is very blue and there seems to be as much below you as above you.
You’ve got half a second to think about your obituary. Once you’re dead you’ll be a hero cop. The headlines will be kind. The pretty newscasters will pull sad faces. They’re usually courteous to the dead.
But in the locker room, in internal memoranda, they’re going to flay you for being so fucking dumb. They’re going to be lecturing rookies about you for the next decade. You’re going to be an object lesson on what not to do.
You shift your center of gravity, still trying to grab the kid. It’s the right thing to do if you can’t do anything else. You think, At least I can hold the baby on the way down. It’s not exactly comforting but it’s something.
Then there’s blood in your eyes.
The father, with only half a head, cocks his chin and his brains slew out to the left and pour over his ear in a gush.
He tries to speak, perhaps say a name. His own or his wife’s or the child’s, if the kid has one yet. But then his tongue just unfurls and hangs there as dead as he is.
You snatch the kid free.
The guy rocks back on his feet and topples over, venting explosively as he hits the concrete. The negotiator’s slacks will never be the same.
Ray stands there looking at you, still holding his gun out in front of him like he might pull the trigger again. The two of you face each other. He chuckles like he can’t believe this shit. He gives you the full-wattage charm. You think about how easily Ray’s shot could’ve taken off your head instead. Right after you thank him for saving your life, you want to break his jaw.
He signals the all clear. You carry the kid downstairs and then you catch hell from your sarge, your lieut, the captain, and the commissioner. After all the yelling they let you slide, because they have to.
There’s a million photographs and miles of videoof the scene. You and Ray are heroes. You get commendations. You both get medals. The orphaned newborn gets picked up by an elderly spinster aunt from Brooklyn who has no idea what to do with a baby. In all the photo ops she wears a dazed expression like she wants to throw up.
Dani is standing beside you, one arm around your waist, smiling perfectly for the cameras so that you feel, second by second, torn by pride and humiliation. The mayor constantly leans over to her and dips his lips close to her ear, sometimes whispering, sometimes speaking loudly enough for you to hear. He slobbers empty declarations of esteem. The mayor’s tongue is a wet, hungry leech seeking Danielle’s fresh blood. Your breathing hitches, sweat breaks out, and your face pales.
The mayor is saying, He’s got a bright future ahead of him. The leech almost reaches her, and you imagine it slithering inside her ear canal.
And Dani answering, He’s more driven than anyone I’ve ever met.
Everyone switches places on the stage a few times. The crime-beat paparazzi shout names to get you to look this way, this way, over here, over here. You wind up between Dani and Ray. It’s a strange feeling, like you’re coming between lovers. You wonder about drive, whether you really have any or not.
You scan the crowd but can’t find any faces you recognize. Later on, Ray fades off the stage but you know he’s still somewhere in the room. You don’t have to see Ray to know he’s there. You’ve never had to see Ray, will never have to see Ray, to know he’s forever there.
Reporters ask why you took such a risk and you canthink of nothing to say. You stumble over your words, coming out with something tepid and clichéd like, It’s my job to protect the innocent. It stuns the room into silence until your lieut cuts in front and starts talking. He’s good, articulate. He enjoys the spotlight.
The reporters eat it up. All of them invariably edit your few comments to make you sound much sharper.
But Ray taunts you with that line for the next ten years, throwing it out every so often, sometimes
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