heart attack. He couldn't breathe, and his arm was tingling, shooting pains going straight to his chest, which continued to heave and gasp.
Then it came to him. Susan's blonde head, warm and heavy on his shoulder. The length of her bare body, pressed against his. Her left leg, crooked over his hip. Her sheets, smelling of lavender and sex.
He'd eased his arm out from beneath her, and she'd stirred, rolling over, sighing deeply, then drifting back to sleep. He'd watched her a moment longer, feeling an emotion he couldn't name. He wanted to touch her cheek. He wanted to inhale the fragrance of her skin. He wanted to curl up against her and cling to her like a child.
And he'd thought, almost wildly, that maybe if he never got up, the day would never happen. He could stay here, she could stay here, and he'd never have to tell and she'd never have to know. His world could remain warm naked skin, tousled blonde hair, and lavender-scented sheets.
He'd never have to face what he had done. He'd never have to be the man who pulled the trigger. God, life was full of shit.
Bobby got out of bed. He made it to the bathroom, where he realized he hadn't had a chance to urinate since eight last night, and pissed for what felt like forever. Then he got dressed, found the lower drawer where he kept his extra things, and as quietly as he could, emptied the contents into his rucksack.
He paused at the doorway of the bedroom. He took in the flush of Susan's cheeks, the rumpled curls of her golden hair. And Bobby felt an ache that went on and on and on.
Bobby rarely thought of his mother anymore, but when he did, it was almost always during moments like this one. When he wanted something he knew he couldn't have. When he felt a little unhinged, a little undone, a permanent outsider, always looking in.
He remembered the way the woman had held her child last night, the little boy's head tucked against her chest, her hands tight over his ears. And he found himself wondering, in a dark, foreboding sort of way, if his mother had ever done the same.
Two in the afternoon on a bright, sunny day, when he should've been cruising I-93 for speeders or drunks or motorists in need of assistance, when he should've been going through the paces the way he'd been going through the paces for years, Bobby stood in the doorway of his girlfriend's bedroom and felt something inside him tear. A sharp, hard ache. A genuine physical pain.
Then the worst of it was over, and all that was left was an already fading ache, the echo of a ghost pain, a soft mourning for what might have been. He could live with that. He had, in fact, been living with that for years.
Bobby left.
When the front door clicked shut behind him, Susan opened her eyes. She spotted the empty space on the bed. She called out his name, but he was already down the hall and it was too late to hear.
T HE L STREET Tavern was a bar's bar, heralding back to the days of smoke-filled interiors and drunken games of darts, the days before bars became smoke-free, family-friendly national chains and the settings of popular sitcoms. Lots of cops hung out here. Locals, too. It was the kind of a place where a guy could finally relax.
It was also crowded on a Friday night. Bobby thought he'd have to stand, but then halfway across the low-lit room, Walter Jensen from Boston PD spotted him and immediately slid off his stool.
“Bobby, my man! Get your ass over here! Have a seat, make yourself at home. Hey, Gary, Gary, Gary. I'm buying this man a beer!”
“Coke,” Bobby said automatically, making his way to the wood-scarred bar, where lots of guys were turning now, some Bobby knew, some he didn't. Behind the bar, Gary had already started pouring a Killian's.
“Beer,” Walt said sternly. “Pager can't get you anymore, Bobby. Remember? As long as you're on administrative leave, the four-hundred-pound gorilla is dead. So sit back, loosen that collar, and have yourself a cold one.”
“Well, shit,”
Then it came to him. Susan's blonde head, warm and heavy on his shoulder. The length of her bare body, pressed against his. Her left leg, crooked over his hip. Her sheets, smelling of lavender and sex.
He'd eased his arm out from beneath her, and she'd stirred, rolling over, sighing deeply, then drifting back to sleep. He'd watched her a moment longer, feeling an emotion he couldn't name. He wanted to touch her cheek. He wanted to inhale the fragrance of her skin. He wanted to curl up against her and cling to her like a child.
And he'd thought, almost wildly, that maybe if he never got up, the day would never happen. He could stay here, she could stay here, and he'd never have to tell and she'd never have to know. His world could remain warm naked skin, tousled blonde hair, and lavender-scented sheets.
He'd never have to face what he had done. He'd never have to be the man who pulled the trigger. God, life was full of shit.
Bobby got out of bed. He made it to the bathroom, where he realized he hadn't had a chance to urinate since eight last night, and pissed for what felt like forever. Then he got dressed, found the lower drawer where he kept his extra things, and as quietly as he could, emptied the contents into his rucksack.
He paused at the doorway of the bedroom. He took in the flush of Susan's cheeks, the rumpled curls of her golden hair. And Bobby felt an ache that went on and on and on.
Bobby rarely thought of his mother anymore, but when he did, it was almost always during moments like this one. When he wanted something he knew he couldn't have. When he felt a little unhinged, a little undone, a permanent outsider, always looking in.
He remembered the way the woman had held her child last night, the little boy's head tucked against her chest, her hands tight over his ears. And he found himself wondering, in a dark, foreboding sort of way, if his mother had ever done the same.
Two in the afternoon on a bright, sunny day, when he should've been cruising I-93 for speeders or drunks or motorists in need of assistance, when he should've been going through the paces the way he'd been going through the paces for years, Bobby stood in the doorway of his girlfriend's bedroom and felt something inside him tear. A sharp, hard ache. A genuine physical pain.
Then the worst of it was over, and all that was left was an already fading ache, the echo of a ghost pain, a soft mourning for what might have been. He could live with that. He had, in fact, been living with that for years.
Bobby left.
When the front door clicked shut behind him, Susan opened her eyes. She spotted the empty space on the bed. She called out his name, but he was already down the hall and it was too late to hear.
T HE L STREET Tavern was a bar's bar, heralding back to the days of smoke-filled interiors and drunken games of darts, the days before bars became smoke-free, family-friendly national chains and the settings of popular sitcoms. Lots of cops hung out here. Locals, too. It was the kind of a place where a guy could finally relax.
It was also crowded on a Friday night. Bobby thought he'd have to stand, but then halfway across the low-lit room, Walter Jensen from Boston PD spotted him and immediately slid off his stool.
“Bobby, my man! Get your ass over here! Have a seat, make yourself at home. Hey, Gary, Gary, Gary. I'm buying this man a beer!”
“Coke,” Bobby said automatically, making his way to the wood-scarred bar, where lots of guys were turning now, some Bobby knew, some he didn't. Behind the bar, Gary had already started pouring a Killian's.
“Beer,” Walt said sternly. “Pager can't get you anymore, Bobby. Remember? As long as you're on administrative leave, the four-hundred-pound gorilla is dead. So sit back, loosen that collar, and have yourself a cold one.”
“Well, shit,”