"There's no such thing as an off-duty cop. I'm just trying to stay sharp."

"I know you are, but Jesus! Does it have to consume your every waking moment? When do you relax?"

"This is relaxing for me."

"No, honey. It's training. I know it for what it is. I just don't want you obsessing, unable to enjoy free time."

"I'm fine."

"Please, please take some time off. Read a book, actually watch the TV, go visit Oz, look at this."

Jill raised her t-shirt over her head and flashed him. Jake laughed. Neither of them wanted things to get tense.

"See? You need me to help get you out of that head of yours."

She walked toward him at the couch.

"It's just not safe to stay in there too long without a break, okay?"

He grabbed her waist and hugged her as she tapped him on the head.

"Okay?"

"Okay. I get it. I think I'll go visit Oz."

"Good idea. Does he know about Bryant?"

"Yeah, I think maybe he does."

Jacob found a grocery store in Hangtown and loaded up on goodies. He walked out with two bags full and a copy of the Sacramento Bee tucked under his arm. He put the bags on the pa.s.senger seat of his pickup truck, then sat behind the wheel and opened the paper to the cla.s.sifieds. It took him a while, but he found a listing that looked perfect and circled it. He took out his cell phone and called the number in the ad. Once he was finished talking, Jacob started up his truck and drove away.

He had to walk up several flights of stairs to get to Oz's apartment. The elevator was out.

Outside the door, Jacob could hear Bob Dylan's forlorn voice pleading with his mother to take his guns away, because he just didn't have the heart to shoot them anymore. He stood there and listened to the song. He was afraid to knock. Afraid of what he might find on the other side. He hated to watch Oz's decline into a full-blown blue recluse, so he saw him less and less these days. It hurt too much. It hurt to see his mentor debase himself. But it also hurt to know that he could be looking at his own future. He'd thought the other day that the only way for Sesak to ever take his job was to outshoot him or kill him. But there was a third way. It was the way Jake himself had become primary sniper. His partner had gone 5150. Lost his mind. If Jake went down the rabbit hole and never came back, then Sesak would become primary sniper. That was the third option.

Cowell had said, "We've gotta see how these hits are affecting you," and maybe the man was right. The psych appointment was just a week away, looming over him like test results at a cancer clinic. What would they find? What would they see when they examined his brain?

Jacob knocked, but got no response. The Dylan record ended. There was a pause as the tone arm lifted, and a light crackle as the needle sat back down into the opening grooves. Then Mr. Robert Allen Zimmerman was asking his mama to take his badge away, that he just had no use for it anymore.

This was bad. A Dylan 45 on repeat was a bad omen. Jake kept knocking. A long, authoritative cop knock. The kind of knock many of this building's occupants would be familiar with. He could just imagine some of them flushing their drugs down the toilet right about now.

Dylan was talking about a long, black cloud coming down when the needle was unceremoniously dragged across the record and the music stopped.

Jacob saw a shadowy flicker behind the peephole. The door opened.

Oswald didn't say anything. He made bleary, brief eye contact, then turned and made room for Jacob to enter. p.i.s.s, B.O., Old Crow, and Hoppe's. The usual odors.

"Bob Dylan. Has it come to that?"

"I'm afraid it has, Jake. I'm afraid it has. Nah, I just left it on in case Montezuma and Hay Seed showed back up. I'm f.u.c.king with their heads."

"Detectives Alejandro Cortez and Sayeed Hasan? They're okay."

"Yeah, they are. But I gotta give 'em h.e.l.l. That's what crazy old f.u.c.ks like me do. Give people h.e.l.l."

"What else you got cued up? A little Johnny Cash? 'Don't Take Your Guns to Town'?"

Oz smiled. "You know it. And then 'Bang Bang,' Sonny & Cher. 'I Didn't Know the Gun Was Loaded,' the Andrews Sisters."

"The Andrews Sisters? And they call me old school. 'I Shot the Sheriff'?"

"'I Don't Like Mondays,' Boomtown Rats."

"I don't get that one."

"Sometimes you gotta dig deeper. That song was about Brenda Ann Spencer."

"The, uh, San Diego elementary school shootings? She was the shooter."

"Right. Reporter asked her why she did it, she said, 'I don't like Mondays.'"

"In that case, good one. 'Sat.u.r.day Night Special,' Lynyrd Skynyrd."

"A bit obvious after mine, but okay. 'Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down),' Nancy Sinatra."

"'Hey Man, Nice Shot,' Filter."

"'Jeremy,' Pearl Jam."

"Yep. Jeremy spoke in cla.s.s today. What about you, Oz? Did you speak in cla.s.s? Did you speak to Bryant?"

