Beside him, Washington could feel Officer Cruz tense like a bowstring. She still had her hands on Billy's head, a pose that reminded him of religious iconography, the Blessed Virgin healing a wounded child. But he knew better than to expect spiritual aid.

After all, he'd made only one vow in his life, and he'd broken it. And now they lived in the shadow of the gun. He wasn't surprised. It was a lesson he'd learned early and hard. Pick up the gun and you live forever in its shadow.

Sow the wind, reap the whirlwind.

"I said," Kent's voice firm, "put it down."

But then, what option had there been? He could explain the engineering of the Roman aqueducts, but couldn't save the boy's life. Different books. Yet he could hardly sit and watch him die. Not for a principle. Certainly no principle was so crucial it justified the death of an innocent child. At the end of a day, wasn't that what defined a principle?

Washington stood, the weapon steady in his hand.

"What are you doing?" Kent asked.

Surely no hard and fast rule applied in every situation. Or if one did, it stated that it wasn't acceptable to stand by while an innocent boy died. Or to allow a man who attacked children to go free.

And the sting of betrayal. He'd believed in this man. Needed to believe in him, to believe that there were other ways to fight.

He took a step forward.

"Freeze, goddammit." Kent cocked his pistol, held it in shaking hands. "You're a man of peace, remember? You swore you would never pick up the gun again."

Washington nodded. "I guess I was wrong, Adam." Then he squeezed the trigger, just as he'd done thirty years ago. Just like then, there was a roar, and a hot punch against his hand.

Kent's shot came a fraction of a second later, the gun jerking as he staggered back, face wild and confused. His jaw fell open. A red flower bloomed against the starched white of his shirt. He stared at it, blinking. Then his legs gave and he went down like a drunk, the pistol falling from his fingers. In the end, he died the same as anybody else.

Washington waited till he was sure Kent wouldn't get up before he fell down himself. Fire in his chest, cold in his belly. Long overdue. An old debt, now paid.

He heard Officer Cruz but he couldn't see her. Felt her rip open his shirt, press hard. She was yelling, telling him not to give up.

He smiled at her misunderstanding.

From around either side of the darkness he took to be her, he saw a strange glow. Like someone stood behind her with a flashlight. He squinted. It was odd. He couldn't bring Officer Cruz into focus, but somehow he could clearly see shapes standing on either side.

Two young boys. One was Billy, on his feet and breathing easy. The other was a smiling black boy about the same age. Who was it?

The boys each took one of his hands, Billy the left, the smiling boy the right. Their touch flooded him with peace like warm rain.

And just before he died, he saw that the smiling boy had a cauliflower ear.

August 25, 2005

They wait for him inside. Alive and dead, they wait.

He heard the shots. Somehow knew what to expect, even as he forced himself to his feet, even as he staggered through the living room, hand tracing one wall.

The living. Cruz, her arms a mess of gore as she labored over Washington. Billy on his side, eyes closed, breath steady.

The dead. Scarface, Kent. Galway.

And Washington. Jason knows even as he watches Cruz press on his chest, as he watches her try to save him. He can tell by the strange little smile on his friend's lips.

More than he's ever wanted anything, Jason wants to lie on the cool hardwood floor and close his eyes. Rest and let this all fade away.

Instead he looks around. Flashes of Baghdad, the inside of a café after a suicide bombing, chunks of drywall and wood, fist-sized holes in the walls. The glass doors to the back are spider-webbed and gaping. One of the chairs has been knocked into the fireplace, and the stuffing burns with a hungry green flame that casts flickering shadows.

Perfect.

He walks to the fireplace, bends to grab the protruding leg of the chair, a wave of heat washing red over his face. Carries it to the drapes on the rear wall and touches them. The fire leaps like a child.

He goes to the sofas. To the bookshelves. To the ornate chairs and the hardwood bar. Touches them all, and everywhere he touches, fire is born.

He leaves the chair leaning against a wall of photographs and framed newspapers. Adam Kent cutting a ribbon on his company's new offices. Adam Kent shaking hands with the Mayor. Adam Kent looking somber next to an article describing his IPO.

The car keys are in Galway's pocket. Jason kneels by Cruz, still bending over Washington, and touches her shoulder. She looks at him through a wet veil.

"Let's go," he says.

She swallows, and nods, face lit by fire. She lifts Billy, cradles him.

He takes Washington. It isn't easy, but he doesn't want it to be.

CHAPTER 48

Jason made sure the door was locked. Double-checked it.

Then he walked through Michael's bedroom, his fingers tracing objects his brother had touched. The soft worn texture of the comforter. A pair of running shoes, the soles scuffed bare. A bureau of polished mahogany. He went in the bathroom. Shaving cream and a razor, a comb with strands of hair stuck in it, half-empty shampoo bottles. He looked in the closet, opened dresser drawers. Shirts neatly folded, underwear jammed in. A tin holding spare change. A couple of loose pictures:

Michael and Lisa coming home from the hospital with baby Billy wrapped up like a burrito.

Billy wearing a McDonald's crown and tearing open a birthday present, his face lit from within.

Jason's mother, that scowl she always got when you pointed a camera in her direction, but a smile in her tired eyes.

The teenaged Palmer brothers at the lakefront, circa 1992. Cheeks sunburned, hair wild. Michael's arm around Jason's shoulder.

Jason took the photo to the edge of the bed, sat down. It was cool to the touch, and there was a thumbprint along the edge, like Michael had paused on it himself. Jason put his own thumb there, felt something straining inside his chest. Started to fight it, reminded himself that was why he'd come up here. Glanced again at the door to make sure it was locked.

And finally let go.

The sobs came hard, long brutal tugs at his innards. He bit his fist to fight the noise, but let the tears run free, rocking back and forth, his feet on ground his brother had walked, his head and heart far away. Let himself remember the afternoon the photo had been taken. The heat of the July sun on his face and shoulders. The way he'd been vaguely embarrassed to be at the beach with his mother, to be posing for a picture. The girls in the background, soft brown spirits of a lost summer. The waves forever frozen in the image, one just breaking, white foam and sand grit, and behind it another, and another, on into an endless blue sky.

He cried for all the things he'd done wrong with Michael, and all the things he'd never get to do right.

But he also cried for all the moments that had been perfect.

And he cried because finally he could.

Eventually, he stood up. Put the photos back in the drawer. Went to the bathroom and took off his dress shirt. Ran cold water, splashed dripping double handfuls on his face, then borrowed his brother's razor to shave, doing it slowly and carefully. Toweled off and looked in the mirror. Put his shirt back on, thumbing the buttons slowly, then reknotted his tie.