Part 4

Val lay in bed for hours after waking from her dream, reality splashing her face like the nasty weather pounding the window of her darkened bedroom. Part of her wanted to go back to sleep, to resume that amazing fantasy. But she couldn’t command that dream to return. And would she, if she could? It felt so good while it lasted, but now the prospect of being touched by a man once again brought only fear and revulsion.

Besides, she couldn’t have Gil. He and Jessica weren’t engaged, but they still had something going. Plus, he’d made it clear: she was too young for him. And he was her partner. Or was he? No. He had to leave the force. Jessica told her so. The doctors had ordered it. But maybe Jessica had gotten that wrong, too.

Val showered for eons and would have stayed longer had she not remembered that Beth and Josh needed the bathroom soon, and hot water, and what the hell was she doing up at 7:00 a.m., anyway? After pulling on a pair of jeans, she yanked them off and changed into nicer slacks, a real blouse, and one-inch heels, the tallest she had. She even put on makeup.

She took herself out to breakfast at The Claytown Café, ignoring Pinkie’s crazy chatter, nursing free coffee refills long after her toast had gotten cold. The café filled with customers until a line formed, waiting for tables to empty. But Val remained rooted in her chair by the door, needing even more caffeine, to make up for the sleep the night had denied her. Visiting hours at the hospital opened at 10. She had time.

The queue of shivering customers-in-waiting grew, with people standing in small groups between tables to get out of the icy rain. A young couple chatted while surfing on their phones, their voices cutting through the clatter.

“They shouldn‘t let gangs off the hook like that,” the woman said, brushing black curls away from her face. “Cops who do that are criminals themselves, if you ask me.”

“What’s the difference?” the man with her asked, stuffing his free hand inside the woman’s coat. From her furtive, evasive movements, he wasn’t just warming his hand in there. Ew. “The gangs will kill each other off, anyway. The sooner the better.”

The woman wriggled away from him, to Val’s relief. “That’s so sick. Besides, they don’t just kill each other. What if they hurt someone we know? What if it’s one of us?”

“They probably had guns, and God knows what else,” the woman said. “And that cop just let them walk!”

That did it. Val could sit still no longer. She tapped the woman’s arm. “Excuse me. What is that you’re reading?”

The woman blinked at Val, as if she hadn’t noticed her before. She showed Val her phone. “It’s this crime blog I’m hooked on. This guy’s got the inside scoop in the police department. Amazing stuff. It’s totally going viral right now.”

“Half of it’s crap,” the man said with a laugh. “I don’t believe most of it.”

Just as she suspected. Paul fucking Peterson. She scanned to the post’s concluding paragraphs:

The officer in question, oddly enough, inherited her job rather than earned it, trading on the legacy of her forebears—true heroes, who died while in the City’s service.

Her rash, irresponsible behavior has made her a pariah of the Clayton P.D. Already one of her partners fights for his life in a hospital bed. Unsurprisingly, none of the other officers on the force will serve with her.

Clearly, the officer is not fit for the job. Fire her! Better yet, let the gangs have her!

- ClaytonLifer

She’s impulsive and dangerous, a threat to public safety, and a disappointment to her family’s legacy. This is why legacy hires should be banned.

- CopStalker79

She’s a menace!

- JQCitizen

“I think it’s great,” the woman said, but her smile faded when her eyes met Val’s. “I take it you don’t agree.”

A thousand pointed remarks came to mind, but Val swallowed them all. “Let’s just say, I agree with your boyfriend.” She threw cash on the table and stood to leave.

“I hope you’re not leaving because of us,” the woman said, her tone belying her words.

“No,” Val said. “That officer that was shot? Friend of mine. I’m going to visit him in the hospital.”

“That’s awesome,” the woman said. “Cops like that guy are heroes. Tell him I said so, okay?”

Val frowned at the woman, a swirl of emotions battling for control. In a hoarse voice, she said, “I’ll do that.” She pushed her way out of the restaurant.

Val sweated off her frustration, and the extra calories from her carb-loaded breakfast, with a vigorous workout at the department’s aging but under-utilized gym. She spent extra time on the rowing machine, facing away from the room while wearing noise-canceling headphones and pumping up her pace with Jimmy Eat World, Linkin Park, and Green Day. A perfect morning.

Val had just finished her third set of two hundred reps when, despite the headphones, someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned to glare at the unwelcome intruder and prepared some choice leave-me-the-hell-alone invective, but the sweaty face greeting her reversed her grimace into a smile.

“Shannon and I are going for a run,” Brenda Petroni said. “Care to join?”

Despite the rubbery state of her legs, she agreed, and minutes later the three women jogged abreast on the pedestrian trail overlooking the Torrington River. At first their slow clip frustrated Val, but after the second mile, her prior workout caught up with her, and she struggled to keep pace. Their breaths puffed out in white clouds as they chatted. Or, in Val’s case, mostly listened.

“Come on, keep up,” Shannon teased her another half-mile into the run. “Weren’t you a track star at UConn?”

“That was...an entire...year ago,” Val said between gulps of air. “Working with Pops...all we do is drive. I gained five pounds... in less than a week. All on my butt.”

“Welcome to the club,” Shannon said. She didn’t struggle to breathe one bit.

“Oh, quit your bellyaching, both of ya,” Brenda said, panting, and gestured at her own thick torso. “The two of you together couldn’t fill a doll’s dress. Besides, aren’t you done with Pops?”

“We’ll see,” Val said. “I don’t have a new partner yet. Are either of you free?”

“Love to help, but not if it means working night shift,” Shannon said. “My husband would kill me.”

“The old guard won’t pair up two women, regardless,” Brenda said. She slowed to a walk, and the others did too. “They think we need a man to ‘protect’ us. We’re so small and frail, you know?” She spat on the sidewalk. “If only they knew.”

“It’s ridiculous, especially in your case,” Shannon said. “Aren’t you a black belt in jiu jitsu? And a great shot with a firearm. You’re more likely to save their ass than the other way around.”

“Lieutenant Gibson never gave me the impression that he thinks that way,” Val said. “Nor Travis.”

“Yeah, but Gibson thinks—probably correctly—that there’s more to gain by having men and women partner up,” Brenda said. “Teach the guys like Pops how to act around us.”

“The problem is, you started with one of the best,” Shannon said. “Frank, my first partner, was more worried about retirement than doing the work required to earn this week’s pay. And the humming! Constant frigging humming!”

Brenda wagged her head and led them to a park bench. “My first partner, who shall remain nameless, refused to respond first to any crime scene,” she said. “The biggest risk he’d take is chasing pickpockets, blasting his siren at street fights, and following up on petty theft not worth filing the paperwork over. I almost quit after a week.”

“I don’t expect to get someone as great as Gil,” Val said, sitting between them on the bench. “Just give me a guy who doesn’t pick at his teeth and fart in the car all the time. And one who gets out of the damned cruiser once in a while.”

Brenda laughed. “As a rookie, you’re going to get a senior cop—guys at least my age. In our day, the Academy taught old-school policing. That’s what they know.”

“Uncle Val gave me a different impression,” Val said. “All the cops he worked with seemed so diligent and courageous.”

For a few moments, they sat in silence, and Val‘s companions exchanged guilty glances. “What’s up?” Val asked. “What are you not telling me?”

“Well,” Brenda said, taking a deep breath, “thanks to Pops and that idiot blogger Peterson, the whispers among the guys around the water cooler are that you’re a loose cannon. It’s bullshit,” she added, “and when I’ve pressed them for details, they tell me things they praise their male counterparts for. But in a woman, to the good old boys, it comes across as rash and dangerous, because of that ‘we have to protect her’ mentality.”

“What a crock!” Val jumped up from the bench and paced the sidewalk, hands folded behind her. “Why do they think I became a cop? To answer phones and type reports while they chase the bad guys? Or, like Pops, sit in the car and eat donuts? Should we just wait for the rapists and gang members to enter twelve-step programs?”

Val’s own wry smile faded. “I wish I could laugh about it. Lately, I’ve been wondering...maybe I’m not cut out for police work.”

Brenda stood and held Val by the arms. “I know you’re going through a rough patch,” she said. “We all go through it. But please don’t give up. We need you in Clayton.”

“I sure don’t feel needed these days,” Val said. “How did you get through times like this?”

“The same way you will,” Brenda said. “Just keep on being the best cop you know how—and Val, you’re a damn good cop—until the situation improves.”

“So, I just wait? Pfft.” Val broke free of Brenda’s loose embrace and stepped away from them. She drew a deep breath, exhaled. “I’ve got a possible Plan B. Can I run it by you?”

Val faced them square-on again. “Jalen Marshall from Hartford is going to propose I work with their team on this Harkins case. Part of a multi-city task force. Think Gibson will go for it?”

“The child rapist guy?” Shannon’s brow furrowed. “Didn’t he run off to New York or somewhere?”

“Marshall thinks he’s still in Western Connecticut,” Val said. “I’m hoping he’s right.”

“To be honest, I doubt Gibson will say yes,” Brenda said. “Harkins is still out of our jurisdiction, and with Gil and Samuels out, we’re already short-handed.”

Val stewed on it a moment, then remembered Ben Peterson’s reluctance. That gave her an idea. “What if, instead of lending me out, we made a temporary trade?” She paced again, rubbing her hands in excitement. “Jalen’s partner is a rookie out of my class in the academy. Kind of an even exchange, at least on paper. Right?”

Shannon grinned. “It’d sell better if we each put in a good word. Come on, Bren. Let’s use our standing with the boss to help Val out. What do you say?”

Brenda smiled and nodded. “I’m in,” she said. “What have we got to lose?”

“I’ll tell you what you can lose,” Val said. “Last one back to the gym buys lunch!” She dashed down the trail, laughing at their howls of protest, then slowed to allow them to catch up. Let them win this one. If they convinced Gibson to say yes, she owed them a lot more than lunch.

Val ran her modified version of Jalen’s plan past Gil over a game of gin rummy on her next visit to the hospital. His reaction lifted her spirits even more than Brenda’s and Shannon’s support did.

“I love it,” he said with a grin. “This is what you’re born to do, Val. Detective work is in your blood. Gin.” He laid out his cards and laughed when Val swore good-naturedly at him. “That’s four beers you owe me.”

“She can run, fight, and shoot, but she can’t count,” Gil said in mock condescension. “Typical athlete.”

Val gave his arm a playful smack and gathered up the cards to reshuffle. “So, do you think Gibson will go along?”

“He might,” Gil said. “I’ll call and urge him to do it sooner rather than later. We need to get this guy, and you’re the one to do it.”

“Gil,” she said, slowing her shuffling, “I can’t tell you how much it means to have your support. I only wish you could be out there with me.”

