"Martha told me you'd say that," Babsie said. "Because you think the world revolves around you. She told me to tell you not to flatter yourself, that this was God's will, nothing more."

"I'm going to rebuild all of it," Eddie said. "I'll find somebody today to come in and clean up. Then we'll get a contractor in here. I'll make it better than it ever was."

"It's gonna cost," she said.

"I can find the money," he replied.

A pretty blond woman with a turned-up nose walked to the back with one of the Homicide cops. Eddie thanked her for coming.

"Ready, Grace," Rita Coughlin said.

"Go ahead, tell her," Babsie said.

"Knock, knock," Grace said, taking her teacher's hand.

After they left, Babsie went into the ladies' room to wash up. Her elbow continued to swell, her right hand getting stiffer as time went on. Eddie wanted to get to the hospital to see his brother. She could get it X-rayed at St. John's.

When she came out, Eddie was looking up at the walls. He'd taken down the picture of himself, the framed cover from Ring Magazine, and thrown it in the trash. Babsie heard a phone ringing.

"That's mine," she said. "Where the hell is it?"

She kicked stuff around the edge of the partition, where she last remembered having it. Investigators had moved the debris around, looking for shell casings and grenade fragments.

"That might be the hospital," Eddie said.

"Help me look," she said. The caller was persistent. Eddie dropped to his hands and knees to help her. They found it on the ninth or tenth ring.

"Boland," Babsie mouthed to Eddie. Then she turned her back on him and walked out of his hearing. Glass crunched under her feet. Her voice was a soft but intense murmur.

Eddie stayed on his knees amid the glass and wet plaster, examining the broken bits of his brother's dream. Sooner or later, the sins of Eddie Dunne devour everyone who loves him. Each one a victim of his careless life; all paying for the years he forgot about them, simply because the wine was flowing and the women were willing.

Babsie put the phone in her purse. Her complexion had turned a flushed red.

"Come on, get up," she said. "We're going to Coney Island Hospital."

"They find Zina?" he asked.

"No," she said. "They found Kate."

Chapter 42

Friday

11:30 A.M.

Even a layman could tell that the scene in the Emergency Room of Coney Island Hospital was more frantic than usual. Men and women in blue scrubs carrying stethoscopes hustled past men and women in blue uniforms carrying guns. Word spread quickly that the shattered redhead strapped onto the gurney was the Yonkers kidnap victim, a nurse, the child of an ex-cop. A powerful emotional bond exists between cops and nurses. Constantly thrown together in the worst situations, they learn to protect and care for one another. Babsie could hear Kate's name being repeated over and over again in hushed, worried tones.

"No witnesses yet," Babsie said. "The squad is widening the canvass."

"It doesn't matter," Eddie said. "She's alive." They'd found her on the boardwalk on her hands and knees, struggling to get to her feet. The car from the Sixtieth Precinct, making a routine patrol of the boardwalk, had spotted her at 4:30 a.m. At first, they figured she was a drunk who'd wandered out of a Coney Island saloon. But apparently, she'd stumbled for blocks. Traces of fresh blood were found in several spots going back toward the Abe Stark ice-skating rink, a dark and desolate area of the boardwalk. It appeared she'd been dropped off there and had been moving toward the lights. The cops requested an ambulance for an unknown white female. Later, they were apologetic. They said they didn't recognize her from the picture. It wasn't until hours later, when the ER nurse asked her name, that the wheels began to spin.

"As soon as they get her stabilized," Eddie said, "I'm going to have her transferred to St. John's Riverside."

"Let her get strong first," Babsie said. "They'll take good care of her here."

The preliminary diagnosis was indefinite. She was badly dehydrated. The skin on her forearms and wrists was rubbed raw. Her right wrist might be broken. She'd been heavily drugged, and she kept slipping in and out of consciousness. Her legs, back, and rib area were badly bruised, particularly her left side, down her hip and left leg. A rape kit had been ordered.

"She'll be fine," Eddie said. "She'll be fine."

He believed it, too, but regretted saying it aloud. He knew how quickly things could turn from fine to tragic in a hospital. Don't let God hear you saying everything will be fine. That's all He needs to shove it back in your face. But God did this. God brought her here. And Eddie was grateful. Not overconfident, just grateful. A fighting chance is all I ask for, he thought. Give her a fighting chance.

"She didn't escape on her own, Eddie," Babsie said. "Not the shape she's in."

"No. Borodenko did this. That's why he had all his hoods on the road. He wanted her found and released before he got home."

"Don't mistake good business for an act of kindness," she said.

"He could have killed her and dumped her body at sea, Babsie. He could have easily done that. It would have been safer."

People wearing rubber-soled shoes squealed past, some glancing over. He stared back into their faces, looking for the messenger, expecting the messenger, the solemn-faced one who says, "We did everything we could, but…" God, he hated the smell of hospitals.

According to Babsie, the Yonkers Police Department had mobilized all available detectives to search for Zina. They'd issued a county wide alert for the car and the woman. Police departments, hospitals, clinics, toll bridges, bus stations, and airports all got the word. Matty Boland was coordinating the New York City end of it. He'd sent two teams of investigators to West Nineteenth Street. They'd found it in flames.

"Zina might be in that fire," Eddie said.

"That bother you?"

"You kidding?" he said. "The crispier the better, but we can't count on it."

"I get the feeling you're on Borodenko's side all of a sudden."

"Right now, maybe I am. Everything I did to find Kate amounted to shit. Then bang, she's here. I have no idea why he'd let her go."

Helpless was the worst feeling for guys like Eddie Dunne. He stood against a wall in a long corridor that led to other long corridors, holding a torn and bloody green flannel shirt in his hand. Babsie wanted to bag it for evidence, but she let Eddie hold on to it.

Babsie said, "Don't forget Borodenko was behind all this grief in the first place."

"I'm not so sure."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Eddie fought to keep his focus, but his world spun in slow motion, as if all energy had drained out of him. The spaces between objects in the corridor seemed random and changing. He could hear Kate calling him, her voice a soft reverberation, like a whispered echo, but so real, the hairs on the back of his neck rose. He knew this was in his head. She was in the room down the hall. If he walked twenty steps down the corridor, he could see her, tubes crisscrossed over her face, machines beeping, nurses prepping her for surgery. She was fine. A nurse came out of the room, walking toward them.

"Five minutes," the nurse said, holding up her spread hand. 'Try not to excite her."

His beautiful daughter had aged terribly in twelve days. She looked like her mother in those last mournful moments of her life. Her eyes, so dark underneath, appeared sunken in bruised half-moons. Eddie put his hand on hers, trying not to disturb any of the attached lines. She squeezed his hand immediately; then she squirmed, trying to get her arms up in the air. She was trying to tell him something. But her eyes spoke for her, wide and unblinking, staring directly into his face.