Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

K yle Walsh bolted awake to find himself on the sofa drenched in sweat. The blue light from the television burned his eyes as his head turned toward it, a familiar infomercial blazing across the screen.

This wasn't an unusual occurrence. In fact, it had happened all too often these past few months. He always woke with a start to the sales pitch of some man or woman hawking useless junk to the other insomniacs who had tuned in on these restless, late nights. He rubbed two fingers along his forehead, feeling the ever-present drumming there, just underneath the skin. He needed Advil and a long run to shake off his discontent in the only way he knew how.

He stood and stripped off his soaked tee shirt, tossing it to the floor as he went into his bedroom to try and find something clean to wear. It would be a struggle, as he could not remember the last time he'd done any laundry or eaten a real meal, for that matter. Ever since the "incident," he'd been tossed into a never-ending cycle of doze, wake, and repeat. True rest was a thing of his past. He fumbled around in the dark before he gave in and turned on the light next to his bed. There were piles of dirty clothes, squashed water bottles, an almost finished fifth of scotch, and stacks of crusty plates everywhere. He knew it was time to do something about the mess, but now was not it.

Finding the half-empty pill bottle on his night table, he quickly popped open the top and poured three blue gel capsules into one hand. He threw them into his mouth and swallowed them down without any water. They lodged in his throat for a moment before they slowly headed south. That done, he felt the need to get out of his condo as quickly as possible before the walls closed in on him. Grabbing the shorts and a shirt from the top of the large, crumpled pile on his desk chair, Kyle grimaced at the smell as he pulled the soiled fabric over his head and down past his nose.

Okay, buddy. One more run, then enough is enough. Like it or not, it's laundry day.

It wasn't as if he had anything better to do with his time. Since "the incident" he'd been on administrative leave with no end to that in sight. He was living in his own version of Dante's circle of hell. Until the department's internal investigation was over, he was stuck waiting to hear if his badge and gun would ever be returned to him. Hell, for that matter, he questioned if he'd be allowed to rejoin the force and once again do his job as a detective.

He'd been over what had happened hundreds of times, but for the life of him, Kyle had no idea what made him fire his weapon on that fateful night. He was sure that the perp was holding a gun, aimed directly at Kyle's chest, but when the smoke cleared, the only gun was the one in Kyle's hand. The young man he'd shot had been brandishing a plastic, toy weapon which Kyle had mistaken for the real thing. Luckily, Kyle's bullet had only grazed him. It had all happened so fast that he'd barely had time to do more than react; however, that didn't matter. He'd been a beat cop and then a detective for almost fifteen years. It was his job and responsibility to know better, to stay cool and calm and to never fire his gun unless necessary.

From where he stood now, Kyle was certain that this mistake would haunt him for the rest of his life, no matter what decision the review board returned with – he would be the guy who wrongfully shot a teenager who was merely holding a toy. When he had come home that night, he'd packed up his personal gun, the one he kept in his night table drawer and used when he went to the range with his brothers. It was the same model revolver that they all owned. He put it in his safe with the boxes of bullets he kept at home. He didn't want to hold it or see it again.

He left his bedroom and carefully picked his way around the trash that was strewn all over the floor of his condo. Lacing up his sneakers, he sighed. If there was one virtue Kyle truly lacked, it was patience. Grabbing his keys and his phone, he head out into the chill of the late-October morning darkness.

When the pounding of his feet overtook the drumming in his head, he knew that he was only running away from his hellish reality for a short time. In the inky darkness before the dawn, Kyle put his head down and moved faster, putting as much distance between his current life and his past mistake as humanly possible. It was the only way he could relieve the torment he felt so deeply in his soul.

Thirty minutes later, he turned off Huntington onto Fenway. He had been raised in this south Boston neighborhood. His parents still lived in the house where he grew up; his aunts, uncles, cousins, and large extended family were deeply rooted in this part of the city. There was not a street or alley he didn't know, and while the route for his run varied, it always seemed to lead him back here. It was a good distance from his current home downtown near the precinct, but the exercise always made him feel better, especially once he was done. He had made it almost to the intersection where the highway dumped out onto the street when he saw a dark gray Rav 4 in the distance taking the exit ramp a little too quickly. As he watched, it careened off the curb and swerved uncontrollably for a moment, almost turning over before barreling over the sidewalk and hitting a tree. The sound of metal crunching against the immovable object was both loud and jarring.

Instinct kicked in and Kyle ran as fast as he could toward the accident, grabbing his cell phone out of his short's pocket and dialing 911. When the call connected, he said, "This is Detective Kyle Walsh. I just witnessed a 10-41, possible code two. I need assistance immediately. EMT and back-up."

"Stay at the scene. I've got a pin on your location coming in now," the operator said. "Ambulance is three minutes out."

"Got it."

He disconnected the call and reached the vehicle, trying to see if the driver needed help getting out. There was a woman slumped over the wheel, blood pouring out of a large gash on her forehead. The airbag had deployed, and smoke had filled the cabin. He quickly tried to open the door, but it was locked. Knowing that time was an issue, he banged hard on the window, trying to rouse her. The police cruiser dispatched to the scene would have an X-Pole, the device they could use to safely break the glass, but for now, if he could wake her, he could direct her to unlock the door so that he could get her out of the car.

At first, she didn't move, but with his insistent banging, she began to shift around frantically in her seat.

"Help me," she said frantically. "Someone, please. I need help!"

"I'm right here," Kyle screamed, trying to get her to turn his way. When she did, he could see how pale she looked. There was a lot of blood pouring from her injury, soaking her shirt and baseball cap, matting her auburn hair that had come loose beneath it. He realized that it would not take long for her to pass out again. "Can you unlock your door?" he yelled. "If you unlock it, I can get you out of the car."

He saw her move her hand toward the handle and heard the click of the automatic release. A scant minute later, he had the door open and was unfastening her seat belt, checking to see if she had any other injuries. He didn't want to move her if she had broken a leg or an arm, and he was worried about her neck and spine as well.

"Do you think you can swing your legs around? What hurts?"

She shook her head, and the blood splattered down her sweatshirt at an alarming rate.

"The baby. The baby. Save my baby," she cried in a distinct British accent.

Kyle looked at her abdomen, but it was flat. If she was pregnant, she wasn't very far along.

"The EMTs are on the way. They'll check you out with a monitor. It will be okay."

"No," she replied. She shifted around enough to point toward the rear of the vehicle. "The car seat…"

He looked behind her and for the first time noticed the infant seat strapped in there. There was no sound coming from it. Kyle determined that she could move her limbs on her own, so he scooped her into his arms and slowly sat her down on the pavement. Then he moved around to the rear passenger door and opened it. Tucked inside the seat was a small baby, a pacifier still in its mouth, blue eyes wide open and staring right back at him. He reached in and undid the seat from the base, pulling the child out to show the woman.

"Your baby is fine. These seats are designed for situations exactly like this," he said, hoping to reassure her.

"Thank God," was all she said before her eyes fluttered shut and she slumped forward, lapsing back into unconsciousness.

Just then Kyle heard the alarms and in what seemed like seconds later, he was surrounded by flashing lights, men and women in uniforms running toward him.

The calvary had arrived.