made it so much quicker, she thought, as she watched the bath water turn red.
Thirteen hours later she discovered what a mistake the razor had been, and how Death had a far sicker sense of humor than the neighborhood kids.
Eleven-year-old Tommy Hamlyn was waiting for the stoplight, worried about being late for dinner and how his mom would be mad at him for not coming home in time, when the white Mercedes hit him.
Tommy went flying off the side of the street a mile from his house on the outskirts of Santa Fe, New Mexico, his right leg shattered by the impact, his ribs crushed like a Coke can. Two of them punctured a lung, and Tommy ended his short life in a ditch beside the road.
The driver of the car already had a rap sheet a mile long and didn’t stop.
Tommy’s last thought was of his mom and the roast chicken dinner he was late for.
When he awoke several hours later, he dragged himself from the ditch, cold, confused, and very hungry. Seeing it was dark, he set off for home as quickly as his right leg would allow him.
Mom was going to be very, very angry.
ALEXANDRIA.
6:01 P.M.
“ Summer arrived in New York with a vengeance today, and with it a wave of violence,” anchor Peter Jennings was saying, but Nick wasn’t really listening.
He was slumped across the black leather couch, a cold Rolling Rock in hand, thinking about Sandy, still angry at their breakfast conversation.
The TV screen flashed footage of New York City cops closing off a midtown street as paramedics dragged away bodies on gurneys. The clip cut to a scene in the Bronx. More cops, more paramedics. More bodies.
Urban violence. The cornerstone of American society. He’d be seeing that up close on the streets of D.C. soon enough. Right now though, he didn’t care. The apprehension he’d carried since graduation took second place to Sandy.
Although he and Sandy had parted tenderly at Union Station, the interval between the abortive breakfast and her departure on the noon train had been tense. He’d wanted their morning together to be sweet, to savor the brief time from waking until departure. When she returned, there would be plenty of grief and pain.
He took a pull from the bottle. The beer was cold, refreshing, but he put it down. You’ve got a problem. Right.
He absently flipped channels, picking up a local news broadcast.
“ Police are withholding further details of the murder until the body has been identified,” said the newscaster against the background of the National Arboretum. “Which may take some time, according to Detective David Quinn. The body was so badly mutilated, identification may only be possible through dental records.” Nick flipped again. So much for a quiet Sunday. Why did people do that shit to each other? He’d find out soon enough. Every rookie knew that once he stepped out onto the streets he’d be looking straight into humanity’s heart of darkness. That was part of the reason he felt anxious—a fear of unknown horrors. The main reason though, was fear of failure. He was scared he wouldn’t measure up, wouldn’t be a better man than his father.
He stopped at ABC again, Peter Jennings still droning on about more death in New York. Fifteen people dead in Harlem. Cut to footage of grieving mothers. Enough. He turned off the TV in disgust and headed for the backyard, leaving the half-drunk beer—his fifth since lunch—on the coffee table.
WASHINGTON HARBOR COMPLEX, GEORGETOWN.
08:12 P.M.
The framed photograph of Billie Holiday dominated the wall to the left of the large window overlooking the Potomac. The singer in her tight evening dress, slender and shadowy in the black-and-white portrait, contrasted sharply with the Akira on the long right wall that stretched from the entrance hall to the kitchen. A simple white block of canvas, Akira’s rectangle was bisected by a violent red arc of paint resembling the spill of blood on a seppuku mat. The image was tranquil despite
Thirteen hours later she discovered what a mistake the razor had been, and how Death had a far sicker sense of humor than the neighborhood kids.
Eleven-year-old Tommy Hamlyn was waiting for the stoplight, worried about being late for dinner and how his mom would be mad at him for not coming home in time, when the white Mercedes hit him.
Tommy went flying off the side of the street a mile from his house on the outskirts of Santa Fe, New Mexico, his right leg shattered by the impact, his ribs crushed like a Coke can. Two of them punctured a lung, and Tommy ended his short life in a ditch beside the road.
The driver of the car already had a rap sheet a mile long and didn’t stop.
Tommy’s last thought was of his mom and the roast chicken dinner he was late for.
When he awoke several hours later, he dragged himself from the ditch, cold, confused, and very hungry. Seeing it was dark, he set off for home as quickly as his right leg would allow him.
Mom was going to be very, very angry.
ALEXANDRIA.
6:01 P.M.
“ Summer arrived in New York with a vengeance today, and with it a wave of violence,” anchor Peter Jennings was saying, but Nick wasn’t really listening.
He was slumped across the black leather couch, a cold Rolling Rock in hand, thinking about Sandy, still angry at their breakfast conversation.
The TV screen flashed footage of New York City cops closing off a midtown street as paramedics dragged away bodies on gurneys. The clip cut to a scene in the Bronx. More cops, more paramedics. More bodies.
Urban violence. The cornerstone of American society. He’d be seeing that up close on the streets of D.C. soon enough. Right now though, he didn’t care. The apprehension he’d carried since graduation took second place to Sandy.
Although he and Sandy had parted tenderly at Union Station, the interval between the abortive breakfast and her departure on the noon train had been tense. He’d wanted their morning together to be sweet, to savor the brief time from waking until departure. When she returned, there would be plenty of grief and pain.
He took a pull from the bottle. The beer was cold, refreshing, but he put it down. You’ve got a problem. Right.
He absently flipped channels, picking up a local news broadcast.
“ Police are withholding further details of the murder until the body has been identified,” said the newscaster against the background of the National Arboretum. “Which may take some time, according to Detective David Quinn. The body was so badly mutilated, identification may only be possible through dental records.” Nick flipped again. So much for a quiet Sunday. Why did people do that shit to each other? He’d find out soon enough. Every rookie knew that once he stepped out onto the streets he’d be looking straight into humanity’s heart of darkness. That was part of the reason he felt anxious—a fear of unknown horrors. The main reason though, was fear of failure. He was scared he wouldn’t measure up, wouldn’t be a better man than his father.
He stopped at ABC again, Peter Jennings still droning on about more death in New York. Fifteen people dead in Harlem. Cut to footage of grieving mothers. Enough. He turned off the TV in disgust and headed for the backyard, leaving the half-drunk beer—his fifth since lunch—on the coffee table.
WASHINGTON HARBOR COMPLEX, GEORGETOWN.
08:12 P.M.
The framed photograph of Billie Holiday dominated the wall to the left of the large window overlooking the Potomac. The singer in her tight evening dress, slender and shadowy in the black-and-white portrait, contrasted sharply with the Akira on the long right wall that stretched from the entrance hall to the kitchen. A simple white block of canvas, Akira’s rectangle was bisected by a violent red arc of paint resembling the spill of blood on a seppuku mat. The image was tranquil despite
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