"I'm going up to Boston, Nick-to my sister's. I ... I'm leaving you."

"Will you please, please stop for a minute. Babe, c'mon, stop."

She sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled up a chair and sat in front of her.

"Kathy, in all this time, since ... Peter ... we haven't talked, you and me. We ..."

She studied him with a puzzled expression as though she didn't understand what he'd said.

"But that isn't something we do, Nick, is it? Talk. You and I, talk. Not for, G.o.d, how many years?"

"You know how I always felt about the job, that I didn't want to bring any part of it home with me."

"Nick, you brought it home with you every single day of your life. But you kept it to yourself. It was your real world, out there. Here, with me, with Peter ... this was your catch-up time. But Nick, what about us-you and me? Besides our son, what have we had between us all these years?"

Years of silence, subterfuge. Years of late-night phone calls with excuses, some valid, some not. Mornings of uncertainty-not knowing when, or if, he'd make it home for supper. He thought of all the broken marriages; cops' wives not able or willing to hack it anymore. The guys on the job were never at a loss to talk with each other: there was always someone who wanted to go over a case with him, a conflict, testimony, evidence, an event.

But they were always puzzled, the cops. Confused. What the h.e.l.l did these women want?

"Kathy, remember a year or two ago, you wanted us to go for family counseling? Let's do it now. We need each other now."

She lifted her chin in resolve. "What family do we have left, Nick? We had Peter. Now we don't. Period."

"I love you, Kathy. I've always loved you."

"I know, Nick. Really, I do. And I love you. But I can't live with you anymore. You've created your own life. I've tried to share mine with you, but ... what the h.e.l.l. It never really worked."

"That's not true. Kathy, the things I didn't want to talk about, the job-"

"Let me ask you something, Nick. Do you think the women cops go home and tell their husbands about 'the job'?"

Quickly, he answered, "Yeah, I think they probably do."

She spread her hands out and shrugged. "So?"

"But that's different ..."

"No, it's not. Women share. Men don't. Don't you think I've wanted to be part of what you are, of what you care about? And when's the last time we socialized as a couple with anyone but other cops and their wives?"

"Hey, in any job, people get together with others who have the same interests."

"And the evening ends with all the guys hanging in one room and the wives in the other. The men tell their war stories while the women either drink a little too much or eat too much cake or talk about their kids and their f.u.c.king housecleaning methods. Except for those of us who work and are uncomfortable talking about our jobs to women who feel threatened by the fact that we have a life outside of the home."

"Kathy, any time I ever went anywhere with your friends, your 'colleagues,' it always works out the same way. They tell me stories about the crooked cops they know, or ask about the best way to get a cop to skip a violation. Or they tell me about brutality, and how the kids on the street are really society's problem, brutalized-blah blah blah."

"Well, there we have it. Your world-my world. There is no 'our world,' Nick. Peter was our world."

He stood up and walked around. Was shocked at the sight of his face in the mirror: haggard, wounded, his eyes swimming red.

"Kathy, this is the wrong time-the worst possible time for you to do this."

"Is there a good time for a hard thing? One time is like another, Nick. This is not spur of the moment, and you know it."

"Kathy, I need you."

When she stood up, her very posture defined her determination. "You never needed me. And you don't now. You have 'the job,' you have 'the guys.' That's your true life. Get on with it. I have to get on with mine. There's too much empty s.p.a.ce between us."

She continued packing, speaking quietly. "Nick, I will always love you. But I can't live a half life anymore. I can't live here, in this house. I can't live in this town where Peter grew up. I can't teach in that school." The school where Peter had gone.

He felt desperate. "Kathy, please don't go."

She pointed at the largest suitcase. "Would you bring this down for me? I think I just heard the cab. I'm taking a shuttle up to Boston."

"I'll take you to the airport. We could talk."

"I'm all talked out, Nick. Listen, will you take care of Woof? And Cat. But if you want someone else to ..."

"That's fine."

"The other dogs, they're adjusting to new homes. I'll be at my sister's for a while. Until I get located. You have her number?"