“I know,” he said, his expression turning sad. “I miss it. But it’s hard to catch crooks when you can’t even walk.”

“Too soon to tell,” he said. “I keep asking, but the doctors don’t have an answer yet.”

An awkward moment of silence passed between them. Every time she looked at him, Val’s subconscious reprised her dream of them flying and making love—so far from any reality she could experience. Yet here they sat, so close to one another, almost touching, sharing stories, talking like old friends...

Except that they weren’t. Old friends shared secrets, confided in one another. They didn’t hold back the most pertinent details of their lives from each other.

“You gonna deal those cards at some point?” he asked. “Or should we save time and just declare me the winner?”

“Brat,” she said with a wry smile. She set the deck down and sat facing him, hands in her lap. “Gil, when you say I’m the one to get Harkins...are you saying that because...well...of my history?”

His face fell into a sad frown. “I said it because you’re tenacious, smart, and motivated as hell,” he said. “Your past may have something to do with that last part, but you were born with the rest. That’s why you’re such a great cop.”

Gil’s eyebrows arched high on his forehead. “Why?” When she didn’t reply, his expression hardened. “They didn’t catch the guy, did they?”

“Shit,” he said in a whisper. “I guess I always assumed that your uncle locked that fucking pig away for life.”

“He gave him a good beating.” Val forced a smile, but it faded. “He wanted to put Milt—that’s the guy who raped me—away in prison, but Uncle Val got killed right after I told him. Mom and Dad didn’t believe me at first, and even after they did, I always thought they blamed me. God knows, I blamed myself.” She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly very cold.

“God, that’s awful.” Gil’s voice shook. “I hope you had someone there who did, who supported you.”

“I didn’t tell anyone else. Not for a long time. Not even my brother. I was...too ashamed...” Her voice broke, and no more words would form.

“Hey, now.” Gil held out his hand to her. Val stared at it. She should accept his gesture of friendship and caring. Let him in a little more.

But her arms stayed wrapped around her own body, frozen. She couldn’t. If she did, that awful feeling would return: the clamminess, the tingling that turns into pain, the numbing that would travel from her fingers to her heart—

“Val, you’ve carried this inside for so long,” he said. “A heavy burden.”

She glanced up—when had she looked away?—and found painful understanding in his eyes, tears burgeoning on the brink of falling onto his cheeks. In that moment she knew he really cared, that it meant more to him than just liking his partner. Val meant something to him. Something more than friends, and something far better than a Brent or even Josh, who only cared about scoring a piece of ass.

The dream came back to her again—this time, not the crazy naked flying and kissing and lovemaking, but rather the sense of safety she felt with him, and confidence, and trust. The emotions that, she realized, did not crash from her dreams into real life. They crossed from real life into the dream. Sentiments that made dreams like that possible.

The tears fell from his eyes, splashed down his cheeks. He didn’t wipe them away. Instead, he let them fall. His hand remained outstretched, toward her. Compelling, but not commanding. Open. Inviting.

Val lifted her hand and moved it toward him. It hovered over his for a moment, then glided into a soft landing. He closed his fingers around hers. She waited for the tingling jolt of electricity to sting her arm, numb her body.

Val got stuck on desk duty for the next several days while Gibson and Travis sorted out their staffing decisions. She and Travis made occasional forays into the field when his schedule permitted, but those reprieves from the cube farm came too far apart for her taste. Every time someone closed the door to Gibson’s office, she suspected they were talking about her. But then another day would pass, and nothing changed.

She spent as much time as she could searching for more clues of Harkins’s whereabouts, but once again, he’d vanished into the wind. Stakeouts at his known haunts such as the Silver Fox, Candy’s house, and Antoinetta and Rosa’s neighborhood turned up dry. He avoided bus terminals, train stations, and airports, while his Impala and Raven’s Jeep remained impounded as evidence. Where had he gone? And how did he get there?

One night, toward the end of her shift, Gibson’s imposing frame cast a shadow over her cube. “All right, Dawes, we’ve decided on your next assignment.” He pulled up a chair and sat close to her, keeping his voice low. “You’re an enigma, Dawes. I mean, on the one hand, you’ve got talent—lots of it. You’re innovative, resourceful, courageous as hell, and tough as nails.” He shook his head in wonder. “And tenacious. Your persistence in going after this Harkins asshole is commendable.”

“And?” she said after an eternity of waiting. “Or should I say, ‘But’? What’s in ‘the other hand’?”

“But,” he said, nodding, “your mistakes sometimes are dumber than dumb. Paying off that gangster, for example? Holy crap on a cracker, Dawes. That shit’s nuts.”

“Meanwhile, half this force thinks you go off half-cocked, risking life and limb over a parking ticket,” he said. “The other half thinks you’re fragile as a champagne glass, and they need to protect you.”

“The men think those things, you mean.” She set her lips in a line, her heart pounding.

“Yes. The men, or most of them. But have you noticed, Dawes? Most of this department is men. I’m trying to change that,” he said, waving off another protest from her, “but progress is slow. I don’t agree with it, nor does Travis. But neither of us can be your partner.” He sat back and looked her in the eye. “You’ve got supporters, too, though. Petroni and O’Reilly, of course, but also Travis, Gil...and me. And, Jalen Marshall.”

Val‘s ears perked up, as did her hopes. They must have spoken to him about the task force. She leaned toward him, straining to hear Gibson’s every word.

“Marshall wants to work with you on an intercity team to track down Richard Harkins,” he said.

She gripped one hand in the other, squirming in her seat. Please, please, say yes!

“He’s offering to ‘trade’ some numb-nuts named Benjamin Peterson for you in the meantime,” he said. “What do you know about him?”

Val cleared her throat. “Ben and I went to Academy together,” she said. “He’s...okay.”

Gibson's face curled up in puzzlement. “Seriously? Word is, you kicked his ass in the martial arts demo, and he’s hated you ever since.”

Her heart fell. Damn it. Working on the task force would have given her work new direction and meaning, but now—

“However, keeping you tied to a desk is a complete waste of your talent. So I’m gonna approve this crazy scheme,” he said with a sigh. “I want you to focus on that case exclusively. Turn over every stone—”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she said, jumping out of her seat. “That’s so great! I can’t wait to get started. Should I work here, or in Hartford, or—”

“Easy, easy,” Gibson said. “The downtown detective squad will take the lead for Clayton, but you’ll work with them, under their supervision. Take good notes, Dawes. This will be a great experience and will mean a lot for your career down the road. And, do me a favor, Dawes?”

Gibson's expression softened, and he patted her shoulder. “Get that son of a bitch!”

Val paced the floor of her apartment, waiting for someone to pick up the phone at Chad’s law office. As a junior associate, he and a dozen other lawyers shared a secretary, and getting through often meant multiple redials. She had her finger an inch from the “End Call” button when a voice answered, “Milbourne Kaplan O’Sullivan, can you hold, please?” Smooth jazz interrupted her reply.

She plopped onto the sofa and rehearsed how she’d break the news to her brother. Perhaps leading with the exciting new assignment, to buy him in, then when he asks her what it means—

“Charles!” the secretary called out without covering the phone. “It’s your sister.”

“Hey, Val,” Chad said a moment later. “Just running between client meetings. I hope you’re not calling to tell me you can’t make it for Christmas. Ali hasn’t stopped talking about you this week.”

Val sighed. “Damn you, Chad,” she said. “Sometimes I wonder why I bother to even call. How did you know?”

“Because you never call with good news,” he said, sending a heavy sigh back to her. “Dammit. Ali will freak.”

Her heart split in half at the idea of disappointing Ali. She curled into a fetal position on the couch. “I got assigned to a new inter-city task force to nab this child molester. It’s a huge opportunity, but it means I don’t get any days off. Please tell Ali, I’m so sorry.”

“Not even Christmas morning?” Chad asked, incredulous. “Or Christmas Eve?”

“I’m on twelve-hour night shifts,” she said, becoming even sadder. “I won’t have time to drive to your house and back on Christmas Day. Believe me, Chad, I would if I could.”

He sighed. “First Dad, now you. What a Christmas this is going to be.” The phone went silent for several moments.

“Well,” he said, “it sounds like a fabulous career break for you. Look, don’t worry. We’ll be fine. You get that guy, and then we’ll celebrate together, okay?”

Val pressed the phone hard against her ear. Chad’s understanding only made her feel worse. “Yeah. Sorry. I really wanted to see you.”

“We could all celebrate Christmas at Dad’s place,” Chad said in a quiet voice.

She bolted off the love seat and paced the room, her brain racing. With Dad? How could he suggest such a thing! Val's heart pounded, occupying the long silence between them. Words, Val. Speak.

“Then Ali could see him, too,” Chad said, filling the awkward silence. “She barely remembers him, and he hasn’t even met Dar yet.”

“You can’t fix this, Chad,” she said. “Dad and me, I mean. It goes deeper than a gift exchange and a round of Christmas carols.”

“I know,” he said, his voice soft, almost inaudible. “But it’s a start.”

“There’s nothing to start. Anyway, doesn’t Kendra have a concert?” She regretted her sharp tone, wished she could take it back.

“Yay, you remembered,” Chad said, his words edged with sarcasm. “So, yeah, we’d have to come the weekend before.”

“Wait, you mean this weekend?” Panic replaced disappointment. “You mean, like, two days from now? No, Chad. Shit! Listen, I haven’t even started Christmas shopping, I’ll be working double shifts, and I—I—I’m not ready!”

“Well,” he said, “it’s our only option. Do you want to see the niece that idolizes you, or not?”

“Chad, that’s not fair—wait a minute.” Suspicion swelled up inside her, piled on top of everything else. “You’d already planned this before I called, hadn’t you?”

A jumble of voices rose on Chad’s end of the line. “I...have to duck into my meeting,” he said. “Let me know what you decide. Okay? Gotta run.” He hung up.

Val sank back onto the sofa, still gripping the phone, her knuckles whitening. Christmas with Dad, in Clayton. If that didn’t give her incentive to catch Harkins, nothing would.

Val’s new assignment began two days later, on Friday, and it meant making adjustments to her work routine. First, she reported to work four hours earlier to better align with the schedules of her new team. Second, it meant working indoors, instead of walking the beat. Third, rather than walking from home to the Liberty Heights station, she had to take the city bus to police headquarters in downtown Clayton.

To make up for the reduced physical activity, she took the stairs to the fifth-floor office. Someone had taped a makeshift sign reading “Intercity Task Force” on the frosted glass panel of a heavy wooden door. Val pushed it open, spotted the familiar-looking detective seated behind a 70s-era gunmetal desk, and grinned. “Shannon! How did you—”

“And you thought I was only lobbying for this task force because of you?” Shannon stood and waved her over. “I saved you a good seat, next to mine. Awesome digs, eh?”

