Nancy was a lesser person, and she knew it. Bruce was kind, so kind to put up with her, to have admitted a cripple into his home. His rage soon after their marriage at the discovery that Nancy was barren and would be unable to deliver his children into the world had been understandable. The disappointment was mighty. If Nancy had known, she would not have married him. She never could have been that knowingly selfish. Bruce’s anger was acceptable. It was the devil who poisoned the wombs of the unworthy; it was the devil Bruce raged against. Nancy had accepted all that. She’d welcomed it. A husband who will cleanse his wife’s impurities is a treasure to cherish. Bruce was so good to her. He was magnificent in his disappointment. He was full where she was empty. The world had no idea what a precious messenger of Truth it had in Bruce Spicer. God bless him, Nancy thought as she cupped her first handful of pills. Take care of him. I have failed in every aspect of my life. I am too weak. I can’t face those other people anymore. Their eyes. Their disgust. I am too confused now. How can I sit in judgment? The devil has put me here, and he is enjoying my misery. He is enjoying the mess I am making of things. Bruce has told me so. But…but I will not be his agent. I will crush his enjoyment. Bruce will understand. He will not be angry, but he’ll rejoice in this one selfless act that I have managed to perform in my entire life. My entire crippled, useless life.

The lights of Times Square outside Nancy Spicer’s window had never looked so remarkable, like an array of colored stars in a close-up universe. They blurred and merged. Angels, Nancy thought woozily. Angels forming my bed. Her arms were covered with tears. She wondered if she had ever been so happy. Bruce will be proud. He’ll be so proud. The bed of lights was swimming. Swinging. Like a hammock. Nancy made a sound that was intended to be a laugh. It came out as a sob. Followed by another. Then came the pain. The devil clamped his red fists onto her abdomen, and his barbed fingers dug into her useless womb. An agony like none she had ever experienced or could have ever imagined rose up in her belly, and she was struck with unspeakable fear. She fell back from the window and began beating her fists against her belly, trying to make the pain stop. She began to convulse. Her last conscious thought was the horror of seeing, right there in her belly, the devil’s gnarled hand digging and twisting and probing. On his vile hand was the wedding ring. Shiny and gold. One she knew very, very well.

32

PETER ELLIOTT PHONED ME with the news in the morning.

“My foreperson is in a coma,” he said. “Life doth suck.”

I met Peter out in front of Saint Vincent’s. The media was well represented. So was the NYPD. Vehicles parked every which way. I spotted Kelly Cole standing on the corner of Twelfth and Seventh, speaking into her cell phone. When she saw me, she raised a manicured finger, mouthing for me to hang tight.

A dark car had just pulled up to a fire hydrant. “Are you sure it’s not the pope they’ve got in there?” I said to Peter. Lewis Gottlieb was climbing out of the back.

“Lewis and I have to get inside,” Peter said. “Bruce Spicer is in there threatening to explode. This whole thing is headed for the toilet.”

“I’ll catch up to you.”

Kelly Cole flipped her phone closed and stepped over to me. The coat itself must have cost a few thousand bucks. It was long and tan and cut like something for a Russian czarina.

“Did you get the flowers I sent to you in the hospital?” she asked.

I told her I hadn’t.

“That’s because I didn’t send any.” She laughed. “I did try to call you, though.”

“I got that. I called you back, but you weren’t in. I didn’t feel like leaving a message.”

“So tell me, who dumped you into the river?”

“You know what? The gentleman never stopped to give me his name.”

“But he’s a suspect in Zachary’s murder, isn’t he?”

“Come on, Kelly. I chase bad guys for lunch.”

“The short way to say that is ‘No comment.’”

“‘No comment’ is shorthand for ‘yes.’”

“So is he a suspect?”

“Nice coat, Kelly. Is that wool or synthetic?”

“Come on. Give a girl a break, will you? At least tell me whether you’re investigating the murders. That’s not a state secret, is it?”

“No comment. Yes. No.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to make a living, for Christ’s sake. The police are completely constipated on the whole thing. I’m only trying to assure my audience that someone is making some progress. Can’t you just tell me, off the record, who it was that got the jump on a tough guy like you?”

“I like that. Take a compliment and split it in two. I told you, I honestly don’t know the man’s name. All I know is that it appears he’s been stalking a friend of Robin Burrell’s. I wanted to talk to him about Robin, but he got all shy on me.”

“What’s this I’m hearing about another phone threat? Do you know anything about that?”

I looked past Kelly and spotted Megan Lamb crossing at the corner. “There’s your chief investigator. Why don’t you go collect some no-comments from her?”

Kelly followed my gaze. “The Lambinator. I can’t figure that one out. She’s gay, you know.”

“Well, hey, you figured that part out.” As Megan angled in our direction, I whispered, “Say something nice about her hair.”

“As if.”

Megan came over to us. “Any word?”

“Something about the jury foreperson in a coma,” I said. “Apparent suicide attempt. I just got here.”

“I got the call as I was leaving my apartment. I live just over on Hudson.” She acknowledged the reporter. “Morning, Ms. Cole. Any scoops you’d like to share with us?”

“You took the question right out of my mouth.”

“Has the juror’s name leaked yet?”

Kelly shook her head. “No. Would you care to leak it for me, Detective?”

“Don’t worry. Hospitals are sieves. It’ll come out. When it does, I suppose you’re ready to contribute to the shutting down of this trial.”

“I do my job, Detective. You do your job. Mine is reporting the facts.”

“Sometimes your job makes my job ten times harder.”

“I pass information on to the citizens. That’s how a free society works.”

Megan turned to me. “Little early for a civics lesson, don’t you think? Come on.” She started for the emergency room doors.

“Uck foo you too, sister,” Kelly murmured as I turned and followed.

“You all right?” I asked Megan as we entered the hospital.

“Not relevant,” she snapped.

Bruce Spicer was a man surrounded. Seated against the far wall in a visiting area down the hall from the ICU, he was nearly drowning in members of Marshall Fox’s defense team. Peter Elliott and Lewis Gottlieb stood nearby. A dozen cops, a doctor and several other people I couldn’t identify were part of the cluster. Spicer was talking as Megan and I added to the crowd. Actually, he wasn’t talking. He was railing.

“Why in the world should I not speak my mind? My wife has been kept in virtual incarceration for nearly three months, forced to undergo torture and abuse at the hands of state-appointed imbeciles who don’t seem to know which hole their heads are supposed to pop out of. Let me tell you something right now, I am tired. I am sick and tired and disgusted at the bend-over-backward efforts to so-called protect the so-called rights of a rapist and fornicator and murderer! Who’s nuts here? Is it me? Have I landed on a backward planet? The man is a despicable sinner. He is guilty of all the charges. Not to mention a whole lot more that the state has been too lily-livered to even bother to bring. I’m sick of it. I’m disgusted. I’m fed up. My wife is on death’s doorstep, thanks to you people!”

He sent an accusing finger around the room, punctuating the air as he aimed it at every single person present. Even Megan and I got stabbed.