon, let's not snub fate."

"This is starting to feel like a date."

"No, just gratitude."

"Well, I suppose it'd be all right. I'll only have time for a cocktail, though. And I'll have to drop Robbie off first."

"OK. Let's say we meet in an hour."

"That's sounds about right. How will I recognize you?"

"I'll be the man with a red amaryllis next to his drink at the bar."

Apprehension and a strange sense of curiosity flooded her. She hadn't asked to meet this man, and yet they had a date. She turned to look at her son. The child was asleep. She breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn't heard the longing in his mother's voice.

Chapter 43.

The drive to Sheepshead Bay was a sluggish one. There was construction on the Belt Parkway at Ocean Avenue. Workers in overalls and hard hats were plugging potholes that the snows of last winter had carved into the asphalt.

She veered the Maxima off at Knapp Street and, turning right, headed for Emmons Avenue. Pulling up in front of a parking meter, she turned off the engine. She could feel the hammering of her heart. Flipping down the visor, she checked her eye makeup and took a deep breath.

When she entered The Lobster Trap, she was struck by the din of a hundred conversations in progress. She was momentarily disoriented but recovered as her eyes searched the bar for the telltale flower. There was no amaryllis on the bar. Was she too early? The grandfather clock at the end of the bar said otherwise. Maybe she should go back to the car, wait fifteen or twenty minutes, and return to the bar appropriately late, or perhaps she should make herself comfortable and order a glass of Chablis. Could he have been detained? Could he have been detained? she wondered. Maybe that glass of wine would settle her nerves, after all. She stepped up to the bar and ordered her drink. she wondered. Maybe that glass of wine would settle her nerves, after all. She stepped up to the bar and ordered her drink.

The bartender smiled as he poured the wine into a stemmed crystal glass. She felt as if her femininity were exposed to the world. She hadn't been out to meet a man in eight years.

She glanced at her watch. What was keeping him? As she watched the second hand sweep past the twelve on the face of her Timex, a thought occurred. How much time was left on that meter? She believed there was a two-hour limit. Or was it one?

With purse in hand, she headed for the revolving door. As soon as she stepped out onto the street, she spotted him. He was standing there, facing the restaurant, a strikingly dressed man holding an amaryllis.

"Hello," she said as her heart raced.

Chapter 44.

She stared at him, shock and bewilderment still ablaze in her eyes. The rope singed swollen flesh at her wrists and ankles, worsened by her futile attempts to loosen the restraints that held fast to the wooden chair.

Colm heard her mutter something through the plumbing tape. It was unintelligible, but her eyes flashed a threat. How audacious some of them remained, even at the end, he thought.

"You would have been a gracious dinner guest," he said. "Unfortunately, given the circumstances, I thought it best to wait outside. It wouldn't have been wise to have us seen together, now, would it?"

Vengeful eyes stared back at him.

"I knew it was only a matter of time before you'd come out. Thank goodness you were alone. I wasn't sure what I'd do if you had brought company." He pulled up a chair and took a seat across from her. "I hadn't planned this ending, you know. I kept thinking it might be OK to simply recover the beeper and be done with it. I even considered the thought of actually keeping my promise and sharing a meal with you. But my resolve dissipated and a more familiar yearning kicked in...pure rapture. You're sure to rival some of my most cherished trophies."

Realization settled, in her dilated pupils as she watched him nonchalantly reach for the blade.

Chapter 45.

"OK, here's what we've got," said Margaret, her voice strong, her eyes focused on Driscoll's, giving the Lieutenant the sense that she was OK with how things were. "Deirdre McCabe was hooked up at America Online. We got zip on Monique Beauford, our drifter. And the tea heiress, well, we're not sure what she used, although the whiz kid claims she had an account with Juno. The folks over at Juno list an A. Stockard on their books. But, their Internet service is free, so-"

"So they have nothing more than an A. Stockard. No billing address. No phone number."

"You got it."

"Juno. Netscape. I tell you, it's all Greek to me. Moira even thinks thinks in another language." in another language."

"You've gotta realize that these kids are miles ahead on the information superhighway."

What was Margaret up to? Driscoll wondered. She sounded like she had become a fan of the technogeek. She's just being contrary She's just being contrary, he surmised.

"The Internet is the tool of tomorrow," Margaret continued.

"And possibly a killing field today."