“Are you in charge, then?” Val asked while Shannon gave her a quick tour. “Where’s everybody else?”

“I’m second in command of the unit,” Shannon said. “Detective Grimes and his partner, Woodson, are pursuing some leads. Jalen Marshall has an equal-sized team in Hartford, and there’s another one in New Haven. Now, how familiar are you with the statewide database?”

“Pretty well, thanks to a recent overdose of desk duty,” Val said. “Whatcha got?”

Val dove in to her assignment, creating a map of alleged Harkins sightings. She developed a color-coding system of high, medium, and low-likelihood sightings, and within a few hours had put together a rough itinerary of his recent travels.

“Very impressive!” Shannon said to her when Val finished. They spread the map out over a long black meeting room table. “What do you make of it?”

“Harkins seems to be drifting south on smaller state and county highways along the western edge of the state,” Val said. “After he left Warren, he appears to have hidden out in Kent a few days, then New Milford, Waterbury, Southbury, and Newtown.”

“He does plenty of damage, though,” Val said. “Reported rape in Warren. Likely assault in New Milford. Potential stolen car in Waterbury, abandoned in Southbury, where he robbed a convenience store—and assaulted another teenage girl. He’s a one-man crime wave!”

“We need to project where he’s heading next and alert the locals,” Shannon said. “And if I were to guess, I’d say his next stop is Danbury.”

Val froze, staring at the map. Shannon was right. Of the major towns in southwest Connecticut, Danbury sat next in line along Harkins’ current trajectory.

Richard Harkins sipped his coffee in the corner booth of a local egg-and-pancake joint he found in the suburbs on his way to Danbury. It looked like a worn-down Denny’s, with half of the harsh fluorescent lighting, double the food portions, and a lot less customer traffic. Perfect: he avoided the big chains, wary of their friendly relations with state and local police, and their internal networks that shared warnings of suspicious-looking types like him.

Today, he did look suspicious. He hadn’t showered in two days, and he still had the stench of that ugly red-haired bitch from Southbury on him. Thank God for the crushing aromas of bacon and burnt coffee permeating the air.

A young family of four, if you count their loud-mouthed baby who never stopped crying, occupied a table to his right. Their charming little girl almost made up for how insufferable the rest of them were. The mom, a real looker in her late twenties with auburn hair and perfect skin, spoke in soft, melodious tones in a failed attempt to make the little brats behave. She tried to discreetly breast-feed the baby, but Harkins knew what she was doing. Lucky brat.

“Dar’s had enough,” she said to her husband, a brown-haired dork with glasses. “He needs changing.”

“I’ll do it. Ooh, he is stinky,” the dork said, taking the baby from her. Baby poop odor drifted over to Harkins’s booth. Why, oh why, couldn’t they have changed him first?

“Let’s go, little guy.” Dorky Daddy carried the baby into the men’s room.

The little girl tugged on her mother’s arm. “Mommy, can I ride with you the rest of the way?” she asked. “I want to play the license plate game.”

Val Dawes! That woman cop that had almost nailed his ass in Clayton—twice. And “Auntie.” An opportunity, perhaps, for revenge.

“Dar’s done feeding, so I suppose it’s all right,” the woman, smiling. “We’ll have some girl time on the way to Clayton.”

Clayton. Wrong direction, but it had its advantages. Familiar territory, and plenty of young meat there. Antoinetta, Raven’s kid, and, more important, the chance to pay back the Dawes family for some long-festering wounds. Maybe end this battle, once and for all.

“Let's trade cars,” the man said, reappearing with a much fresher-smelling baby. On closer inspection, he bore a familial resemblance to the woman cop. “You take the Volvo, I’ll drive the CRV. That way we don’t have to switch the kids’ car seats. Come on, let’s get going.”

Harkins ducked his head as they left the restaurant. Sure enough, they loaded up into two separate cars, parked close to the entrance. He set his coffee down, but a middle-aged man dressed in black slacks, a short-sleeved white shirt, and a name badge blocked his exit from the booth. The stupid waiter.

“Sorry,” the waiter said, scooting out of his way and smiling behind his bushy, salt-and-pepper mustache. “Was everything to your liking?”

“Great.” The waiter slapped his bill onto the table. “Where are you headed?”

He decided. Smiled. “Jersey Shore.” No longer true, but whatever. He glanced out the window. The parents had loaded the kids into the cars, turned on their engines. He fidgeted in his seat. He had to get rid of this guy.

“This time of year? You must be a glutton for punishment.” The waiter smiled and took away his empty plate.

“You could say that. I’m visiting family.” Another quick peek. The Volvo, driven by the pretty wife, inched backwards out of the parking space.

“Will you need a refill on the coffee?” the waiter said. Fucking jerk. Would. Not. Leave.

“No, no. All done.” The Volvo finished pulling out, then waited for the Honda.

“I can take that whenever you’re ready.” The waiter smiled again. The tips of his mustache hairs disappeared inside the guy’s mouth. Gross.

“Good to go.” Harkins slipped a precious ten-dollar bill onto his check and skidded out of the booth. “Keep the change.” Which, after his breakfast-all-day-with-unlimited-coffee plus tax, amounted to about a dollar. Last of the big-time spenders.

He made it outside just in time to see the Honda exit onto the highway. The Volvo pulled forward into the parking lot exit, then stalled. It made a whirring sound, that of an engine trying to start but not turning over. It happened again, then a third time, before the headlights went out.

Harkins smiled. What incredible luck. He walked over to the Volvo and tapped on the driver’s window. The woman lowered it halfway.

“It won’t start,” she said. “So weird. It’s never done this before.”

He nodded, put on the all-knowing face of the Guy Who Can Fix Things, like all men do in this situation. “Pop the hood, let me see what’s up,” he said.

The hood clanked up an inch. Harkins pressed the release and propped up the hood. Pretended to check things—touching this, wiggling that. Returned to her window, rubbing his hands as if cleaning them off. “Try it again," he said. She did, producing the same whiny sound as before, with no success. As expected, since he’d loosened the battery cable even more. “I think it’s your starter,” he said, “or your alternator.”

“It’s not going anywhere tonight,” he said. “Put it in neutral and I’ll push you out of the way here.”

He got her into a parking spot, taking advantage of the downward slope of the ramp. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?” he asked.

“I’ll just call my husband. Thank you.” She pulled her cell phone out of her purse.

Harkins smiled. “I’ll wait, just in case.” He smiled at the little girl in back, gazing at him with gigantic brown eyes, with auburn hair like her mother. She said nothing. Just scowled at him.

A gentle tune began playing. The woman cursed and picked up a second cell phone from the console next to her. “Dammit, Chad!” She hung up her own phone, and the tune stopped. “My husband left his cell phone! It’s his car, you see. Now I have no way to reach him. Dammit!”

The little girl made a face, her mouth shaped in an “O.” She wagged her finger at her mother. “Mommy said a bad word.”

The woman laughed. “Yes, I did, Ali. I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “What am I going to do?”

Harkins took a moment, as if uncertain of the offer he’d been dying to make since the Volvo’s engine first choked out. “Did I hear you say you’re going to Clayton?” he asked.

“Well,” Harkins said, “I’ll understand if you don’t want to, but I’m heading to Clayton, and I have plenty of room.” He gestured toward a Toyota RAV-4 he’d come to possess three hours before, courtesy of a trusting and now-unconscious plumber in Newtown. By now, the cops would be looking for it, though. Still, he needed to play this through. He clicked the fob, and the car’s lights blinked.

Harkins shrugged. Perfect. “Sure,” he said. “Of course, this time of night around here, it could take them a while. An hour or two, if you’re lucky.”

The woman paused with her phone in hand, as if contemplating the offer again. “Yeah, that’s okay,” she said. “My husband will figure out that I’m not behind him and come back for me.” She tried the engine again. Nothing.

She popped it open. He strolled to the front and re-tightened the battery cable as best he could. “Give it another shot,” he said.

Harkins lowered the hood, circled around to the passenger’s side, tapped on the window, held up an index finger. She lowered the window, a quizzical expression on her face. He reached in, unlocked the door, and climbed in.

Harkins grabbed the cell phone from her hand, and her husband’s off the center console, and shoved them in his pocket. Then he pointed his .44 at her and said with a sneer, “Drive, Mrs. Dawes.”

The woman’s hands shook on the wheel, her bright green eyes welling with tears. “Please, mister,” she said. “You can have the car, my money, anything. Just leave my daughter alone!”

“I don’t want your piece of shit car!” He seized her purse and emptied its contents onto the floor. “But I’ll take your cash. How much you got in here?”

“Shut the hell up!” he yelled back, raising an open hand, threatening to slap her. The girl cowered and stopped screaming. “Now drive, bitch!” Harkins waved the gun at the woman. “Like you mean it!”

She put the car in gear with shaking hands, then inched it forward. Her left hand drifted to the center of the steering wheel.

Harkins smashed the back of her hand with the butt of the gun, and she screamed in pain. “Touch that horn again and your daughter’s a fucking orphan,” he shouted. “Now, for the last time, drive!”

Her jaw quivered, and tears ran down her cheeks, but she placed both hands on the rim of the wheel and pulled forward to the exit. “W—where to?” she asked.

“Clayton, of course,” he said, disgusted. “Weren’t you listening?” Stupid bitch. The pretty ones always were.

The little girl in back gasped and covered her mouth. “Uh-oh,” she said. “You said a naughty word. You’re going to get in trouble!”

Harkins twisted in his seat, raising his hand again to strike. “If you don’t shut your fucking mouth—”

“Leave her alone!” The mom glared at him a moment, taking deep breaths. “She’s only five years old. And she doesn’t need to hear language like—ow!”

Harkins’ hand stung from the slap, but it shut her up. “One more word, and I’ll cut out your fucking tongue!” He spun back to the little girl. “That goes for you, too!”

The girl glowered at him, venom in her eyes, but she kept quiet. He faced front again and lowered the passenger-side sun visor so he could watch her in the mirror. She stuck her tongue out at him. He laughed. Kid had spunk.

A light rain sprinkled on the windshield, mixed with wet snow. They drove for a half hour, the wipers keeping a steady rhythm above the engine and highway noise. Harkins used one of the woman’s phones to send a text message to a number he recalled from muscle memory. The reply pissed him off: Ninguna manera. Loosely translated, No Fucking Way.

Val grabbed a quick dinner of greasy takeout and reported back to headquarters in time to greet Jalen Marshall exiting a cruiser driven by Ben Peterson. Peterson glared at her and burned rubber in his haste to depart.

“Ben wanted no part of this deal,” Jalen said, “and blames you instead of me for being ‘stuck in Clayton,’ as he puts it.”

They rode the elevator this time, which took nearly as long as the stairs. Jalen gave her as much space as humanly possible in the tight quarters.

