He left his brown bomber jacket on the cot.
A nurse came in, tried to give me a shot of Demerol for the pain.
I declined.
'Is Detective Benedict out of surgery yet?'
'Not yet.'
I lay back on my cot and stared at the ceiling.
Cops came, wanting to debrief me. I told them all to go to hell. Captain Bains stopped by. He told me there would always be a spot on the force for me, if I decided to come back.
I laughed in his face.
Five hours later, Benedict was wheeled into recovery. I sat in his room with him until he woke up.
'Hi, Jack.' His voice was hoarse, a symptom of a bruised larynx.
'Hi, Herb. They told me your surgery went well. You'll get full use of your arm back.'
'Are we okay?'
My eyes teared up.
'We're okay, buddy.'
'You're my partner, Jack. You're supposed to tell me when I'm acting like an idiot.'
'Maybe we were both acting like idiots.'
He nodded. 'Can you do me a favor?'
'Sure, Herb.'
'Can you call my wife, tell her I'm done being an idiot?'
I smiled through the tears. 'I think I can do that.'
'Tell her to bring doughnuts.'
'I will.'
'Two boxes.'
'I will.'
Chapter 53
I spent my days in the hospital, keeping vigil over Mom. Nights I spent at home, alone, staring at the ceiling.
Christmas came. New Year's Eve. Valentine's Day.
Bains refused to accept my resignation, and I got a modest biweekly pension check. I had very few needs. I made do.
Herb was promoted to sergeant, and when he visited, he made me call him Sarge. He traded the Camaro for a Chrysler, and he and Bernice took a two-week vacation in Napa Valley, visiting old friends.
My mother's condition showed some signs of improving. She wasn't coming out of the coma yet, but her Glasgow Scales were getting better, if only slightly. I talked to her, every day. Even when I didn't feel like talking.
'You remember what you told me, Mom? That there are no medals for the completion of a good life? I've been thinking about that. About how no one wins. Like you said, it's impossible to win, because the finish line is death.'
I stroked my mother's hand.
'So what's the point? What's the meaning? Why do we all struggle if we're in a race we can never, ever win? You said we should still run the best that we can. The answer isn't in the winning. The answer is in the running. And you know something, Mom? I think you may be right.'
The next day, I got off early retirement and went back to work for the Chicago Police Department.
And I ran on.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So many people to thank . . .
To fellow writers Raymond Benson, Jay Bonansinga, Doug Borton, David Ellis, Eric Garcia, Rick Hautala, Libby Fischer Hellmann, Warren B. Murphy, Ridley Pearson, James Rollins, Steven Spruill, Andrew Vachss, F. Paul Wilson, David Wiltse, and especially Robert W. Walker, for their words, encouragement, and inspiration.
To my advance readers: Marc Buhmann, Jim Coursey, Laura Konrath, and authors Barry Eisler and Rob Kantner, for their comments, opinions, and assistance in making this book better.
To my family, friends, and those who went the extra mile: Robin Agnew, Lorri Amsden, Chris Bowman, Bonnie Claeson, Latham Conger III, Tom & Melanie Meyers Cushman, George Dailey, Moni Draper, Judy Duhl, Mariel Evens, Dick File, Holly Frakes, Maggie Griffin, Joe Guglielmelli, Maryelizabeth Hart, Jim Huang, Steve Jensen, Jen Johnson, Steve Jurczyk, Edmund and Jeannie Kaufman, Chris Konrath, John Konrath, Talon Konrath, Steve Lukac, Sheldon MacArthur, Otto Penzler, Barbara Peters, Sue Petersen, Terri Smith, Dave Strang, Jim & Gloria Tillez, Chris Wolak, and the many others who have helped out on this journey.
To Officer Jim Doherty for police questions, Jeffrey Evens for law questions, and Mike Konrath, whom I hope one day will embalm me, but not in the manner described in this book. Any technical mistakes in this book are mine, not theirs.
