“I’m out of time, Bosch, and so are you.”

Rourke braced the gun with both hands and spread his feet to the width of his shoulders. At that final moment Bosch closed his eyes. He cleared his mind of all thought but of the water. So warm, like a blanket. He heard two gunshots, echoing like thunder through the concrete tunnel. He fought to open his eyes and saw Rourke leaning against the other wall, both his hands up in the air. One held the M-16, the other the penlight. The gun dropped and clattered into the water, then the penlight. It bobbed on the surface, its bulb still on. It cast a swirling pattern on the roof and walls of the tunnel as it slowly moved away with the current.

Rourke never said a word. He slowly sagged down the wall, staring off to his right-the direction Bosch thought the shots had come from-and leaving a smear of blood that followed him down. In the dimming light, Bosch could see surprise on his face and then a look of resolve in his eyes. Pretty soon he sat like Bosch against the wall, the water moving around his legs, his dead eyes no longer staring at anything.

Things went out of focus for Bosch then. He wanted to ask a question but couldn’t form the words. There was another light in the tunnel and he thought he heard a voice, a woman’s voice, telling him everything was okay. Then he thought he saw Eleanor Wish’s face, floating in and out of focus. And then it sank away into inky blackness. That blackness was finally all he saw.

PART VIII

Bosch dreamed of the jungle. Meadows was there, and all the soldiers from Harry’s photo album. They stood around the hole at the bottom of a leaf-covered trench. Above them a gray mist clung to the top of the jungle canopy. The air was still and warm. Bosch took photographs of the other rats with his camera. Meadows was going into the ground, he said. Out of the blue and into the black. He looked at Bosch through the camera and said, “Remember the promise, Hieronymus.”

“Rhymes with anonymous,” Bosch said.

But before he could tell him not to go, Meadows promptly jumped feet first into the hole and disappeared. Bosch rushed to the edge and looked down but saw nothing, just darkness like ink. Faces came into focus, then slipped back into the blackness. There was Meadows and Rourke and Lewis and Clarke. From behind him, he heard a voice he recognized but couldn’t place with a face.

“Harry, c’mon, man. I need to talk to you.”

Then Bosch became aware of a deep pain in his shoulder, throbbing from elbow to neck. Someone was tapping his left hand, lightly patting it. He opened his eyes. It was Jerry Edgar.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Edgar said. “I don’t have much time. This guy on the door says they’ll be here anytime now. Plus he’s due to go off watch. I wanted to try to talk to you before the brass did. Would’ve been by yesterday but this place was crawling with silk. Besides, I heard you were out most of the day. Too delirious.”

Bosch just stared at him.

“On these things,” Edgar said, “I’ve always heard it’s best to say you can’t remember a thing. Let them put it whatever way they want. I mean, when you catch a round, there’s no way they can say you’re lying about remembering. The mind shuts down, man, when there is traumatic insult to the body. I’ve read that.”

By now Bosch realized he was in a hospital room and he began to look about. He noticed five or six vases of flowers, and the room smelled putridly sweet. He also noticed he had restraining belts across his chest and waist.

“You’re at MLK, Harry. Um, doctors say you’ll be all right. They still have some work to do on your arm, though.” Edgar lowered his voice to a whisper. “I snuck in. Think the nurses have a change of shift or something. Cop on the door, he’s over from Wilshire patrol, let me in ’cause he’s selling and he musta heard that’s my gig. I told him I’d take his listing for two points if he gave me five minutes in here.”

Bosch still hadn’t spoken. He wasn’t sure he could. He felt like he was floating on a layer of air. He had trouble concentrating on Edgar’s words. What did he mean about points? And why was he at Martin Luther King-Drew Medical Center near Watts? Last he remembered, he had been in Beverly Hills. In the tunnel. UCLA Med Center or Cedars would have been closer.

“Anyway,” Edgar was saying, “I’m just trying to let you know what’s going on as much as possible before the silks get here and try to fuck you over. Rourke is dead. Lewis is dead. Clarke is bad, he’s on the machine, and I heard they were just keeping him going for parts. As soon as they line up people that need ’em, they’ll pull the plug. How’d you like to end up with that asshole’s heart or eyeball or something? Anyway, like I said, you should come out of this all right. Either way, with that arm, you can get your eighty percent, no questions asked. Line of duty. You’re a made man.”

He smiled at Bosch, who just looked at him blankly. Harry’s throat was dry and cracked when he finally tried to speak.

“MLK?”

It came out a little weak but okay. Edgar poured a cup of water from a pitcher on the bedside table and handed it to him. Bosch unbuckled the restraints, sat himself up to drink it and immediately felt a wave of nausea hit him. Edgar didn’t notice.

“It’s a gun-and-knife club, man. This is where they take the gangbangers after the drive-bys. No better place to go with a gunshot in the county, leastwise those yuppie doctors over at UCLA. They train military doctors here. So they’ll be ready for war casualties. They brought you in on a chopper.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s a little after seven, Sunday morning. You lost a day.”

Then Bosch remembered Eleanor. Was she the one in the tunnel at the end? What had happened? Edgar seemed to read him. Everybody had been doing that lately.

“Your lady partner is fine. She and you are in the spotlight, man, heroes.”

Heroes. Bosch thought about that. After a while, Edgar said, “I gotta book on out of here. If they know I talked to you first, I’ll get shipped out to Newton.”

Bosch nodded. Most cops wouldn’t mind Newton Division. Nonstop action in Shootin’ Newton. But not Jerry Edgar, real estate agent.

“Who’s coming?”

“Usual crew, I guess. IAD, Officer Involved Shooting team, the FBI is in on the act. Bev Hills, too. I think everybody’s still figurin’ out what the fuck happened down there. And they only got you and Wish to tell ’em. They probly want to make sure you two have the same story. That’s why I’m saying, tell ’em you don’t remember dick. You’re shot, man. You are an injured officer. Line of duty. It’s your right not to remember what happened.”

“What do you know about what happened?”

“The department isn’t saying shit. No scut going around on this at all. When I heard it went down I went out to the scene and Pounds was already there. He saw me and ordered me back. Fuckin’ Ninety-eight, he wouldn’t say shit. So I only know what’s in the press. The usual load of bullshit. TV last night didn’t know shit. TheTimes this morning doesn’t have much, either. The department and the bureau, they look like they joined up to make everybody a valiant soldier.”

“Everybody?”

“Yeah. Rourke, Lewis, Clarke-they all went down in the line of duty.”

“Wish said that stuff?”

“No. She’s not in the story. I mean, she isn’t quoted. I ’spect they’re keeping her kind of under wraps till the investigation is over.”

“What’s the official line?”

“TheTimes says the department says Lewis and Clarke and you were part of the FBI surveillance at that vault. Now I know that’s a lie ’cause you’d never let those clowns near one of your operations. Besides, they’re IAD. I think theTimes knows something about it stinks, too. That Bremmer guy you know was calling me yesterday, seeing what I heard. But I didn’t talk. My name gets in the paper on this and I’ll get worse than Newton. If there is such a place.”