“Great work on tracking Harkins’s trail,” Jalen said once they’d rejoined Shannon in the office. “Any new reports since I left Hartford?”

“Possible sighting in a greasy spoon outside Danbury,” Val said. “Unconfirmed. Almost a half hour ago. Nothing since.”

“We’re not sure which direction he went from there, either,” Shannon said. “But get this: Danbury P.D. picked up a stolen Toyota at the scene, reported missing in Newtown. So we think he’s continuing southwest, toward New York.”

“I just hope he doesn’t stay in Danbury.” Val sat on the edge of her desk. “I have family there.”

“There are families everywhere,” Jalen said, grimacing. “I don’t want him near any of them.”

“Detective?” A young plainclothes officer, Dion Woodson, held a phone out to Shannon. “Call for you. Says it’s urgent.”

Shannon grabbed the phone and a pen, scribbling notes on a pad on her desk. “O’Reilly. Who’s this? Oh, hello, Seňora. What’ve you got?...I see. When was this? What's the number?...Thank you. And yours? Hello?” She swore and hung up, then smiled. “Good news. Harkins is heading our way.”

“To Clayton?” Val jumped up and pressed closer to Shannon. “How do we know?”

“Antoinetta’s Mom?” Val said. When Shannon nodded, Val explained to Jalen, “She was one of his victims here—the one where Samuels got shot.”

“Harkins got in touch with her tonight, looking for a place to crash,” Shannon said. “We have the number of the phone he used.”

“We should be able to trace it and track his whereabouts,” Jalen said. “That’s a huge break for us!”

“I’ll do it!” Val took the notepad from Shannon to copy the number. Before writing a single digit, her whole body went numb. In a whisper, she asked nobody in particular, “Why the hell is Harkins using my brother’s cell phone?”

Harkins eyed the woman, who kept surprisingly calm and drove in the right lane at a few miles under the speed limit. Her delicate face had no scars, no wrinkles, no blemishes except where tears had streaked her light makeup. He imagined her slender form naked, bending to his will. Doing nasty, wonderful things to please him. Pretending pain, but she’d love it, secretly craving more. They all did.

“Mommy,” the girl said, interrupting his daydream, “I have to go potty.”

“Hold on, honey,” the woman said. “We’ll find a bathroom for you soon.”

“Piss on the seat,” Harkins said. No way he‘d let them stop. Too risky. He turned back to the girl, remembered her parents addressing her in the restaurant. “Your name is Ali, right? Is that short for Alice?”

“I’m a good listener,” he said with a harsh laugh. He stroked her thigh. “So, what’s your name, sweetness?”

She slapped his hand off. He grabbed her leg again, gripped it tight. “Keep your mitts on the wheel, bitch!”

Something thumped the back of his head. Multiple times. Harkins swung an arm back, blocking a Dr. Seuss book from smacking his skull again. He snatched the book, lowered the window, and threw The Cat in The Hat onto the wet roadway.

“Now it’s nobody’s.” He powered the window back up, leaned over the seat and grabbed her wrists, shaking her. “If you so much as move one inch for the rest of this ride—”

The car swerved, tires screeching. Harkins slammed against the passenger side door. His head hit the glass, and he saw stars for a moment. The car veered again a few times, but he braced himself and grabbed the steering wheel with one hand, the woman’s hair with the other. “Do that again and you spend the rest of your short life in the trunk!”

The woman cowered and slowed the car, but kept driving. After several seconds, she nodded, tears flowing again. He let go and relaxed into his seat. Once again, the car went quiet.

Rage boiled inside Harkins. He pulled out his gun, spun to face the back seat again. “You think so?” he shouted. “Is that what you think will happen?”

“Oh, did I?” Amusement replaced some of his anger. The girl had chutzpah. “What law is that?”

“You stole my book,” she said, matter of fact. “And you didn’t buckle your seat belt. You can go to jail for that.”

“Is that so?” Harkins laughed and lowered the gun. “Well, Ali, guess what? You only go to jail if you get caught. And I’m not.”

“Be quiet, Ali,” the woman said. “He asked us not to talk. We don’t want to make him mad, do we?”

“That’s right,” Harkins said. “You sure don’t.” He grabbed the woman’s thigh again. “Remember that.”

The kid shut up, finally, thank God. The woman glanced at him, her lip quivering, but said nothing, and let his hand remain on her leg this time. He slid it into her crotch, squeezed, then continued up her torso and cupped her breast.

“As in, dangerous,” she said. On cue, a car passed way too close on the left, its horn blaring.

“We may need to pull over, then,” he said, “to relieve the tension.” Harkins laughed and dropped his hand back to her leg. More meat there. Her boobs were too tiny.

“You wouldn’t...” She licked her lips, not looking at him. “Not with her right here. You couldn’t.”

“That’s disgusting!” She glared at him. “You pig. I know you’re just trying to get a rise out of me. Well, it worked. Good for you. Okay? Now, we’re ten minutes from Clayton—”

“Do what I tell you!” Harkins poked her in the ribs with the .44. “Now, answer me this time: what’s your fucking name? And don’t lie!”

“Well, Kendra,” he said, “we’re going to have ourselves a little party. And you’re going to like it.”

Val’s first instinct was to call Chad’s cell, but Jalen warned her off. “Harkins might turn the phone off, and then we can’t trace it,” he said. “Worse, we’d tip him off that we’re on his trail. We’re better off staying quiet.”

Shannon obtained a data dump from the local cell towers and requested access to the state’s Stingray tracking system, but the usual bureaucracy intervened, forcing them to wait. “It’s amazing we ever catch crooks,” Val complained after Shannon shared that unfortunate news.

“Patience,” Shannon said. “Harkins will make a mistake, and when he does, we’ll be ready.”

Val's cell phone rang, and the Caller ID made her head go numb. “It’s my father,” she said. “He hasn’t called me since I graduated high school.”

“Chad!” Val crossed to a freestanding whiteboard and uncapped a dry erase marker. “Where are you? What happened to your phone?”

“What? How? When?” Heart pounding, she scribbled “Wife & daughter missing” on the whiteboard.

“We got separated after we stopped for dinner,” Chad said, worry etched in his voice. “I kept expecting her to catch up with me on the highway, but she never did. I’ve waited at Dad’s for a half hour, but she hasn’t shown up. She’s not answering her phone, either. This isn’t like her, Val. I’m worried.”

“Where did you last see your phone?” Val asked, jotting notes on the whiteboard. Nervousness grew inside her. The timing of Harkins having his phone and Kendra going missing struck her as much more than coincidental.

“Never mind my damned phone! Help me find her. What should I do?” His voice climbed a register above his usual tenor, almost a shriek at the end.

“She’s probably broken down somewhere on the highway,” Val said to reassure him. “I’m sure she called Triple-A.”

“Don’t do that,” Val said. “Give me the license plate number. I’ll ask the highway patrol to look for her.” After writing down the digits, she performed a quick search of the state trooper’s online logs. Nothing.

“Chad, listen. Stay put at Dad’s in case she calls the landline. Now, don’t panic, but a criminal we’re tracking on I-84 is using your phone. He must have found it or stolen it from you when you stopped for dinner. Give me the whens, whats, and wheres of that and we’ll—”

“Do you think this has something to do with Kendra and Ali going missing?” Chad asked, his worry escalating into panic. “Oh, shit, Val, I just realized. He didn’t steal it or find it. I left it in the charger in the Volvo! He has Kendra and Ali!”

“We don’t know that,” Val said, scribbling notes for Shannon and Jalen. But in her heart, she agreed with him. “Listen. Can you go online at Dad’s and trace your phone?”

“If I can remember my password,” he said, calming. “Hold on.” Tapping noises and occasional beeps drifted in over the phone. “Well, that’s weird.”

“According to this,” Chad said, “my phone is right here in Clayton. Downtown, at the old public housing complex—Torrington Meadows. I thought that place had shut down?”

Val scribbled the tenement’s name on the board. “I’m just a few blocks from there,” she said. “We’ll check it out. Stand by the phone!”

Val took the stairs while Jalen and Woodson waited for the elevator. Reaching the lobby about a minute later, she glanced at the elevator’s indicator lights. Sure enough, they hadn’t yet started their descent. Protocol demanded that she wait.

She dashed outside and ran at top speed toward the old apartment building, abandoned two decades before after several failed health inspections. Numerous proposals to demolish and redevelop Torrington Meadows had foundered under the weight of extraordinary debt, grand-standing politics, and regulatory red tape. Instead, the site had become a hotbed of gang and drug activity, crumbling inside a wire-link fence that kept out anyone without a death wish, or a way of delivering on one.

A patrol car pulled up as she arrived. The passenger side door opened, and Rico Lopez climbed out. “You coming, Pops?” he called into the vehicle.

Val pulled up to a stop next to Rico in time to hear the end of Alex’s response. “...To secure the perimeter,” he said. “We can do that from here and stay in the loop over the radio.”

“Pops,” Rico said, “the guy’s not going to come out and knock on our door.” He rolled his eyes and gave Val a “What can we do?” look.

“Never mind him,” Val said. “What’s the latest? Have they tracked the phone?”

“My brother’s,” Val said. “Long story.” She gazed up at the six-story building, occupying the entire city block. She guessed it once housed five or six hundred people. An interior search would take hours, if not days.

Jalen and Woodson pulled up in a cruiser moments later. “Another half-dozen units should be here within the next five minutes,” Jalen said. “We can wait him out, if need be.”

“And let him rape my sister-in-law? And, God forbid—” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. She fumed. No way she would let anything happen to Ali.

“We’re not even sure he’s here,” Jalen said. “If he is, he’s armed and dangerous. We need a plan—and running in headlong doesn’t count.”

With no better suggestion at hand, Val agreed. She paced around the perimeter of the building while additional cruisers filed in and took their positions. After turning the third corner, she spotted the familiar face of an African American kid. She approached him, waving an open palm in the air.

“Have you been out here long?” she asked in a friendly tone and accepted his high-five.

Dog pointed at the building. “About twenty minutes ago, in a green car. One of those boxy Euro jobs the white ladies in the burbs drive.”

“A Volvo?” Tension danced in her voice. “Was he alone, or did he have anyone with him?”

“Had a white woman and a little girl with him,” Dog said. “Funny, man. The little chick, she like, five? And she’s wearing a cop uniform. I near to died laughing.”

“Did they go inside? Where’s the car now?” Val knew she shouldn’t pepper him with too many questions at once, but the emotion of the moment got the better of her.

“They parked in that lot there.” Dog pointed to a surface lot across the street. “See that hole in the fence on the end? That‘s where they went in. Dude was yelling at them and shit—uh, sorry. Stuff. Like he was mad at ’em.”

