Nick didn't answer. Frank waited outside.

When he opened the door, a nurse quietly left the room.

There on a long bed, covered from his waist down, his head resting on a small pillow, his arms resting alongside his body, was his son, Peter Nicholas O'Hara. Aged twelve, no longer going on thirteen.

His face was very smooth. The freckles on his cheeks and nose were very pale against his even paler skin. His lips were parted slightly and Nick could see a glint of teeth. Someone had combed his hair. It looked damp. They must have used water. But they got the part wrong. Nick reached up and tousled the heavy dark hair.

There was absolutely no expression on Peter's face: the way he looked when he was sleeping and between dreams. Waiting for something, but not anxious. But there was, of course, a difference. His face seemed made of finely carved stone.

In the center of his forehead, near the hairline, was a small, nearly black circle. Some splatter of powder burns. He hadn't been dead very long. There was no obvious swelling of the head yet.

That was a cop's observation, not a father's.

Christ, this is my son. Nick reached over and picked up one of Peter's hands, so cold. Couldn't they at least have given him a warm blanket? Even as he thought it, he knew it was irrational. He brought his son's hand to his mouth, trying to warm the fingers; the way he did when they were out in the snow, when he was a little kid, didn't want to go inside, lips turning blue, warm my hands, Daddy, blow on them.

He leaned over, tried to warm Peter's face, with his hands, with his lips. His mouth tasted nothing of his son: just cold cold cold.

Frank O'Hara wrapped a strong arm around his shoulders and Nick didn't have the strength to resist.

They sat alone in a small room somewhere. Waiting for Kathy. Suddenly, it occurred to Nick.

"Christ, Frank. She'll think it was me."

Frank shook his head. "Your aunt Mary went to her, with Father O'Rourke. I sent Eddie Manganaro up in a car. They'll be here soon."

And then, "Tell her it was me. Oh, G.o.d, let it be me and not the kid. Not our son."

Nick had seen people in shock. They reacted in a hundred different ways. He'd once seen a guy who had been tossed through the windshield of his car in a head on, get out, blood streaming down his face, eyes staring, and start complaining in a whining voice about being late for his G.o.dd.a.m.n dentist appointment.

Kathy, in shock, was very calm and steady. Her voice was clear and she spoke carefully as she pulled back, not allowing his embrace.

"Well, are you satisfied now? Has he experienced enough of his heritage to suit you?"

His aunt Mary shook her head; don't pay any attention. Later on, Kathy would swear she didn't remember saying that, would be horrified that she had. If she said such a thing, G.o.d knows she didn't mean it. But the words had come from the deepest part of her brain, and had pierced the deepest part of his.

When his grandfather arrived, Frank O'Hara left them alone together. The old man was straight as a board. He put both hands on Nick's shoulders, and spoke from experience.

"It is a terrible thing to lose a son. A child. The worst thing that can happen to a man." Papa knew.

Nick nodded and wondered, Was this it, then? Finally. The worst thing.

He didn't remember his grandfather leaving; hardly remembered his being there. There were so many people, in and out of the small room; guys from the precinct, friends from their town, asking, What could they do? How could they help?

Nick heard a nurse ask if a cop had been shot, there were so many uniformed cops. Someone told her it was worse. A cop's kid.

Finally he found the room where Richie had been checked into for observation, and asked they be left alone. Richie leaning sideways in the bed, half-dopey, pulled himself up.

"Jesus Christ, Nicky, Jesus Christ."

Nick began a slow, methodical series of questions. He had to know the sequence of events.

Speaking slowly, his words slurring from time to time, Richie told him: the kid got tired of the fair; Sonny mentioned that Chinatown was only a coupla blocks away, so he took the kid to see it. Peter couldn't believe the place; he was all over, looking at the windows, the people ... Then there was a fight of some kind: then, pop, pop, pop, four kids shooting at each other. And then gone. That's all. Peter on the ground; Sonny moving toward him, not knowing he'd been shot himself.

Richie started to cry again and Nick waited him out. Witnesses? Jeez, Richie didn't know-ask the cops. There were a couple of d.i.c.ks outside-did Nick know them?

He found Frank, who directed him to two detectives from the Seventh Precinct Detective Squad. One of them was familiar; he ignored their condolences and got down to questions.

Witnesses? Gang affiliations? Were the kids wearing gang jackets, headbands? Weapons? Who was working the neighborhood? Did they have a good Chinese American investigator? Would they take him to the location- It was Ed Manganaro who convinced Nick he had other priorities right now. He promised Nick he would keep right on top of the investigation. Everyone a.s.sured him. But it really didn't seem to make any difference at all.

