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Midnight.
Hands behind his head, Max stared up at the empty ceiling of the hotel room, his loneliness threatening to swallow him. He pushed his feelings aside and turned his thoughts to the kid he saw hanging around Saint Augustine’s and the scuffle he witnessed. His urge had been to break things up, but it would have blown his cover. Good thing the priest stepped in when he did. Sully could have done serious damage. Max had to find that kid before Sully did. Before the murderer or murderers got to him. Murderers? O'Grady was right. More than one. How many? Was Sully involved? He didn’t strike Max as smart enough to pull off what had happened, but he was one cunning son-of-a-bitch. Good chance he was in it, but he definitely wasn’t the brains behind it. Either way, he couldn’t be trusted.
Max rolled onto his side, pulled the covers to his chin and closed his eyes. Ten minutes later, he was on his back again staring at the ceiling. He hated these times alone. Life came to a complete stop, leaving him to face the emptiness of what he had become—one of the highest paid investigators in the country with the freedom to run his investigations the way he saw fit. A position many envied, but success had taken its toll. Outside of his work, he had no life of his own.
He remembered his mother’s gentle scolding. He didn't remember her as a whole. She came to him in a series of sensations and images; the way she cuddled him, the warmth of her body, loving hands, soft smells, soap and perfume, sparkling blue eyes and long blonde hair.
Those were the memories he kept. Not the body lying in the coffin or the cloying smell of flowers.
His anger had saved him. Kept the pain at bay.
The woman they said was his mother didn't look like her. Mommy didn't wear thick makeup. Her skin was soft and natural. The way the body in the coffin wore her hair was not the way mommy wore it either, yet he recognized her cheekbones, small nose, and delicate hands.
Max remembered kneeling in front of the coffin next to his father and putting his hand on the cold fingers of the shell that had been his mother. I'll get them, he vowed. I promise Mom, wherever you are.
"It's okay, Max," his father said in a hoarse whisper. Max smelled cigarettes and booze on his breath. "There's nothing to be afraid of."
Max clenched his hand into a fist. His father didn't understand. He wasn't afraid. I promise you Mom. I'll never stop going after the bad guys.
His father patted him on the back and left him alone with his mother. Longing for one last touch, Max clasped the unresponsive hand, wishing it was warm. Wishing the life would come back.
How long had it been since he felt the tenderness of a woman's love? There had been girls in college and hard-edged woman cops, but none had shown him true affection and none lasted. His obsession always overtook and ruled his life.
Of all the policewomen he'd met, O'Grady stood out. He pictured the way her face hardened when confronted with something unpleasant. Sure, she had the veneer that all cops wore to protect themselves, but Max knew that beneath Colleen’s lay tenderness.
He would give a lot to know the real Colleen.
Reaching into his nightstand drawer he pulled out the kerchief she gave him the night Hubbard and Trenchcoat worked him over. Though spotted with his blood, the scent of her perfume remained. He held it to his nose, closed his eyes and inhaled, then put the kerchief back in the drawer, wishing she were beside him. Someone warm to share his feelings with. Someone to hold. Someone to talk to.
He thought of the unholy parade of lifeless bodies that had become his work; some dismembered, some old and rotting, most dead from lunatic violence. The concept of tenderness in a world of bloody, impersonal police procedure seemed distant and foreign. Could he lower his walls? He wasn't sure he could relate to someone as his real self. Was there anything left of the real Max? Shit, for that matter, who was the real Max?
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, went to his briefcase and dug out O'Grady's phone number and address. 698 East Broadway in South Boston. He picked up the phone and started to call, stopping at the third number. He paced the hotel room until he couldn't stand it any longer, then dressed, grabbed the keys to his rental car and went out.
He found himself driving past South Station heading into South Boston. The streets in Southie were deserted, except for the few lone figures Max saw bundled against the cold, moving furtively through the streets, hands in pockets, heads covered, breaths coming in white plumes. Max wondered where they could possibly be going at this hour.
A few minutes later he turned onto East Broadway. Cars crammed both sides of the street. He drove past block after block of three and four story brick and wooden buildings joined together with little or no space between them. Corner stores, bakeries, pizza shops, funeral parlors, insurance agencies, and apartments all vied for sidewalk access. He smiled at the names on the signs. O'Connor. O'Reilly. Murphy. O'Shaughnessy. Businesses had most of the frontage, but an occasional apartment hallway had steps leading up off the street, two and three floors above the businesses.
698 East Broadway had a small apartment doorway wedged between the O'Hara Brother's funeral parlor and Sullivan's Insurance agency. Max squeezed into a parking spot, then stepped into the cold pre-dawn darkness and hustled across the street. He looked up at the building a moment before climbing the wooden stairs.
The mailbox and doorbell with O'Grady's name told him she lived on the third floor. Max stared at the name, wanting to ring the doorbell, then wondered what he would say.
“Hi Colleen. What am I doing here at this hour? See, I'm lonely as hell and I wanted some company. Someone to talk to. Aside from being the only person I really know in this town, I can't stop thinking about you.”
He went back to his car, turned the heat on low, slouched back in his seat and gazed up at the third floor apartment wondering what she looked like sleeping.
The wind gusted, blowing a few scraps of trash up the empty street. Upstairs in that apartment slept a caring person who deserved to be loved. How many other women had been robbed of the chance to love and be loved, their lives literally cut short by a madman with a sickle?
The thought sickened him.
It was up to him to put an end to the madness. He had to stop whoever it was from turning warm living beings into cold lifeless husks.
He looked up at O'Grady's apartment again, wishing he could explain his obsession. His heart felt heavy. The weight and responsibility of the lives that might or might not continue because of his actions seemed to push him down further into the seat.
Sighing, Max closed his eyes and dozed.