among the blackness.
“We have to leave the dog if we’re going to have a chance.”
Sirius was still breathing; blood was no longer pouring out of him, but I was afraid that was because he’d bled so much already. Without answering the Strangler directly, I shifted the direction of my gun. It wasn’t easy holding up my partner, with the gun in my right hand, but I’d managed. In a few moments, I could holster the gun and then carry my friend by myself.
The Strangler read my intentions and all but jumped to his feet. I reluctantly eased the pressure on my trigger finger. In the fire my morality had burned away.
My partner was a dead, unwieldy weight in our arms, but I couldn’t let him go. As he struggled for air and continued to fight for life, his sounds made me press on.
Holding Sirius between us, the Strangler and I resumed our death march.
In the limbo of past and present, the crippling forces of grief and despair made my chest feel as if it was being staved in. That pain hurt even more than the burning fire.
And then I was gasping in the now, the dream behind me, as my partner’s licks awakened me and cooled my burning flesh.
In the calm of the moment after, I found myself focused on the crazed red orbs of Ellis Haines. As we had walked through hell, his eyes had always been on me, but now, in my vision, I watched as he plucked out his right eye and offered it to me.
And then I heard the words—or maybe I thought them—“An eye for an eye.”
I fully awakened then, and I thought of Paul Klein and the gap of his missing orb. I wondered whether the bullet was a statement. If I could believe what my vision was telling me, the shooting had been carried out by someone who believed in an eye for an eye. If that was the case, the killer had acted upon what he or she perceived to be a grievous wrong.
Sirius offered up another lick.
“I am awake,” I said, reaching for his head with both of my hands. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re the best nightmare cure in the world?”
He leaned into the bed, gladly accepting my praise and scratches. The love fest was cut short when my alarm went off.
“We need to hurry,” I told him, “or we’ll be late for school.”
I had driven by Beverly Hills High School many times but never had reason to go on its campus. The school is located in the southern part of Beverly Hills and borders on Century City. Contrary to what television might have you believe, the high school’s zip code is 90212. Pictures taken from the school’splaying fields invariably include the background of high-rise hotels and buildings on Avenue of the Stars and little Santa Monica Boulevard. I turned on Moreno Drive and followed the signs. Along the way I saw media vans lining the street. Signs directed me to student and faculty parking, but a security guard was barring entry and apparently doing his best to keep the media at bay. When I showed him my wallet badge, he waved Sirius and me through.
After parking the car I told my partner, “You’ll have to wait for me.”
Sirius didn’t even try to pretend he was disappointed but instead just curled up on the backseat.
“I was at least hoping for an argument,” I said.
He raised one eye and then closed it.
The BHHS campus is sprawled out over a lot of acreage, and it took me a few stops and starts to orient myself. Anyone expecting a prep school for the rich would have been disappointed. The school was mostly nondescript, with little to distinguish it. The producers of the original Beverly Hills 90210 must have decided the same thing: they used the exterior of Torrance High School, which was some twenty miles away, for their shots.
As I made my way to the administrative offices, I encountered more security guards. There was a lot of talking going on over walkie-talkies. The guards were intent on keeping the media away from the campus, which was more than all right by me. Even though it was early, teachers and students were
“We have to leave the dog if we’re going to have a chance.”
Sirius was still breathing; blood was no longer pouring out of him, but I was afraid that was because he’d bled so much already. Without answering the Strangler directly, I shifted the direction of my gun. It wasn’t easy holding up my partner, with the gun in my right hand, but I’d managed. In a few moments, I could holster the gun and then carry my friend by myself.
The Strangler read my intentions and all but jumped to his feet. I reluctantly eased the pressure on my trigger finger. In the fire my morality had burned away.
My partner was a dead, unwieldy weight in our arms, but I couldn’t let him go. As he struggled for air and continued to fight for life, his sounds made me press on.
Holding Sirius between us, the Strangler and I resumed our death march.
In the limbo of past and present, the crippling forces of grief and despair made my chest feel as if it was being staved in. That pain hurt even more than the burning fire.
And then I was gasping in the now, the dream behind me, as my partner’s licks awakened me and cooled my burning flesh.
In the calm of the moment after, I found myself focused on the crazed red orbs of Ellis Haines. As we had walked through hell, his eyes had always been on me, but now, in my vision, I watched as he plucked out his right eye and offered it to me.
And then I heard the words—or maybe I thought them—“An eye for an eye.”
I fully awakened then, and I thought of Paul Klein and the gap of his missing orb. I wondered whether the bullet was a statement. If I could believe what my vision was telling me, the shooting had been carried out by someone who believed in an eye for an eye. If that was the case, the killer had acted upon what he or she perceived to be a grievous wrong.
Sirius offered up another lick.
“I am awake,” I said, reaching for his head with both of my hands. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re the best nightmare cure in the world?”
He leaned into the bed, gladly accepting my praise and scratches. The love fest was cut short when my alarm went off.
“We need to hurry,” I told him, “or we’ll be late for school.”
I had driven by Beverly Hills High School many times but never had reason to go on its campus. The school is located in the southern part of Beverly Hills and borders on Century City. Contrary to what television might have you believe, the high school’s zip code is 90212. Pictures taken from the school’splaying fields invariably include the background of high-rise hotels and buildings on Avenue of the Stars and little Santa Monica Boulevard. I turned on Moreno Drive and followed the signs. Along the way I saw media vans lining the street. Signs directed me to student and faculty parking, but a security guard was barring entry and apparently doing his best to keep the media at bay. When I showed him my wallet badge, he waved Sirius and me through.
After parking the car I told my partner, “You’ll have to wait for me.”
Sirius didn’t even try to pretend he was disappointed but instead just curled up on the backseat.
“I was at least hoping for an argument,” I said.
He raised one eye and then closed it.
The BHHS campus is sprawled out over a lot of acreage, and it took me a few stops and starts to orient myself. Anyone expecting a prep school for the rich would have been disappointed. The school was mostly nondescript, with little to distinguish it. The producers of the original Beverly Hills 90210 must have decided the same thing: they used the exterior of Torrance High School, which was some twenty miles away, for their shots.
As I made my way to the administrative offices, I encountered more security guards. There was a lot of talking going on over walkie-talkies. The guards were intent on keeping the media away from the campus, which was more than all right by me. Even though it was early, teachers and students were
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