A dead body.
Scott did not recognize the dead man; had never seen him before in his life and had certainly not seen him in the last few minutes. Where the man had come from was a mystery, but there was no doubt that the man was very old, and very dead. A perfect hole - the mirror to the one that Scott himself should have been wearing but somehow was not - perforated the old man's forehead, and blood pooled behind his head in a thickening puddle that slowly reached out to cover more and more of the floor with its dead embrace.
The old man's eyes were open, wide and staring into the spaces of eternity. Even clouded by death, Scott could see that the twin orbs were blue, bluer than any eyes he had ever seen before.
Where did you come from, Mister? he thought.
There was a rushing sound, and pressure built up in Scott's ears, as though he were in the circle of a hurricane, the air pressure so high it almost made him gasp. An electrical snap sounded, lightning fast. Then there was an audible sucking noise as air rushed around him with gale force.
Just as suddenly as it had come, though, it stopped.
Scott looked around.
The old man was still beside him. Still dead, eyes unmoving though his hair - which was still thick and full in spite of his apparent age - was mussed and ruffled by the passing of the strange storm which had assaulted the inside of the shop.
The gray-suited killer, however, was nowhere to be seen. Whether he had gone up the stairs or taken some other route during the strange atmospheric effects, Scott did not know. But the man was gone, of that there could be no doubt.
Then loss of blood and internal trauma finally caught up to Scott and he closed his eyes and lapsed into a fitful sleep.
Not a long one, though. The next moment, it seemed like, he was looking into the face of Officer Terry Ramsay, one of the uniforms that worked out of Scott's precinct.
"Detective Cowley!" shouted Ramsay. "Stay with me, man!"
"The old man -" began Scott.
"Dead," said Ramsay. "Don't you worry about him, you just worry about you. Stay awake, bro. Stay with me."
"What's going on?" asked Scott, his speech oddly slurred and muffled, like he was talking underwater.
"Don't talk, Cowley," said Ramsay.
Scott wanted to say more, to ask where the old man had come from and what had happened to the gray-suited man, but he again lost the battle he'd been fighting since the first shot hit him in the gut. He blacked out.
He was visited in the darkness. An old man, not the same old man with the electric blue eyes that had died impossibly beside him in the shop, but a different old man, one wearing a suit of subtly patterned gray, one with gray eyes half-lidded and teeming with internal madness.
The old man had scars on his face, and Scott remembered in that instant the shot that had ricocheted off the wall near the gray-suited killer, spraying him with chips of concrete and brick. He looked to the old man's right shoulder, and saw that the suit was hanging in tatters on that side.
As though the wearer had been shot there, a long time ago.
Gray Man, thought Scott. The killer is the Gray Man. But he's old now. Mr. Gray is old. How can he be so old?
Mr. Gray leaned over Scott, and whispered to him. "I will come back. I
will
kill you."
A moment later Mr. Gray shimmered, as though walking away through the mirage lines of a desert sun. He leaned down, and picked something up.
It was a baby. But so tiny, much tinier than Chad -
(
Chad, oh God, my Chad, please give me back my son!
)
- had ever been. A premature baby, it had to be.
Mr. Gray picked up the preemie, and held it close as though in an embrace. But instead of love, hatred shone from the old man's insane eyes. And, slowly, he crushed the baby. Thin, mewling cries came from the place in the man's bosom where he was holding the child.
"At last," breathed Mr. Gray. "After all these years."
Then he looked over Scott's shoulder, as though seeing something in the dark void of this strange dream. "No," he said. "Not now. You can't stop me now!"
Then the old man screamed and threw up an arm.
The baby was no longer in his grasp. Instead, it was standing in front of the old man, growing impossibly, turning in an instant into a young boy, then an older boy, then a young man, then hurtling into middle age.
The man was familiar somehow, though Scott could not tell where he had ever seen him before.
Then, an instant before the man erupted into old age, the world twisted around him as it had in the alley....
And Scott woke up in the hospital, wondering what kind of drugs were coursing through his body that could induce such a powerful and strange dream. He could hear the beep, beep, beep of the machines that told him he was alive, and he was glad for that, because the way he felt he was having serious doubts about whether or not that was the case.
He looked down at himself and saw that he was covered in bandages. But the view was blurry, as though he were looking at everything through cotton. Tubes were running in and out of him, and a machine was making hissing noises that told him he was being aided in his breathing.
Someone was next to him. Amy! he thought. But then he realized: no, Amy was dead, and so was Chad. So it wasn't them.
It was Fariborz, his partner. The man, a swarthy Persian with thick arms and back that were currently covered by a shirt that was so tightly stretched over the man's muscles that it looked like it had been painted onto him, was looking at him from below thick eyebrows drawn close together with concern.
"Hey, Far," whispered Scott. He tried to say more, but single small sentence was all he could manage. He felt like he wanted to cry, but no tears were running from his eyes. In fact, his eyes itched, as though he had worn contacts for too long and they had dried his eyes out.
"Hey, Jase," answered Fariborz. The man patted Scott softly on the hand. "How you feelin'?"
"Like crap," answered Scott after a long moment during which he gathered his strength to answer.
"So you feel like you look, then," said Fariborz. "I guess that's good."
"What happened?" asked Scott.
Fariborz snorted. "We were kind of hoping that you'd be able to answer that, man."
Scott related to him all that had happened, starting with seeing his family, then moving on to the shootout with the gray gunman, and ending with the dead body beside him and the disappearance of the killer.