CHAPTER 11.

IT WAS AMAZING HOW little Kathy needed him. She took over all the terrible details involved in the death. She selected the funeral director. She picked the coffin, telling the salesman she was not interested in the most expensive one. She knew all the bulls.h.i.t involved in funerals and he'd better back off.

Nick stood by, nodded agreement for whatever she planned. She scarcely noticed. Peter was to be buried next to his O'Hara grandparents.

She arranged the funeral service. Peter was carried by six of his friends: young boys with strong shoulders and hurting eyes. The ma.s.s and service were simple.

Kathy chose just the right people to speak and she trusted them to say the right thing. Peter's best friend-a goofy-looking, fast-talking boy named Patrick Riley-someone Nick never would have asked, spoke last. Kathy knew what she was doing. Patrick spoke so beautifully, in a voice so moderated and careful, that Nick cried for the kid's strength in spite of his pain.

Nick could hardly get through the prayers; Kathy took his arm when he started to ramble and firmly brought him back on track.

After the funeral, everyone but his grandfather and Theresa went to Frank's house for food and for talking. Nick heard laughing, the kids getting a little loud, nervous when they spotted Kathy. She approached them, touched a cheek, ruffled a carefully combed head of hair. She gave a quick squeeze, a hard hug. Not letting them feel alone, or that they weren't acting properly. She told them that any way they felt was okay.

Laura was there, dressed in dark gray. She hugged Kathy; hugged him. Or did he dream it?

Then they went home to their empty house. Mechanically, Nick fed the dogs; some kids showed up to walk them. Kathy had made arrangements for all the dogs, except old Woof, to be temporarily "fostered" with a couple of other families. The in-and-out cat was fine.

Nick cleaned up the backyard. He raked the leaves, then forgot to bag them. He started to fix a loose hinge on the garage door and fell off the ladder, then couldn't remember why he had been up there in the first place. He went to the supermarket and forgot what he had come to buy.

He listened to the sound of voices, rather than the words spoken to him. Father O'Rourke, a sweet-faced young man new to the parish, spoke and Kathy answered while he nodded. His partner, Eddie, came over, spent an hour or two talking about absolutely nothing. His uncle a.s.sured him everything was being done to a.s.sure a good investigation into the murder of his son. Nick felt enclosed in a gla.s.s capsule, isolated with the one fact he had come to fully comprehend.

His son, Peter, was dead.

Kathy invited Peter's friends over, encouraged them to select any tapes, recordings, books, posters they might want. His clothes were dispatched to the St. Vincent's Society. All that remained in Peter's room were some team pictures, a plaque he'd been awarded by the Humane Society for his volunteer work. The room was emptier than any s.p.a.ce Nick had ever seen. Only old Woof, lying restlessly on Peter's bed, seemed familiar. Each time anyone came into the room, he pulled himself up hopefully, tail wagging, then slumped into a semi-sleep.

Kathy went about everything with a brisk competence. In the middle of the night, he woke with a jolt: that something-is-wrong feeling. There was a light in Peter's room.

Nick approached his son's room. There was Kathy, sitting on the edge of the bed, cradling the dog. Nick came to her side and reached for her, but she shook her head and he retreated.

CHAPTER 12.

NICK WENT TO SEE his grandfather. He took comfort in the old man's presence. Papa never said he could imagine how Nick felt. He knew.

They sat quietly in the gla.s.s-enclosed porch overlooking the autumn garden. It was a view the old man had found soothing many times in the past.

"It is not right-not ever-for a man to bury his son. Nicholas, it will never stop hurting. It will hurt in a different way, not so sharp. But it is so bad."

"Papa, I can't seem to concentrate on anything. Sometimes, G.o.d, for a minute, I can't remember what he looks like."

"I know. And then it comes back. Yes. I know. Nicholas, I wanted to tell you two things. I hope the first will make you feel ... if not happy, maybe comforted. The second thing-well, let's get to the first. Do you remember last Easter, when Peter and I had a long private conversation?"

Nick had watched the two of them walking through the blossoming garden, Peter speaking earnestly as Papa inspected the flower beds, stopping, listening, nodding.

"He told me something I had never heard. About the greyhounds from the race tracks."

Nick was surprised. "Peter told you about that?"

"We've talked about many things, Peter and I. I didn't know-imagine all these years I've bet on the races in Florida and never knew how these beautiful animals were treated. How they were destroyed if they won too many times, which brought down the odds. Or if they lost ... not considered worth feeding."

Nick remembered his son's pa.s.sion and anger: how can they get away with this?