“Would you be able to stay here for a bit?” Val asked, her voice cracking with excitement. When he made a face, she pulled out her wallet. “I’ll pay you. A dollar a minute. Ten bucks now, ten more in twenty minutes. All you have to do is watch this side of the building until our other units arrive. If he comes out again, you come around front and let me know which way he goes. Deal?” She waved a ten at him.

Dog glanced at the bill with a skeptical eye. “Did you ever pay Pope the five hundred?” he asked.

“Dog, I’m paying you half up front,” she said, exasperated. “Come on, you owe me. Remember that time I could’ve busted you? Please?”

He shrugged and snapped the money out of her fingers. “Aright. But I gotta let Pope know.” He tapped a message on his cell phone and gave her a thumbs-up.

She ran around to the front and found Jalen, chatting with Pops and Lopez. “One of the Disciples saw him going inside,” she said in a rush. “We can guard the exits, then sweep the building bottom to top until we find him. But we’ve got to get moving, before he hurts either of them!”

Pops shook his head. “Too risky. He’s armed, and if he chose this spot, it means he knows it better than we do. He could escape, ambush us, or for all we know, finish his business long before we ever spot him. I suggest we wait for reinforcements.”

Val shook her head in disgust, unable to form words. Lopez snorted and spat in the dirt, but said nothing.

Jalen scowled. “Pops, even for you, that’s too conservative,” he said. “We’ve got enough manpower—er, people here to stop him before he hurts someone else. I say we go in.”

“You’re out of your jurisdiction,” Pops said. “As the ranking officer on the scene, I say we wait.”

A squad car pulled up with two more uniforms inside. Brenda Petroni and a thirty-something male cop hustled out to join them.

Val summarized her strategy to Brenda as another car arrived with two more officers, including Ben Peterson.

“I’ll take Dawes up the back way,” Jalen said. Val nodded and released the snap on her holster.

“Rico and I will take the front,” Brenda said. “We’ll do the odd floors, you take evens. Pops, you take charge of the scene here and cover the exits. Let’s sweep this place clean!”

Harkins locked the deadbolt of the disgustingly dirty, abandoned apartment and forced his captives to the rear bedroom. He pushed the woman into the corner and shoved the girl on top of her. The brat hadn’t stopped crying since they’d parked the car, and she’d lost the little-girl charm she’d shown earlier in the evening. Now the woman was bawling, too.

“Quit your belly-aching!” Harkins raised his hand, threatening to strike them. “You’re killing my buzz.” He chuckled at that notion. Nothing could kill this buzz.

“My auntie’s going to come here and shoot you,” the brat said, sitting up. “You’ll be sorry because you’ll be dead—Ow!” His slap dropped her back to a lying position on the filthy carpet, crying louder than ever.

“Don’t touch her!” the woman said, seething. She gathered her daughter in her arms and kissed her head. “She’s just a girl. Don’t you have any decency?”

“I’m much more than decent,” Harkins said with a sneer. “I’m fucking amazing. Literally.” He laughed. “Which you’re about to find out.”

“Shut up!” He raised his hand again, and the girl cowered into her mother’s protective arms, crying again. The kid would make him crazy with that bawling. “Don’t you move,” he said, jerking his hand as if to hit them. “You so much as budge and I’ll really give you something to cry about.”

He backed out of the room, watching them, then rushed to the living room, where he found an old sweater and a free-standing lamp. He cut the cord with his pocket knife and returned to the bedroom. The girl and her mom hadn’t moved.

“I said let the kid up!” Harkins whipped the woman’s legs with the cord, and she yelped in pain. He grabbed the girl by the arm, yanking her to her feet. He cut off a section of the sweater, shoved it into the girl’s mouth, and tied another piece tight around her face. “Say your name,” he ordered her.

“Good. Now hold still.” He tied her hands behind her back with the sweater’s sleeves, then pushed her onto her butt against the wall. He turned to the woman, seated against an adjacent wall. “Hands behind your back.”

Harkins swatted her with an open palm, knocking her down. He sat on top of her, turned her face-down, and grabbed her arms. She bucked and wiggled, but he overpowered her. He bound her wrists with the lamp cord and tested to make sure she couldn’t get free. Then yanked her slacks to her knees.

He swatted her again. “Shut the hell up.” She continued crying, but at least she stopped her damned yapping. He stood, unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants. “It’s time,” he said, “to give your daughter a lesson on the birds and the bees.”

The woman rolled away from him, but she ran into the wall, and he cornered her there, straddling her and tearing at her clothes. Tiny bound fists pecked at his back. He turned, grabbed the brat by the collar, and threw her to the floor. “Stay there!” he yelled at her. Dammit. He should have tied her feet.

But Ali listened to her mother, not to him. She scooted toward the door. Harkins swore and ran after her, catching her in the living room. He grabbed her by the hair, eliciting a high-pitched howl, and dragged her back toward the bedroom. He needed to find something to tie her up better. A peek into the bathroom and spare bedroom yielded nothing.

Siren sounds filtered in, getting louder. He dragged the girl to the window. Police cars surrounded the building, with uniformed cops guarding every exit. Time to move.

“Looks like your auntie’s friends are here, kid,” he said. He dragged her back to the living room and out the door, leaving it ajar. Voices and loud footsteps echoed from the stairway. They sounded close. So much for escape.

Plan C. He kicked open the door to the apartment across the hall and pulled the kid inside. He closed the door, readying his .44.

When Val and Jalen rounded the corner of the crumbling tenement, the street was empty, save for a pair of officers crouched beside their cruiser. Dog was gone, probably scared away by the police presence. Val shrugged it off and led Jalen to the gap in the fence Dog had pointed out earlier. Long threads of fabric blew like banners in the wind from the jagged wires around the opening.

“Those look fresh,” Jalen said. “Looks like your gang friend had it right.”

They bent the wires back further so they could squeeze through without ripping their clothes and ran to the rear entrance. The thick metal door lay ajar, its handle smashed and hanging loose. The inside reeked of urine, smoke, and rot. Brenda’s voice echoed in the distance, along with heavy footsteps. Val and Jalen dashed up the stairs to the second floor.

“We go door by door,” Jalen said. “You cover me.” Val crouched by the first apartment’s entry, and Jalen pounded on the door. “Police! Open up!” After ten seconds of silence, he kicked the handle off. The door swung open.

“They don’t build them like they used to,” Jalen said, deadpan. They entered and spread through the apartment, completing the search in seconds.

“One down, two hundred to go,” Val said when they met again at the entrance. They repeated the process at each apartment, every time coming up empty.

“Oh-for-thirty,” Jalen said after they’d searched the last apartment on the floor. “I hear Petroni and Lopez upstairs. Let’s head up to four.”

Val reached the top a good ten steps ahead of Jalen, who, unlike her, finished the climb out of breath and sweating. “You gonna be all right?” she asked him.

He nodded, but held up a hand. “Wait. A. Sec.” He panted, bent over at the waist.

“So’s mine,” he said. “From a heart attack. Wait ten seconds.” True to his word, he calmed his breathing in a few quick beats and they turned the corner into the hallway, just after hearing a door slam.

“Sounded like it came from down the hall,” Jalen said in a whisper, pointing ahead of them. “Let’s go listen.”

They crept down the hallway, one on each side, and listened at each door. At each stop, Val imagined Harkins inside the apartment, doing horrible things to Kendra, and—no. She couldn’t even imagine him touching innocent little Ali. Not Ali!

About a third of the way down, Jalen signaled for Val to halt, and he pressed his ear against the door. He nodded and waved her over. She crossed in silence to the hinge side, weapon at the ready. Jalen stood and kicked at the handle. This time, it didn’t give. He backed up and took some air, smashing it with his right foot, then collapsed to the floor in pain, howling, as the door skidded open.

“Shit!” Jalen gripped his leg with his free hand. “I think I broke my fucking ankle!”

“Wait here,” Val said unnecessarily, and slid into the apartment. The faint cry of a woman seeped out of a partially-open bedroom door. Val scooted down the hall and peeked inside. Kendra lay on the floor, her slacks at her knees, hands tied behind her back. Val raced to her, scanning the room to make sure Harkins wasn’t lying in wait.

“Kendra! Are you okay? Where’s Ali?” Val lifted her sister-in-law to a sitting position and pulled her slacks up, then untied her hands. Disgust with seeing what Harkins had done to Kendra mixed with relief that he’d gotten no further—and panic that Harkins and Ali were both missing from the scene.

“He took her,” Kendra sobbed. “Just a few minutes ago. I don’t know where. Find her!”

A cry of pain drowned out her words—Jalen! A moment later came a thump, the sound of a body hitting a hard floor. Then footsteps, running away.

Val ran to the door and spotted Jalen’s unconscious body sprawled across the doorway, his forehead bleeding from a fresh gash near his hairline. Val checked his pulse and breathing. Unconscious, but alive. She leaped over his inert body into the corridor. An explosion echoed in the hallway, and something tore a gaping hole in the door frame. At the end of the hall, Harkins crouched behind a young girl wearing a police uniform, one arm around her waist, the other pointing a handgun at Val’s face. Ali, bound and gagged, squirmed in his arms, a look of terror on her face, but otherwise she looked unharmed.

Harkins aimed the weapon at her. Val dove into an open doorway a moment before a second explosion sent a bullet buzzing by her, inches from her head. She crept to the doorway, stealing a quick glance down the hall again. Another shot splintered the door frame, and Val jumped back in surprise.

“Suspect located on north end of the fourth floor of Torrington Arms,” Val barked into her radio, her heart pounding. “One officer down. Suspect has a hostage—a five-year-old girl—and has opened fire. All units, respond!”

Ali let out a muffled yelp, and from the sounds that followed, Val guessed that Harkins had pushed her down and gone down the stairs. A quick glance in their direction revealed Ali lying in a heap against the wall, crying, with no Harkins in sight. Val calculated the risks in a flash: Harkins might be using Ali as bait to draw Val out of hiding, or he might have shed the extra baggage to aid his flight.

If she chased too soon, her guess could prove fatal. But Harkins had shown no limits to his cruelty. If she waited, he might up the ante by hurting or killing Ali.

Gil’s voice echoed in her head. “What kind of cop are you?” he’d asked. Survivors would stay put. A Soldier would return to Jalen’s side. Saviors would rush to the aid of the victims—Kendra and Ali. An Avenger would chase after Harkins.

Val took a deep breath, readied her weapon, and barrel-rolled into the corridor.

Harkins tossed the girl to the floor and ran down the stairs. He hated surrendering his hostage-slash-shield-slash-ultimate insult to Dawes. But the other cops were closing in, and she’d slow him down too much.

When he reached the second floor, pounding footsteps approached from below, and he ducked into the hallway. Two cops in uniform thundered up the staircase past him. He padded down the hall, southbound, hoping like hell the other cops would stay focused on the north end of the building.