He nodded. When the cab driver honked, he helped her to the car with the luggage.

He embraced his wife, but after a quick light kiss she pulled back, and without looking at him again, she ducked into the cab.

"Kathy," he said softly to the retreating cab, "Jesus Christ, Kathy, don't do this to me."

CHAPTER 14.

EDDIE DIDN'T SEE OR hear from Nick for more than two weeks. He didn't answer his phone; his car wasn't in the driveway. Ed figured Nick was up in Boston, trying to work things out with his wife.

As he drove past Nick's house at the beginning of the third week, Ed spotted the old yellow dog sitting slumped against a tree at the side of the house.

"Hey, Woof, you guys just got home, huh?"

The dog moved sluggishly, rubbed his face against Ed's leg. The front door opened a few inches and a ragged voice called the dog, who turned and trotted into the house.

"Hey, Nick. You're home." The door slammed shut. He peered through the windows into the living room through the slit left open between the drawn drapes. He went around to the back and tried to see into the kitchen. After about twenty minutes, no response came from inside the house; no answer to his phone calls. Eddie Manganaro put in a call to Inspector Frank O'Hara.

Frank pounded on the door with his heavy fist, then shoved his weight against the kitchen door, nearly breaking the frame. The first thing he did was to cough against the stale air. He kicked his way through the kitchen, knocking empty bottles, pizza boxes, hamburger wrappers, and chunks of food out of the way.

It was worse in the living room. The smell of spilled Scotch and spoiled food filled the air. Woof let out a soft greeting, came toward Frank, limping. One of his paws was bleeding from a cut and he had what seemed to be sauce of some kind around his mouth.

"Jesus jumping Christ A'mighty. Nick? Nick, where the f.u.c.k are you, G.o.dd.a.m.n it?"

He heard a sound from upstairs and walked carefully through the cluttered hallway, tripped over a fallen lamp. When he switched on the overhead light, he stared in disbelief at the mess. He had seen crack houses that looked like this.

The dog limped after him, followed him to Peter's room, which was bare, clean, untouched. Then he heard a low, hoa.r.s.e voice coming from the bedroom.

Frank stopped in the doorway and froze. There were bundles of dirty clothes, linens, gla.s.ses, bottles all around. Nick was slumped on an upholstered chair, his feet on an upturned wastebasket.

Frank grabbed his nephew by the shoulders of his filthy shirt and shook him. Nick's eyes were two blank light blue discs.

"Nick, c'mon, Nicky, you with me or what? What the f.u.c.k have you been doing around here? What have you done to yourself?"

Nick pulled himself up. He looked around, very agitated. "Holy G.o.d, Frank. Where's the dog? Oh, G.o.d, he's okay, isn't he? I wouldn't hurt him for anything-he's Peter's dog."

"He's okay, Nick. He's okay."

Nick hunched over the dog and touched his b.l.o.o.d.y paw. "Oh, G.o.d, Woofer, what happened to you?"

Frank placed his hands on Nick's shoulders, kneaded them tightly. "He's got a little cut, that's all. From the broken gla.s.s all over the place. He'll be okay. Which is more than I can say for you."

He left Nick, arms around the dog, who licked his face. He searched around the bathroom for some clean towels. He turned on the shower, regulated the water: lukewarm.

He lugged Nick to his feet, stripped off the shirt, dragged him into the bathroom, and shoved him into the shower. He held him firmly, face up, as he decreased the temperature of the water until it was as cold as it could get. Nick shook his head, raised his arms, tried to push Frank away, finally slumped into a sitting position, his head down. Frank slowly increased the water to warm.

"Don't come out until you lose the brewery smell. You got any clean clothes around this place?"

Frank dug around and found some clean underwear, a pair of fresh blue jeans, a blue T-shirt that wasn't too dirty. Just not very clean.

"Get into these things when you finish. I'll be in the kitchen."