"I'm saddened that you would ask me that. Truly, Jake. These days I'm less Pearl Jam and more Kiss. To wit: 'Love Gun.'"

"'Love Gun'? Really?"

"Really."

"You got a girl?" Jake smiled, delighted by the idea that Oswald was seeing someone.

Oswald shrugged and said, "A companion, yes."

"Who's the lucky recipient of your high-caliber l.u.s.t?"

"Why use names? A rose is a rose is a rose."

"You never were one to kiss and tell."

"My gun is quick, and my lips are sealed."

"I brought you some stuff," Jake said and sat the grocery sacks on the kitchen counter.

Oswald yawned and peeked into one of the bags. He dug to the bottom and pulled out a fifth of Johnnie Walker Red Label. He held it up and admired it.

"I guess I've been on your mind. This is a step up from the usual rotgut you bring me."

"If you look closely, I think there's some food in there, too."

Oz made a show of looking deeper and said, "Well, sure as s.h.i.t."

He broke the seal on the whiskey and poured himself a quick shot into a jelly-jar gla.s.s. Downed it. Then poured another and offered it to Jacob.

"Waker-upper?"

"I generally try to wait till after 1700 hours."

Oswald shrugged and downed the shot himself.

"Mama's boy."

Jacob handed Oswald the newspaper folded open to the circled want ad. Oswald pretended to give it great attention, his mouth circled in an "O" of mock amazement.

"'Must have law enforcement experience.'"

He handed the paper back to Jacob.

"Well, I've certainly got that. Does it say 'burnt-out borderline alcoholic psychos need not apply?' It didn't, did it? Well, s.h.i.t, I might have a chance. In fact, I recently interviewed with law enforcement. Aren't you proud? They showed a lot of interest in me."

"I just happened to see it, that's all. Jill and I have banked at the Morgan City branch for years. I, uh, well, I went ahead and gave the manager a call. Talked to him about you. He's interested. Call him."

"Maybe I will."

"You can use me as a reference. Cowell, too."

"Jesus. I really have been on your mind."

"Look, I'm not here because I think you shot Bryant. But I don't think you're the same man you used to be, either. And I think you know that. Do I think you're off your rocker, scary, dangerous? No, I don't. The reason I'm here is because I was on scene when Bryant took the hits. And I was shot at later the same day-"

"Someone took a shot at you?"

"Yeah. And I want your opinion. That's all. I want to know what you think."

"I'd love to sit down and palaver with you, Jake. Thing is, I'm not alone here."

Jake glanced at the closed bedroom door.

"She's still here? That is serious."

Oswald shrugged. "Not serious. You know me, Jake. I subscribe to the four F's school of dating. Find 'em, feed 'em, f.u.c.k 'em, and forget 'em. Though I don't bother feeding 'em anymore."

Jacob crossed to the living room, to the television and the VCR that sat atop it and punched the eject b.u.t.ton. VHS and 45s. Oz was definitely an a.n.a.log guy. The machine made a good bit of mechanical noise before spitting out the tape. Jake looked at it.

"Shane? You showed her Shane and played her your Dylan records? I'd call that serious."

Oswald hung his head.

"What about the Kavanaugh poetry?" Jacob scanned the room and saw the book spread open facedown on the coffee table. "Yep, there-"

That's when Jake saw the bra.s.s sh.e.l.ls set up like chess pieces on the coffee table.

"You showed her your collection? I've been married twenty some odd years and I've never-"

"How many is it for you now, Jake? Last I knew it was fourteen."

"I don't drink myself into oblivion every night looking at them."

Oswald walked over and picked up one of the empty sh.e.l.ls. Studied it.

"And what will your last one be? Who will it be? This was my eighteenth, remember? My last."

Oswald moved the casing around in his hand, like a cardsharp manipulating a poker chip.

"Guy had beaten his wife over and over again. And that one night it went too far. We were on the neighbor's roof. Remember?"

Jacob swept the sh.e.l.ls off the table, scattering them.

"It's bulls.h.i.t! Holding on to the past."

"Oh yeah, you remember all right."

Oswald went calmly about collecting the sh.e.l.ls, bent over, his back to Jacob.

Jacob headed for the door. He paused with his hand on the k.n.o.b, his back to Oswald's back.

"It was n.o.body's fault. You know that."

"Do I?"

"You can't blame Bryant. And you can't blame me as your spotter. Once you've got the green, it's on you. And you can't blame yourself, either."

"Really? Bryant had no responsibility to know all the dynamics involved before giving a green?"

"You could have spoken up."

"She was my G.o.dd.a.m.n neighbor! I wanted to save her."

"Oz-"