Voices echoed in the floors above him. The cops were taking their time. The guards outside had probably reported that nobody had exited, so they knew he was inside. That gave him an idea.

Three-quarters of the way down the hall, he entered an open apartment he’d used before for parties like the one he’d planned for Kendra. It still had running water and electricity—perfect for the distraction he had in mind. He plugged the bathroom sink and turned on the faucet. In the kitchen, he flicked on the oven and tossed a fistful of loose paper and rags inside. The building’s smoke alarms would take care of the rest.

He descended to the first floor via the south stairway and peered out the exit door’s window. Two cops stood guard in a cruiser on the street, twenty feet away. Exiting here would mean certain death. He needed to reach the break in the fence at the north end. Dammit. The cops would have that exit guarded too, but its proximity to the hole gave him a better chance.

So did his .44 Magnum. But his magazine had only five rounds left, and he had no spares with him. Harkins would have to pick his shots and hope his second-floor distraction would draw their attention long enough for his planned escape.

Val rolled into a crouch in the hallway and raised her weapon in the direction Harkins had taken Ali. A young girl’s scream pierced her ears. In horror, Val realized she’d pointed the weapon at her niece! She lowered her weapon and raced down the hall to Ali, curled into a ball in the corner. She removed the gag and untied her. “Ali! Are you all right?” She tried to keep the panic out of her voice, but it didn’t subside until Ali nodded and wrapped her in a tight embrace.

“Let’s go check on your mom, okay?” Ali nodded again, but maintained her death-grip on Val’s shoulders. Val carried her back to the doorway of the apartment where Jalen sat in a half-conscious daze.

“Not yet,” Val said. “He ran down the north stairs. Can you radio that to the team?” She hoped that Jalen’s injuries weren’t serious and that he’d recovered enough to fulfill that simple task.

“Ali!” Kendra appeared from the hallway, and Ali slid out of Val’s arms to run to her mother’s arms. “Oh, my sweet girl, I was so worried about you,” Kendra said through a veil of tears.

Kendra laughed and hugged her closer. “Thank you, Val,” she said. “Where is the creep now?”

“Somewhere in the building, still,” Jalen said, re-holstering his radio. “But we have the place surrounded. He can’t escape.”

Val shook her head. She’d felt that way about Harkins before. “I should rejoin the search team,” she said.

Val gave Kendra and Ali one final hug each and rushed out of the apartment. Only after she’d descended a full flight on the north stairwell did she realize what her decision meant for her in Gil’s taxonomy of cop types.

Harkins hustled down the hallway, back to the north end. The footsteps on the stairs paused, but the jumble of voices continued. At the end, he could make out the words, “I’ll check it out.” A woman’s voice. Hopefully not Dawes. He wanted her close, and alone.

He paused for breath and peered out the door’s tiny window. Nothing. Good. He readied his weapon, yanked open the door, and ran toward the opening in the fence.

“Freeze!” someone yelled. A fat older cop and a young, skinny guy crouched behind a police cruiser. The fat one raised himself up, extended his arms across the hood, a weapon shaking in his hands. Harkins dove for the turf, rolled, came up firing. The shot skimmed the car’s hood and hit the big guy in the side, spewing blood and spinning him to the ground. “I’m hit! I’m hit!” he screamed.

Harkins aimed a second shot at the skinny guy, missed. The kid disappeared behind the cruiser, screaming in panic.

Harkins ran to the hole in the fence, which somebody had kindly widened for him, and thrust himself through. He landed hard on the sidewalk and found it hard to breathe for a moment. But a gunshot, followed by the shattering of pavement a foot from his face, drove him back to his feet. A glance to his right revealed the two cops at the building’s south end, crouching behind their cruiser and taking aim. He fired wildly in their direction, and they ducked for cover.

He found himself only a few feet away from the cruiser. A gun lay in the gravel. The fat cop must have dropped it when he’d gotten hit. He snagged it on his way past, shoving it into his jacket pocket.

Harkins ran across the street, down an alley, and the stench of human waste and rotting garbage engulfed him. Loud voices shouted after him. Bullets skidded across the pavement and ricocheted off the walls of the nearby buildings. Two young black men ran away from him down the alley. Not cops. Street kids. Panicked women screamed from overhead. Doors and windows slammed shut, and the tires of a vehicle squealed to a stop. Halfway down the alley, he came upon steps that descended into a basement, the door ajar. He fled down the steps, pulling the door shut behind him.

A single, bare bulb lit the dank basement, lined by coin-operated washing machines and dryers, smelling of detergent and mold. Harkins smashed the bulb and tossed someone’s basket of laundry in the doorway, a trip hazard for whoever followed him. He exited into a storage area of the basement and up the stairs, out the front door, hung a random right into another alley. Sirens blared, with blue-and-red flashers flickering off windows and parked cars, but for now, the cruisers giving chase remained out of sight.

But running footsteps and bellowing shouts told him he hadn’t yet lost his pursuers.

At the alley’s dead-end, a fire escape led to an open sliding door on the second story. Harkins climbed up, yanked the ladder up behind him, and turned into another unlit hallway. “He went inside!” a man’s voice shouted. One of the cops, or a snitch. Whatever. An enemy. They were all enemies now.

He found a side door that opened into a row of smelly garbage bins and ducked between them to rest. His lungs burned, and his legs felt like lead. He couldn’t outrun them, especially not the young Dawes. He recalled news reports lauding her for being a star athlete in college. She’d run that Japanese gang member down, a guy fifteen years younger than Harkins. No, he’d have to take her down with a bullet to beat her.

Harkins smiled. Maybe he could have a little fun with her first. Make up for missing out on Kendra.

“Check every alley,” a woman’s voice shouted off in the distance. Official-sounding. Cops closing in. He had to move.

He slithered to the end of the alley, peering out. The coast looked clear. He shuffled down the street, walking at a normal pace. A young couple emerged from a bar and turned away from him, walking twenty yards ahead in the same direction. He recognized the street. It led to Upper Albany, a gang-banger neighborhood. They wouldn’t expect him to head there. He pulled up the hood of his jacket, close to his face, as if bundling up to fight off the chill. He might get out of this after all.

Alarms clanging and smoke filling her lungs, Val exited the north end of the building. Outside the fence, Ben Peterson bent over a large, inert figure lying on the ground.

Peterson looked up at Val, his face as pale as alabaster. “The bastard shot Pops!” Peterson said, panicked. “Help us out here!”

Val dashed to the fence and slipped through. Gunshots drew her attention across the street, where a large figure ducked into a dark alley. Had to be Harkins. Two uniformed officers pursued him, weapons drawn. She glanced back at Pops. A wound on his right side bled profusely. A bare bone, probably a rib, poked through the tear in his jacket.

“Go get bandages from the first aid kit from your cruiser,” she yelled at Ben. He stared at her, a numb expression in his eyes.

“I’ve got some!” Brenda Petroni shouted, rounding the corner with Rico Lopez. She hustled over to Pops and waved Val and Rico away. “Go! Peterson and I got this. There’s nothing you can do here.”

Val didn’t wait for a second invitation. She ran toward the alley where Harkins had disappeared. But before she reached it, her radio reported that Harkins had entered the basement of the building to her left, with her colleagues in hot pursuit. She’d seen the building’s front entrance on her dash over from headquarters. Maybe she could beat him there. She kicked it into high gear and circled the building.

At the corner, she spotted Harkins running down another alley across the street. She gave chase, radioing in her position. More footsteps and shouting joined in pursuit behind her. Sirens revealed that other cruisers were closing in to offer aid.

“He went inside!” Rico shouted, pointing to a fire escape ladder one story up. Val jumped to yank it down, but it was out of her reach. Rico’s too.

“Surround the building, and close off all the exits,” Dion Woodson said. “Dawes, you’re the quickest, so you take the front exit on the other side. Rico, go left. Steve, right. I’ll guard this one and radio in.”

Val sprinted around the building and noticed multiple dead-end alleyways with emergency exits. “Check every alley!” she barked into her radio. It would slow them down, but they couldn’t risk letting him escape again. “We need more backup,” she added. The dispatcher responded with a call for all available units. Val raced on. They were counting on her to secure the front exit.

Val reached the doorway, which opened onto a high-traffic downtown street. All quiet. Harkins either hadn’t yet left the building, or she’d already missed him. She had no way to tell.

Harkins spotted a police cruiser turning onto Abernethy Street and ducked into a convenience store, shuffling over to the coffee stand. The shopkeeper, a subcontinental man in his early 30s, greeted him. “Welcome, sir,” he said. “Can I help you?”

“We kindly ask patrons to please pay for their purchase prior to pouring coffee,” the man said in a polite but firm tone. A sign over the coffee pot reinforced the request.

“Sorry.” Harkins continued to fuss with the coffee, taking his sweet time until the cruiser passed by the window. Took forever, too. Must be scanning every face on the street. Finally, the vehicle slid past.

But the shopkeeper blocked his path. “You must pay for that coffee you poured,” he said. “I cannot serve it to another customer.” He smiled, but he showed no signs of moving.

Harkins read the man’s nameplate. Taufiq Sharkar. “Well, Taufiq, it’s like this,” he said, keeping his voice friendly. “I don’t really care for your coffee.” He picked up the foam cup and threw the scalding liquid in the man’s face.

The man screamed, and Harkins punched him in the temple. The man collapsed in a heap. Harkins stepped over him and resumed his walk up the sidewalk, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

He reached the end of the block. Another cruiser headed away from him. He turned and headed toward Martin Luther King Boulevard. A small theater loomed ahead, with a parking lot next door. Time to do some car shopping.

Minutes ticked by. Val grew anxious at the front door of the apartment building. Several people had exited, but none of them resembled Harkins or had seen him. A crowd gathered across the street, speculating about the scene but staying out of her way.

Val’s radio coughed with a report of an assault at a convenience store. She recognized the address as Taufiq’s Quick Mart. Then came Shannon O’Reilly’s voice: “Dawes! The description of that assailant matches Harkins. Are you close by?”

“Less than two blocks away!” Val said. “I’m on it!” She took off at a run. Moments later, she found a wet and groggy Taufiq leaning on the counter of his store, tended by an elderly woman bearing an expression of concern.

Val showed Taufiq the picture of Harkins. “The man who hit you,” she said. “Was it him?”

Taufiq nodded. “He knocked me down, then went that way.” He pointed to the right. “I think.”

“Thank you, Taufiq!” Val shouted and dashed out of the store. She ran to the corner. No one in sight. Which direction had he gone?

Footsteps pounded the street on her left, and Dog ran into view. “That white dude,” he said, his chest heaving, “is at our meeting place.” A gunshot from the same general area punctuated his breathless announcement.