"That's where I don't get what happened," said Scott. "I mean, he
pulled the trigger
, Far. I saw him do it. I heard the blast."
"No doubt about that," said Fariborz. "I mean...I take it you haven't looked in a mirror yet?"
"No, why?"
"Because you have powder burns all over your face, and the doctors said you've got some pretty hefty damage to your corneas due to the same thing. Your tear ducts are also whacked all to hell and back, and it's a miracle you didn't lose your eyes."
"So how did I get through it?" asked Scott. "What happened out there?"
Fariborz shrugged. "It gets weirder. We wanted to talk to you about the shootings, because we found something strange."
"What?"
"You say there were six shots fired by the bad guy, right?"
Scott counted them in his head. One each for Amy and Chad -
They're dead, they're dead, they're dead.
No. Don't think that way. Focus on the job.
- one that parted his hair, one that hit his gut, one that hit his chest, and the final shot, the one that should have taken his head off but left him only with a burnt face and scorched corneas instead.
And the dead man beside him.
"Yeah," said Scott. "Five bullets and then that last one...I dunno. Where did the sixth bullet go?"
"That's the ten thousand dollar question, bud. But we know a few things for sure."
"What?"
"One, the guy we found beside you is a complete John Doe. We ran his teeth and his prints through a dozen different databases - state and federal both - and came up with zilch. Unless family comes forward to claim him or something, it's likely we'll never find out who the guy was. And two, we recovered six casings that matched the ballistics of the bullets we found in -" Fariborz halted suddenly, and Scott knew he had been about to say "Amy and Chad," but had stopped himself. "We recovered six casings. Not five. Six."
Fariborz stopped a moment to let what he had just said sink in. Casings were ejected when a bullet was pushed out the front bore of a gun like the one the shooter had been holding.
"So?" said Scott, not understanding. "Why is that weird?"
"Because the John Doe was, to all appearances, shot within a few minutes of when we found you. Brand new kill. So that brings the shot total up to seven, counting the one that got you. But we only found the six casings."
"So the killer took one."
Fariborz shook his head. "Why the hell would he bother taking a single casing? Plus, we've got another mystery."
"What?"
"The John Doe was killed by a single shot to the head, we're guessing about the same caliber as the other shots we found laying around the alley."
"You're guessing?" asked Scott. "Why don't you know?"
"Weird thing number two. John Doe was killed by a bullet to the brain, and it looks like he was killed right there next to you. But we haven't found a bullet. Seven shots, six casings, five bullets."
"And a partridge in a pear tree."
"Don't joke, man. You know this is going to be a high-profile situation. And the higher-ups and the folks at I.A. don't like it when high-profile situations have numbers that don't add up."
Scott groaned internally. I.A. - Internal Affairs - was not brought into most officer-related shootings, only operating in cases that involved or were suspected to have something to do with dirty cops. But since Scott had been working the mob beat with Homicide, and since there were so many apparent imponderables with the shooting - weird numbers in the ballistic evidence, a hitman that apparently evaporated into thin air, and a John Doe that no one could lay claim to - it was likely that I.A. would be sniffing around and making life a living hell for him.
As though the loss of his family weren't enough already.
"Great," he breathed.
"Yeah," said Fariborz. "Much as I hate to say it, I have a feeling that the real shitstorm hasn't even hit you yet."
***
7.
***
Kevin Angel was the boy's name from the first instant that Lynette dreamed it, and Robbie was gentle and loving enough - or just smart enough - to recognize how badly Lynette needed her son to be named that, and stayed out of her way on the issue. Not that Robbie ever really got
in
her way about things. But he was his own person, and if he disagreed with her, he would be the first one to say so. He would do it nicely, tenderly, but just because he loved her, she knew he hadn't given up his right to challenge her and push her to be better.
But in the matter of Kevin Angel, there was no challenge, no push. There was simply acceptance. His name was Kevin Angel because that was what Lynette said it was, and Lynette said it was because...well...she had dreamed it.
The first days were difficult. Once she herself had recovered enough to go home, it was next to impossible to get her to actually
go
home, since they would be leaving Kevin behind in the NICU. Not only was he still struggling with anemia that required transfusions, but his lungs had not developed fully, so he was in an incubator, both to keep him in an oxygen rich environment, and to keep his small body warm enough to survive until he had - hopefully - fattened up enough that he would be able to self-regulate his temperature.
She did go home, though, mostly because Robbie pointed out that she would be coming back almost all of every day to continuously feed him. Preemies were at high risk of necrotizing enterocolitis, a disease entirely unique to them. The disease could lead to the death of part of Kevin's bowel tissue, and Doctor Cody had made it clear that if that happened it would probably be the last straw in what had already been a very stressful life for Kevin. Formula or other artificial feeding methods were harder on a preemie's gastrointestinal system than was breast milk, so Lynette had to go to the hospital every day and spend most of the day pumping her breasts to get the milk needed to feed their son.
Not that she could actually
feed
him, no. His body was no more prepared to suckle at her breast than it was to breathe without help. Instead, she handed over her milk to a nurse who would then pass it directly into Kevin's tender belly by way of a tube that went through his nose, down his esophagus, and directly into his stomach. It made Lynette almost sick, to watch the milk being delivered not by her bosom or even by her hand, but by a line of clear plastic tubing that went into her little boy's nose. But she knew that it had to be done to keep him alive, and that was the most important thing.