He snapped his fingers toward the dog, who followed him gratefully. Frank found a piece of cloth in the kitchen, and he cleaned off the injured paw, opened a can of dog food, and placed it in the backyard for the dog. He turned and looked at the mess, not knowing where to begin.

He found one clean cup, and set it up with powdered coffee. When he opened the refrigerator, the whiff of spoiled food sickened him. He searched the cupboards and found an unopened box of graham crackers.

Nick slumped at the kitchen table, drank a little of the instant, munched a corner of a graham cracker.

Frank was a compulsively clean and orderly man. He needed to feel control over some portions of his world that could still be brought to order. There was no way he could stop himself until he had cleaned and cleaned most of the debris around him. His nephew was another matter.

Insisting he wasn't tired, Nick went upstairs when his uncle told him to just get out of the way. Within five minutes, he fell into a deep but restless sleep.

By the time Ed Manganaro arrived with two big shopping bags of food that Frank had ordered, the washing machine was churning and the drier was humming. Eddie looked around, amazed. The inspector was a good housekeeper.

Ed loaded his car with garbage bags and left the silent house.

Later, Nick barely tasted the fresh orange juice his uncle placed in front of him. He rubbed his reddened eyes, then the back of his neck. He stared at the scrambled eggs and toast, then lurched to the sink to throw up. It took a while for Nick to hold anything down, but his uncle insisted.

"At least drink fluids, Nick. You're dehydrated. Keep drinking-juice, water, soda. Boy, you are some piece of work."

Nick grinned weakly and shrugged. "Hey, I'm Irish. I'm supposed to drink, right?"

"You're half Irish, kid, and the Irish you're half of never were drinkers, so don't blame it on the green blood in your veins."

Nick started to laugh, but then uncontrollably he started to sob. His body was taken over with deep wrenching pain, as he was overwhelmed by the memory of why he had been drinking.

Frank went to him, his arm around him, feeling the shaking, trembling, gulping, as Nick tried to stop himself.

Softly, protectively, Frank told him, "It's okay, kid. Let it out. You got a h.e.l.luva lot to cry about. Let it go, son, let it go."

CHAPTER 15.

FRANK DROVE THEM OUT to his cottage at Montauk Point, at the eastern end of Long Island. It was cold and gray, the air thick and damp. Then they drove a few miles further east to the Point, parked within sight of the lighthouse. The area was a national park, deserted now, dank and desolate.

They walked along the rocky beach, watching the Atlantic's heavy gray waves rise, roll toward land, peak, revealing flashes of pure green before crashing into foam.

They camped on concrete benches around the cement tables outside the closed, bleak restaurant. Frank had brought a thermos of coffee and a bag of sandwiches. They hadn't been hungry at the house, but now they were surprised the food tasted so good.

"Jesus, I remember going deep-sea fishing with my father," Frank said. "Your dad, Danny, he was just a little kid but he loved every minute of it. Our father turned green after about twenty minutes of our hitting the ocean. I lasted about two minutes after seeing him heave."

"Did my dad get sick?"

"h.e.l.l, no. He spent his time yelling that he spotted whales. He kept snapping away with his Brownie camera. No one else saw anything like a whale. But d.a.m.n, there they were when the pictures were developed. He was so d.a.m.n proud."

"I never liked fishing," Nick said quietly. "Took Peter once, up in the lake at Bear Mountain. I caught a good-sized fish and took one look at Peter's face. 'Daddy, it's dying, isn't it?' I put the d.a.m.n thing back in the water."

They sat silent for a while. Frank hunched his large shoulders into the wind and breathed deeply.

"Shame life can't be like this-pure, elemental, fresh."

"Yeah."

"So, Nick." Frank hesitated a moment. "When you planning on going back to work? You've just about used up all your time-vacation, holidays, compa.s.sionate leave, overtime."

Nick didn't meet his uncle's eyes. "You been checking up on me?"

"Well, you know me. I'm a nosy sonofab.i.t.c.h and got nothin' better to do with my time. C'mon, Nick."

"I'm not going back. I don't know what the h.e.l.l I'm gonna do, okay?"

"No. Not okay."