“Thank you, Dog!” Val left him there, catching his breath, and radioed in as she ran.

Harkins crept among the few parked cars in the theater parking lot, checking the oldest models for unlocked doors or signs of prior tampering. Older vehicles lacked the advanced security systems so many drivers opted for in recent years. Most were a cinch to get started, once inside.

He found a late-90s Honda Civic deep in the corner of the lot. Twin clean-swept arcs on the windshield indicated someone had driven it recently. Probably that morning, during the rainy commuting hours. Perfect.

Harkins darted to the driver’s side, which faced away from the street, and pulled a jackknife from his pocket. He’d broken many a lock with it before, including Hondas. He jammed the blade into the keyhole and jimmied it in a circular motion.

Harkins turned to find two black men hovering over him with gold rings piercing each ear. The larger one, built like a football player, sported three rings in each lobe, and brandished a nasty-looking knife. The other, younger man stood a step behind him, arms crossed, a single earring in his right lobe.

“That ain’t your fucking car,” the younger man said. Three-Rings glanced at him, signaled him to shush. Harkins slid his left hand behind his back, reaching for the .44 tucked into his waistband.

“Sure, sure.” Harkins froze his position. “I was just getting my wallet, so we can settle this like gentlemen.” He cocked his head as if to ask: okay?

Harkins whipped the weapon around and fired, but too soon. His shot went wide, blasting a hole in the wall ten feet away. The younger man dove to the ground, but the larger man swung a fist at Harkins. He dodged the punch, suffering only a glancing blow off the side of his head. He aimed the gun again at the big man’s chest. Three-Rings ducked, but he remained a huge target. Harkins pulled the trigger.

Nothing! He’d miscounted his rounds, or something malfunctioned, but the .44 no longer served its protective purpose. He reached his left hand into his pocket for the cop’s .38, but the big man charged him. Harkins spread his legs wide, grabbed the man‘s charging shoulders, and drove his weight onto him. Three-Rings hit the ground with an audible grunt and tried to roll free. Harkins smashed the butt of the .44 onto the top of the big man’s skull. Three-Rings collapsed, unconscious.

Time to go. Harkins headed toward the street, then stopped. To his left, a gang of black youths marched toward him, joined by the kid with the single earring. To Harkins’s right, a lone figure approached, running fast. A policewoman, talking into her radio with her left hand, holding a gun in her right. He recognized her: Valorie Dawes.

Val spotted Harkins ahead, right where Dog said he’d be. He froze in his tracks for a moment. From the far end of the block, a dozen or so Disciples approached in a V-formation. Pope and Trap led the march, angry determination lining each man’s face.

She spoke into her mic: “Suspect in sight!” She put the radio away and ran even faster toward him. “Hands up, Harkins! Don’t move!”

As unpredictable as she’d found Harkins in the past, he remained predictable in one essential respect: he never did as he was told. He darted into the street, but cars blared horns at him from both directions, tires squealing. More cars followed. He leapt backwards, then dashed back into the parking lot. A mistake. He had no way out except back into the busy, wide-open street.

Val pressed her back against the building bordering the lot. “Where’s my backup, Dispatch?” she muttered into the mic.

“On its way,” came the static-laden reply. Which could mean twenty seconds or twenty minutes. The latter meant she’d either have to face Harkins alone, or let him escape. Again. The sirens that had filled the neighborhood air for the last several minutes seemed no closer.

Val took a deep breath. She couldn’t let him escape. But protocol demanded she wait for backup. She searched ahead for a patrol car, then behind her—

Piercing pain shot through her skull—the pain of metal smashing into bone. She fell to her hands and knees. Something wrapped around her throat, a wire or cord of some kind, cutting off her breathing. She flailed her arms, but couldn’t reach her assailant. The cord grew tighter around her neck. She couldn’t breathe.

Val’s self-defense training kicked in. The first rule of survival: Don’t panic.

She pointed her weapon behind her and fired, apparently straight into the ground, as gravel exploded around her. Something smashed against her right hand, and she dropped her .38. But the cord loosened around her neck, allowing her to sneak a hand under it and yank it off. She elbowed her attacker in the ribs, and he loosened his grip. Reaching behind her, she grabbed his hair, dropped to one knee, and twisted her body forward, expecting him to land hard in front of her. But she’d rushed the move, and they rolled together, crashing into the side of a pickup. Val’s head hit the wheel, and for a moment she saw stars.

She recovered and lurched to her feet. Harkins lunged at her, knocking her flat on her back next to the truck. He pinned her elbows with his knees and punched her face, splitting her lip. Blood spewed from her nose into her mouth. She tried to wriggle free, but his weight crushed her ribs and elbows, and she had trouble breathing through her bloody nose.

In his right hand, Harkins held a .38, identical to her own. He pressed his weight onto her and ground his groin into her chest, then laughed and aimed the weapon at her head. “Goodbye, Valorie Dawes,” he said. “Another dead hero for Clayton.”

In a flash that felt like forever, memories and regrets flooded Val’s mind. So, this was it—the end of her life, and her short career. Lofty ambitions to rid the world of scum like Harkins would die with her. She’d never see her friends and family again, never see Ali’s cherubic smile again, never know true love. Nothing. Never make up with her Dad, as Chad had begged her to do, as deep down she’d hoped would be possible someday.

At least Ali and Kendra were safe. Chad, too, she guessed. He’d always remember that she’d kept his family safe. He’d be proud of her.

But Gil wouldn’t. Val had done what he’d warned her against. Became an Avenger, putting lives in danger—this time, her own—to nail her perp, no matter the cost. She’d never be able to see him again, explain to him why she’d done things this way. Never see his eyes twinkle when he smiled, hear his reassuring voice. Never know what it would be like to hold him.

She gazed up at the heavy-set man on top of her. Shadows darkened his face as he pinned her to the bed, forcing himself onto her, dominating her—

No, no, not him, not Milt. Harkins. And he was going to kill her, any moment now.

“It would be such a shame,” Harkins said in a husky voice, “to waste an opportunity like this. I bet you have a pretty little pussy, don’t you?”

Hot bile surged up her throat. She glared up at him, struggled to wriggle free. He leered at her, joy in his eyes—yes, joy, the sick bastard. He loved this. Loved the sight of her, helpless and afraid beneath him.

Harkins ground into her harder. “Yeah, that’s nice,” he said. His foul breath swept over her face, gagging her. He shifted his weight, pressing his hand onto her chest, groping for her breast through the thick Kevlar vest. He swore and reached back, groped her thigh, moved it up toward her crotch.

That took some pressure off her elbows, and she shook one free. Val punched him under his left eye, whipping his head back. She bucked up and shoved him, and he toppled off her, dropping his weapon. She rolled away, onto her feet, and reached for his .38, but he batted it away. She spotted her own .38, five yards away. She chased it down and turned back to face Harkins.

He reached his weapon and pointed it at her. She scrambled to her left before he could fire. He ducked behind a Subaru split-seconds before a shot ricocheted off the brick wall behind him. Men shouted: “Get him, Dog!” “I got him, Pope!” “Watch it, Trap!” The owners of the voices, members of The Disciples, crouched behind cars parked along the street, pointing probably illegal weapons at the Subaru shielding Harkins.

More shots rang out. Bullets hit the dirt and plunged into the sides of the Subaru, creating dark craters and flattening its tires. One of them missed Harkins by inches. The Disciples had spread out, improving their shooting angles, pinning Harkins in.

Val crept to another vehicle, searching for a better shot without exposing herself to stray fire from the gang. She peeked around the car’s bumper.

Gravel crunched to her left. Harkins sprang out from the vehicle’s front end. He ran at Val, screaming, pointing his weapon at her. Val crouched and aimed her weapon at his torso, as she’d been trained.

Harkins’ body flew backwards, as if he’d been rammed in the midsection, and blood spilled over his crotch and legs. He landed flat on his back, arms splayed, and his weapon skidded away from him. His head hit last with a loud, sickening thud, and he lay spread-eagle on the gravel, bleeding.

Val lowered her weapon, watching Harkins for signs of life. His chest remained still as redness enveloped his midsection. Voices blended together around her, unintelligible words that sounded like praise or awe or at least not anger. She stood and approached the body. Checked for a pulse, found a faint one, and equally weak breathing. She held her radio mic close to her mouth.

Try as she might to maintain a professional demeanor, she could not keep the jubilation out of her voice. She did, however, suppress the strong inclination to dance on Harkins’s inert body.

The figure of Pope appeared before her, arms crossed. “This the guy that molested those young girls?” he asked.

Val nodded and surrendered a tiny, relieved smile. “Guess I still owe you five hundred dollars.”

Pope shook his head and raised his hand for a high-five. “Copette,” he said, “let’s call it even.”

The architects who designed the public meeting room in Clayton police headquarters never anticipated more than a few dozen people to show up for the dry, low-key ceremonies often conducted there. But media attention surrounding the dramatic chase and take-down of Richard Harkins filled the space to overflowing. Newspaper, TV, and radio outlets flooded in from cities as far away as Springfield, Boston, and New York. Seated on the dais between Jalen Marshall and Shannon O’Reilly, Val stared wide-eyed at the legion of cameras and microphones, searching for familiar faces behind them. The ceremony was supposed to begin in five minutes, but most of the people she’d invited remained absent.

“You’ve got fans,” Shannon said with a smile. “I hope your autograph pen has lots of ink in it.”

“Do I have anything stuck in my teeth?” Val asked without looking over at Shannon. Not that she’d eaten anything all day. Her nerves barely permitted her to slam a cup of coffee that morning.

“Bullshit,” she whispered back. Harkins’s punch had cracked her nose and given her a huge bruise on the cheek. Beth had offered to lend expensive foundation to cover it, but Val had refused. “Let the world see what he did to me,” she’d insisted. And to all of his other victims, she could have added.

As if summoned, Beth pushed her way into the room, with Chad, Kendra, and Ali in tow. Ali, dressed in her favorite outfit—her police uniform—waved at her, and they found seats in the back row. Val smiled at them, then spotted Brenda Petroni and Travis Blake mingling with a few other sergeants on the side aisle. Good—some friendly faces. But still a few hadn’t yet shown.

“Let’s get started,” Gibson said, tapping the microphone at the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that last Friday, Clayton Police apprehended a violent fugitive, Richard Harkins, who had wreaked havoc in recent months on several communities in the region. Mr. Harkins resisted arrest and opened fire on our officers, wounding Sergeant Alex Papadopoulos, who is being treated for gunshot wounds at Mercy Hospital. Alex, I’m pleased to say, remains in stable condition at this time. Mr. Harkins also attacked Officer Valorie Dawes, who discharged her weapon in self-defense while attempting to capture the suspect. Mr. Harkins remains in critical condition and will stand trial as soon as he is able.”