"I asked him how I could help. He told me he'd read about a group that helped people adopt these dogs. He said people were trying to get the government to help, but they needed money." The old man smiled. "He told me, 'Adopting is good, Papa, but I don't know if you could keep up with a greyhound.' So instead I helped them out, gave them a little money for their legal fund."

Nick remembered his son reading nature magazines while his friends were still casting around comics. He'd matched Peter's fifty-dollar donation with his own. The kid saved every penny he earned at odd jobs, and dutifully sent in round amounts to help people who were helping animals. Most adults didn't have the kind of conscience this kid had.

"I also sent word to certain people, in certain places, that they would be made to account for each and every animal in their races. I would hold them responsible for any mistreatment myself."

Nick was touched by the old man's sincerity. He hadn't known about any of this.

"Papa, that was a good thing to do. In the spirit of my son."

Casually, to break the moment, Papa said, "The IRS will make my accountants crazy checking the donation. Five figures to protect the animals? From me? Who's going to believe that? h.e.l.l, that's what I pay CPAs for. Nicholas, come, let's walk in the garden. Get my sweater over there, it's a little chilly."

In the center of the square garden was a small pool, with a flow of water from a simple statue. Bright orange fish, quick, fat, inquisitive, darted to the surface, then raced each other around in circles. Surrounding the pool was a series of intricate brick patterns. There was a heavy wooden container in each of the four corners. Herbal gardens, Papa told him. And the benches: not only copies of the ancient benches, but made by the very same carpenter who made those in the gardens of the Cloisters. Sweet birdsong could be heard over the splashing waters.

Papa Ventura stopped, pointed to the brickwork, which Nick hadn't even noticed. "These are called brick carpets, Nicholas. See the intricate patterns, the end row like fringe? Each one different; each one unique. And in the containers, all of the herbs were planted exactly like the herbs in those tapestries-you know, the Unicorn Tapestries."

Nick listened carefully to his grandfather. He seemed to be setting a quiet scene for something. "Who did all this work, Papa? Did you design it?"

The old man laughed and took his arm, led him to a bench. "Oh, if only I could. I saw this kind of work in a design magazine. Found the architect, an artist. She's designed these around the world, so I had her come out here. I liked the way she looked and talked. She knew her stuff. Brought brick craftsmen who had worked with her before. See that one, over there, leading to the trellis? The brickmen told her, no, lady, no, this is an impossible design. Cannot be done. My lady smiled and put her hands on her hips and told them, 'Of course it can be done. And you're going to do it.' When they finished, she whispered to me, she really wasn't sure they'd be able to get that pattern-she'd never tried it before."

The old man smiled, sat very still, drinking in the strange atmosphere of separation: from the house, from the world. It was as if they had left time behind.

Finally, he patted the bench. "Come, Nicholas, sit here beside me."

"And the second thing you want to tell me, Papa. That's why we came out here, right?"

His grandfather's tone of voice was very serious. "This that I tell you now, Nicholas, it will never be spoken of again. By either of us. Ask any questions, here and now. And then it will be finished."

Nick knew something terrible was coming; something he had to hear.

"There was no gang fight in Chinatown that day. The gangs are well controlled and supervised. There were four boys involved in the shooting. Two were brothers. One of the other two had insulted a girlfriend of the older brother. They were there to avenge the insult to the girl."

"Peter got killed because one of those boys insulted a girl?"

"Exactly."

"Who are these boys? What are their names?"

An amazing change took over his grandfather. He seemed to slip out of his old age. His voice was strong and firm; it commanded caution.

"You don't need to know. Those boys no longer exist."

"What?"

"You know what I mean. You know exactly what I mean. They killed my great-grandson and wounded another. Nicholas, not only were we hurt, the Chinese community was damaged. Those boys violated all the rules by which they lived. It was dealt with. The way we would deal with such a thing."

"You had them killed?"

A nerve jumped in the old man's jaw. "I had nothing to do with it." He waited a moment, then broke the intense silence. "I have some connections in the Chinese community. It was in their interest that they deal with it. From the moment those four boys confronted each other with guns, in the street, their lives were over.

"None of this will make you feel any better. I understand that. Peter is still dead. But I didn't want you to spend any time, any energy on all of this. The police will be continuing their investigation, but nothing will come of it. But you had to know. It is over."

There was nothing he could say. What could he ask? What was left for him to do?

CHAPTER 13.

WHEN HE RETURNED HOME, he was surprised to see that Kathy had suitcases on their bed. She was filling them with her things from the closets and drawers.

"Kathy, what are you doing?"

"Packing."

"Hold it a minute. What the h.e.l.l's going on?"