THE CRACK OF LIGHTNING PULSED against the pitch sky, backlighting the barren landscape around the Westchester Surgery Center.
Lieutenant Carmine Russo, arthritic joints aching from the winter rain, paced outside the door to the operating suite where Oliver Henry, MD was at work. He felt the jolting belt of thunder as the sound waves concussed against the windows, shaking the building in an explosive burst. The storm was close.
Russo ignored it, keeping his feet moving and his mind off what was going on in the adjacent room where a much younger Ben Dyer lay. A lifetime ago Russo had been Dyer’s Big Brother, taking the at-risk youth under his wing and mentoring him. Now Russo was trying to save him yet again.
The door to the surgical suite swung open and out stepped Dr. Henry, clad in maroon operating room greens. His creviced face was long and drawn. He joined Russo near the window and in a low voice, said, “The medication’s already taken effect. He should be okay to travel now.”
Russo, who’d stopped pacing when the door opened, had only one question: “How’s he doin’?”
Henry turned toward the window as another flash lit up the dim room. “Here’s the deal. The tumor’s been removed and he’s got some dissolvable sutures in the sole. I’ll want to monitor his condition closely, check him in a week. Remember what I said about the drug’s effect on his memory. Be patient.”
Russo faced the window but said nothing. Finally, he nodded.
“I think the prognosis is good,” Henry said. “We got it early. It could’ve been a lot worse if we hadn’t taken care of it so quickly.”
A noise from behind them. “Hey, Loo.”
Both men whipsawed around. Detective Ben Dyer was standing in the doorway, aluminum crutches shoved beneath his armpits and a medical boot on his foot.
“You ready to go?”
Russo forced a smile. “Sure, Ben. Let’s blow this place.”
THEY ARRIVED AT DYER’S APARTMENT in midtown Manhattan and took the elevator up to five. Russo helped Dyer navigate the hall, then waited in front of the door while Dyer rooted out his keys.
“This new?” Russo asked, nodding at a wreath made of wine bottle corks that hung around the peephole.
“Amy, she’s got good taste.”
Dyer keyed the lock and pushed the door open, then grabbed the crutch and hobbled inside.
“Amy?” Dyer called into the darkness. He flipped the light switch and walked in, his wet shoe and crutch tips squeaking on the wood floor as he moved deeper into the apartment looking for his fiancé. “Amy?”
“Ben,” Russo said, guiding him into the living room. “Let’s sit, have a chat, okay?”
“Yeah, sure, I just wanna tell Amy I’m home, tell her how it went—”
“That’s what I wanna talk about.”
Dyer squinted at his lieutenant and then took a seat at right angles to him, buttocks on the sofa’s edge, crutches on the floor.
Russo studied the muted maroon area rug at his feet, and then looked up. “Amy ain’t here. Something happened, she witnessed a murder, and she had to go into protective custody. Gettin’ a new identity, the whole—”
Dyer blurted a laugh. His face got round and broad. “Good one, Loo, I thought you were serious for a second. So where is she?” He looked into the dark recesses of the apartment. “Amy!”
“I’m not kidding, Ben. I know this is…it’s hard to get your head around. I get that. But I’m being straight with ya.”
Ben’s face slouched as he realized his longtime friend, the one man he trusted with his life, was serious. “Witness protection?”
“We’ve been through all this, when you were in recovery. That goddamn anesthesia they gave you…it makes you forget things.” He shook his head. “Doc Henry warned me about that.”
“But I don’t remember any of what you’re—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Russo sighed. “I’ll take you through it one more time. Marshals were called in and they took Amy into WITSEC. Had to be
Lieutenant Carmine Russo, arthritic joints aching from the winter rain, paced outside the door to the operating suite where Oliver Henry, MD was at work. He felt the jolting belt of thunder as the sound waves concussed against the windows, shaking the building in an explosive burst. The storm was close.
Russo ignored it, keeping his feet moving and his mind off what was going on in the adjacent room where a much younger Ben Dyer lay. A lifetime ago Russo had been Dyer’s Big Brother, taking the at-risk youth under his wing and mentoring him. Now Russo was trying to save him yet again.
The door to the surgical suite swung open and out stepped Dr. Henry, clad in maroon operating room greens. His creviced face was long and drawn. He joined Russo near the window and in a low voice, said, “The medication’s already taken effect. He should be okay to travel now.”
Russo, who’d stopped pacing when the door opened, had only one question: “How’s he doin’?”
Henry turned toward the window as another flash lit up the dim room. “Here’s the deal. The tumor’s been removed and he’s got some dissolvable sutures in the sole. I’ll want to monitor his condition closely, check him in a week. Remember what I said about the drug’s effect on his memory. Be patient.”
Russo faced the window but said nothing. Finally, he nodded.
“I think the prognosis is good,” Henry said. “We got it early. It could’ve been a lot worse if we hadn’t taken care of it so quickly.”
A noise from behind them. “Hey, Loo.”
Both men whipsawed around. Detective Ben Dyer was standing in the doorway, aluminum crutches shoved beneath his armpits and a medical boot on his foot.
“You ready to go?”
Russo forced a smile. “Sure, Ben. Let’s blow this place.”
THEY ARRIVED AT DYER’S APARTMENT in midtown Manhattan and took the elevator up to five. Russo helped Dyer navigate the hall, then waited in front of the door while Dyer rooted out his keys.
“This new?” Russo asked, nodding at a wreath made of wine bottle corks that hung around the peephole.
“Amy, she’s got good taste.”
Dyer keyed the lock and pushed the door open, then grabbed the crutch and hobbled inside.
“Amy?” Dyer called into the darkness. He flipped the light switch and walked in, his wet shoe and crutch tips squeaking on the wood floor as he moved deeper into the apartment looking for his fiancé. “Amy?”
“Ben,” Russo said, guiding him into the living room. “Let’s sit, have a chat, okay?”
“Yeah, sure, I just wanna tell Amy I’m home, tell her how it went—”
“That’s what I wanna talk about.”
Dyer squinted at his lieutenant and then took a seat at right angles to him, buttocks on the sofa’s edge, crutches on the floor.
Russo studied the muted maroon area rug at his feet, and then looked up. “Amy ain’t here. Something happened, she witnessed a murder, and she had to go into protective custody. Gettin’ a new identity, the whole—”
Dyer blurted a laugh. His face got round and broad. “Good one, Loo, I thought you were serious for a second. So where is she?” He looked into the dark recesses of the apartment. “Amy!”
“I’m not kidding, Ben. I know this is…it’s hard to get your head around. I get that. But I’m being straight with ya.”
Ben’s face slouched as he realized his longtime friend, the one man he trusted with his life, was serious. “Witness protection?”
“We’ve been through all this, when you were in recovery. That goddamn anesthesia they gave you…it makes you forget things.” He shook his head. “Doc Henry warned me about that.”
“But I don’t remember any of what you’re—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Russo sighed. “I’ll take you through it one more time. Marshals were called in and they took Amy into WITSEC. Had to be
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