Gibson turned to acknowledge her with a quick nod, and Val smiled back, appreciating his supportive words. For a change she allowed herself a moment of pride. Harkins had victimized so many women, girls, and even armed police officers, like Gil, Pops, and Samuels. But no more.

“Today,” Gibson went on, “I would like to commend the Inter-city Task Force for a job well done in removing a menace from the streets of not only Clayton, but the entire region. Would the members of the Task Force please step forward?”

Shannon stood and waited for Val, who remained rooted in her chair. “Get up!” Shannon whispered. “You have to stand for this.”

Val glanced around and noticed that Jalen had also stood, as did the handful of Task Force members in the second row. She swallowed hard and pushed herself to her feet. Bright lights shone in her face, reporters and news cameras scurried into position to get the best shot of them, and the room got scorching hot all of a sudden. It reminded her of why she always hated award ceremonies, even after her victories at track. The fuss, the speeches, and the poses struck her as fake and beside-the-point. Let her accomplishments speak for themselves.

“I hate the idea,” she whispered, “of getting a medal for shooting a guy in the balls.”

“You’re the hero of every divorcée in town,” Shannon said, deadpan, and Val nearly laughed out loud.

She glanced away from the cameras and bright lights, and spotted one of the faces she most wanted to see: Antoinetta, standing with her mother, Rosa, in the rear of the room. Val grinned at the pair, and Antoinetta waved back. Okay. She’d accept the award for Antoinetta, and Kendra, and Ali, and all the women Harkins had terrorized. Let them see what it means for a woman to win.

Gibson stepped in front of her, holding a gold pin in his hand. Val braced herself: to fasten it to her uniform, he’d have to touch her, close to her chest. She held her breath and met his eyes.

Gibson smiled at her, handed her the pin, and shook her hand, then moved on and repeated the gesture with Jalen, Shannon, and the others.

Val sighed with relief. Of course protocol would demand a more discreet ritual, particularly in a sex abuse case!

The subsequent press conference went by in a blur. Gibson and Marshall answered questions from the media and kept their remarks brief, citing legal reasons for not providing more information. After Gibson thanked the attendees for coming, Val followed the others off the podium and headed straight for her brother.

Ten feet away, she stopped in her tracks. Behind Chad stood the gaunt figure of Michael Dawes, crammed into one of the dark suits he’d favored during his successful career as a manufacturing executive.

“Dad?” She blinked and cleared her throat, not knowing what else to do. “I—I didn’t expect you.”

She shot Chad a dark stare, took a breath, and smiled at her father. “Of course. I’m glad you came.”

His hug was unexpected, as was the aroma of musk and peppermint that permeated him. Usually he reeked of alcohol. Rehab must be working. Dad ended the embrace and held her hands in his. “I’m proud of you,” he said. “You did good.”

“I need you to know,” he said. “I believe you. And I’m sorry. About...about everything. I just—”

“Dad,” she said, taking hold of his shaking hands, “I’m sorry too. We’ll talk later...alone. Okay?” She met his gaze, and the tears flowing down his cheeks nearly broke her heart.

But he nodded, and smiled, and stepped behind her brother, whose sudden embrace felt incredibly warm and reassuring.

Val had hoped Gil would have recovered enough to make it to the ceremony, but his doctors had refused to release him. Travis Blake drove her, Shannon, and Brenda to Mercy Hospital in a cruiser. Gibson drove another group over in a van for a planned late-morning award ceremony for Pops, still laid out in his own hospital bed. “I didn’t realize Pops was hurt that badly,” Shannon said on the drive over.

“He was, and he wasn’t,” Brenda said. “That .44 round is a beast, but it more or less grazed him—broke a rib and tore a lot of skin and muscle. No doubt it hurt like hell, but it wasn‘t life-threatening.”

“Enough for him to get medical disability,” Travis said. “Given how close he is to retirement, I doubt we’ll see him back in uniform. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

Val zoned out of the conversation, and after a few minutes, her phone buzzed. A message from Beth read, “Check it out!” with a link to a website. She tapped it, and her mouth opened wide in surprise.

Clayton Police have rid the city of a violent scumbag, a man single-handedly responsible for a regional crime wave of sexual assaults, police shootings, and other crimes.

Clayton P.D. officers shot the man after an armed standoff and a destructive chase through the city. Officer Alexander Papadopoulos, wounded in the assault, will be among those awarded today with medals of honor.

“Dawes is reading that trashy Clayton Copwatch blog again,” Shannon said, reading over her shoulder. All three of Val’s companions groaned. Val ignored them and scrolled farther down the page.

Papadopoulos had help in taking down Harkins. Readers of this site will note that we have been critical of a certain rookie policewoman for her reckless behavior that often put citizens and fellow officers at considerable risk. But sources indicate that in this instance, Valorie Dawes lived up to her family legacy and did the city a great service. For today, at least, Dawes performed the way a Clayton police officer should: with intelligence, bravery, and professionalism.

Val set the phone down and realized she’d been holding her breath the whole time she’d been reading. She exhaled, but the tightness in her chest wouldn’t subside.

“Geez,” Shannon said, still reading over her shoulder. “What’s gotten into Paul Peterson? That’s almost complimentary!”

Val smiled. She hated to admit it, but Peterson’s grudging praise pleased her.

The department borrowed a chapel in the hospital for the award ceremony, attended by a small gathering of officers and higher-ups. Moments before it began, orderlies rolled in another bed, occupied by a smiling Gil Kryzinski. He looked energetic and alert, his skin color back to normal. Elated, Val hurried over to stand next to him.

“You’d better,” he whispered back. He winked at her. “Nice medal.” She rolled her eyes.

Gibson kept the ceremony brief, and Pops made it official: in his thank-you speech, he announced his impending retirement. Alex’s wife Betty, a rotund, smiling woman with gray-flecked brown hair, beamed with pride at him. Afterwards, flanked by two bored teenagers who looked just like her, Betty pushed Pops in a wheelchair along the lineup of attendees for perfunctory handshakes, with Val and Gil at the end.

“Congratulations, Pops,” Val said after the briefest, limpest handshake of her life. She stammered, struggling for something to say. “And, um, thanks for your help in nailing Harkins. We couldn’t have done it without you.” Behind Pops, Shannon covered her surprised grin with both hands. Blake mugged and looked away with an embarrassed, toothless smile.

“Dawes,” Pops said, “I just wanna say, I’m glad I got to work with you. I know it wasn’t always easy.”

“I learned a lot from you,” she said. Like, never take crap from one’s partner, she added to herself. Gil fake-coughed and covered his mouth.

“Not yet,” Gibson said, stepping toward them. “That might take a few days. I’ve already got a half-dozen requests for you, Dawes. How about we sort through those in my office, this afternoon?”

Val grinned so hard it hurt. “Lieutenant,” she said, “I wouldn’t miss that meeting for the world.”

Val accompanied Gil back to his hospital room while the others extended polite congratulations to Pops in the chapel. A nurse hooked him back up to the monitors and exited with promises of lunch within the hour.

Gil grunted. “The doc cut me off so I don’t get addicted. I’m feeling much better, anyway. I’ll be out of here in a day or two and start rehab next week. Doctors say I’ll be walking, with assistance, soon after New Year’s.”

“That’s amazing!” Val said. “I’ll help any way I can. How about I show you the technique that won me gold in the 400-yard hurdles?”

Gil laughed. “You’re on. And when I come back to work, you can train me in self-defense, too.”

Val’s response caught in her throat. “When you...? Did you say—I thought—”

“What, that I’d follow Pops’ lead and take medical retirement?” Gil mock-frowned at her. “No way. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Jessica doesn’t speak for me,” Gil said. “Nor do the doctors she conned. In fact, Jessica and I...well, safe to say, we’re back to ‘ex’ status.”

“Gil, that’s wonderful! Wait, not the ‘ex’ status part,” Val said, reddening. “I meant that you’re coming back. I can’t wait!”

“Which brings me to an important point.” He fixed her with a level gaze, all seriousness. “When you meet with Gibson later today, tell him the new partner assignment is interim. I want you back, Val.” He reached out and squeezed her hand.

Warmth flooded over her. “I want the same,” she said. A smile teased out of her. “Are you sure you can stomach being partnered with an Avenger-type of cop?” she asked.

Gil huffed. “Whoever called you that?” He pulled her closer with a firm grip. “Val, you’re a cop’s cop. Don’t let anyone ever tell you different.”

Her hand shook inside of his, and she wondered if she should pull away. Her heart pounded at the intimate touch, and his kind words. “But I—”

“Saved a lot of lives,” Gil said, “and, from what I heard from Petroni, you made sure your team members were safe before taking Harkins down. I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

She stared at him, her heart bursting. “That means so much,” she said. “All I’ve ever wanted was to be with you. As partners, I mean,” she said, and her face grew ridiculously warm.

Gil laughed. “I’ve never seen you turn to red,” he said with delight. Then, more seriously, he added, “To be honest, Val, it’s a verbal slip I could have made myself.”

Val’s spine seemed to melt, and her hand got clammy. Still, he held tight. “Gil,” she said, “are you saying...I mean, did you think I meant...what did you—”

“Just between us, I like you, Val,” he said. “In a...more than professional way.” He looked away, and his voice grew dry, catching in his throat. “I’ve thought a lot about this, and...it complicates things.”

She sighed and nodded. Took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Gil,” she said, “we can’t be partners, and also see each other. For starters, it’s against policy.”

“Screw policy.” Gil's voice cracked. “We need to do what’s right for us. Both of us.” He returned his gaze to her, his eyes moist.

Val let out a slow, unsteady breath. “I agree. But Gil...we can’t. And we both know why.” She gripped his hand tighter. “While it’s tempting to want both, it never ends well.”

“So, we have to choose.” His eyes met hers again, pain evident in his face. “And I take it, you’ve already chosen.”

“I can only choose for me,” she said. “But if you feel differently, I’d like to know that.”

Gil stared at her for several seconds that felt like hours. “It’s a tough choice,” he said. “So, for me...” His voice trailed off, and he looked at her with a touch of sadness in his eyes. “If I must choose, I would never give up the opportunity to work with you. I respect you more than any other cop I’ve ever worked with.”

“Gil, that’s so...Wow. Thank you.” Val sat up straight again, and the frayed nerves and uncertainty flowed out of her: they had made the right choice. For both of them. “Likewise,” she said. “On all counts.”

They sat together for a long moment in silence, still holding hands. Holding hands! She realized with a start they hadn’t let go of each other the entire time. She was touching a man, and he was touching her, and it didn’t feel strange or painful or frightening.

Thank you for reading A Woman of Valor. If you enjoyed reading it, won’t you please take a moment to leave me a review at your favorite retailer? And please, tell your friends!