"What?"

"Move back." Gently Johnno eased him to his feet. "They need to have a

look at her."

Dazed, Brian watched the ambulance attendants move in and

crouch over his daughter. "She must have fallen all the way down the

stairs."

"She'll be all right." Johnno sent a helpless look toward P.M. as they

flanked Brian. "Little girls are tougher than they look."

"That's right." A bit unsteady on his feet, Stevie stood behind Brian

with both hands on his shoulders. "Our Emma won't let a tumble down the

stairs hold her up for long."

"We'll go to the hospital with you." Pete moved over to join them.

Together they watched as Emma was carefully lifted onto a stretcher.

Upstairs, Bev screamed ... and screamed and screamed, until the

sound filled every corner of the house.

LOU KESSELRING SNORED like a wounded elephant. If he indulged in a beer

before bed, he snored like two wounded elephants. His wife of seventeen

years coped with the nightly event by wearing earplugs. Lou knew Marge

loved him in her own steady, no-nonsense way, and he considered himself

fortunate and smart for not sleeping with her before marriage. He was

honest, but had kept this one little secret. By the time she'd

discovered it, he'd had his ring on her finger.

He was really rattling the shingles tonight. It had been nearly

thirty-six hours since he'd slept in his own bed. Now that the Calarmi

case was closed, he was going to enjoy not only a good night's sleep but

a whole weekend of sloth.

He actually dreamed about puttering around the yard, pruning roses,

playing a bit of catch with his son. They'd barbecue some burgers on

the grill and Marge would make her potato salad.

He'd had to kill a man twelve hours before. It wasn't the first time,

though, thank G.o.d, it was still a rare occurrence. Whenever his work

took him that far, he needed, badly, the ordinary, the everyday. Potato

salad and charred burgers, the feel of his wife's firm body against his

during the night. His son's laughter.

He was a cop. A good one. In the six years he'd been with Homicide,

this was only the second time he'd had to discharge his weapon. Like

most of his colleagues he knew that law enforcement consisted of days of

monotony-legwork, paperwork, phone calls. And moments, split seconds,

of terror.

He also knew, as a cop, that he would see things, touch things,

experience things that most of the world was unaware of-murder, ghetto

wars, back-alley knifings, blood, gore, waste.

Lou was aware, but he didn't dream of his work. He was forty, and had

never, since picking up his badge at the age of twenty-four, brought his

work home.

But sometimes it followed him.

He rolled over, breaking off in mid-snore as the phone rang.

Instinctively he reached out, and with his eyes still closed, rattled

the receiver off the hook.

"Yeah. Kesselring."