Slipping into street, Dellray had said aloud, "Here's the shape of the few-ture." And rolled the memo into a ball, launching it into a trash bin for a three-pointer.

"So, you're just… home?" Serena asked, wiping Preston's mouth. The baby giggled and wanted more. She obliged and tickled him too.

"I had one angle on the case. And it vanished. Well, I lost it. I trusted somebody I shouldn't've. I'm outa the loop."

"A snitch? Walked out on you?"

An inch away from mentioning the one hundred thousand. But he didn't go there.

"Gone and vanished," Dellray muttered.

"Gone and vanished? Both?" Serena's face grew theatrically grave. "Don't tell me he absconded and disappeared too?"

The agent could resist the smile no longer. "I only use snitches with extra-ordinary talents." Then the smile faded. "In two years he never missed a debriefing or call."

Of course, in those two years I never paid him till after he'd delivered.

Serena asked, "So what're you going to do?"

He answered honestly, "I don't know."

"Then you can do me a favor."

"I suppose. What?"

"You know all that stuff in the basement, that you've been meaning to organize?"

Fred Dellray's first reaction was to say, You've got to be kidding. But then he considered the leads he had in the Galt case, which were none, and, hefting the baby on his hip, rose and followed her downstairs.

RON PULASKI COULD still hear the sound. The thud and then the crack.

Oh, the crack. He hated that.

Thinking back to his first time working for Lincoln and Amelia: how he'd gotten careless and had been smacked in the head with a bat or club. He knew about the incident though he couldn't remember a single thing about it. Careless. He'd turned the corner without checking on the whereabouts of the suspect and the man had clocked him good.

The injury had made him scared, made him confused, made him disoriented. He did the best he could-oh, he tried hard-though the trauma kept coming back. And even worse: It was one thing to get lazy and walk around a corner when he should've been careful, but it was something very different to make a mistake and hurt somebody else.

Pulaski now parked his squad car in front of the hospital-a different vehicle. The other one had been impounded for evidence. If he was asked, he was going to say he was here to take a statement from somebody who'd been in the neighborhood of the man committing the terrorist attacks on the grid.

I'm trying to ascertain the perpetrator's whereabouts…

That was the sort of thing he and his twin brother, also a cop, would say to each other and they'd laugh their asses off. Only it wasn't funny now. Because he knew the guy he'd run over, whose body had thudded and whose head had cracked, was just some poor passerby.

As he walked inside the chaotic hospital, a wave of panic hit him.

What if he had killed the guy?

Vehicular manslaughter, he supposed the charge could be. Or criminally negligent homicide.

This could be the end of his career.

And even if he didn't get indicted, even if the attorney general didn't go anywhere with the case, he could still be sued by the guy's family. What if the man ended up like Lincoln Rhyme, paralyzed? Did the police department have insurance for this sort of thing? His own coverage sure wouldn't pay for anything like lifelong care. Could the vic sue Pulaski and take away everything? He and Jenny'd be working for the rest of their lives just to pay off the judgment. The kids might never go to college; the tiny fund they'd already started would disappear like smoke.

"I'm here to see Stanley Palmer," he told the attendant sitting behind a desk. "Auto accident yesterday."

"Sure, Officer. He's in four oh two."

Being in uniform, he walked freely through several doors until he found the room. He paused outside to gather his courage. What if Palmer's entire family was there? Wife and children? He tried to think of something to say.

But all he heard was thud. Then crack.

Ron Pulaski took a deep breath and stepped into the room. Palmer was alone. He lay unconscious, hooked to all sorts of intimidating wires and tubes, electronic equipment as complicated as the things in Lincoln Rhyme's lab.

Rhyme…

How he'd let down his boss! The man who'd inspired him to remain a cop because Rhyme had done the same after his own injury. And the man who kept giving him more and more responsibility. Lincoln Rhyme believed in him.

And look what I've done now.

Pulaski stared at Palmer, lying absolutely still-even stiller than Rhyme, because nothing on the patient's body was moving, except his lungs, though even the lines on the monitor weren't doing much. A nurse passed by and Pulaski called her in. "How is he?"

"I don't know," she replied in a thick accent he couldn't identify. "You have to talk to, you know, the doctor."

After staring at Palmer's still form for some time, Pulaski looked up to see a middle-aged man of indeterminate race in blue scrubs. M.D. was embroidered after his name. Again because of Pulaski's own uniform, it seemed, the medico gave him information he might not otherwise have doled out to a stranger. Palmer had undergone surgery for severe internal injuries. He was in a coma and they weren't able to give a prognosis at this point.

He didn't have any family in the area, it seemed. He was single. He had a brother and parents in Oregon and they'd been contacted.

"Brother," Pulaski whispered, thinking of his own twin.

"That's right." Then the doctor lowered the chart and cast a look at the cop. After a moment he said, with a knowing gaze, "You're not here to take his statement. This has nothing to do with the investigation. Come on."

"What?" Alarmed, Pulaski could only stare.

Then a kind smile blossomed in the doctor's face. "It happens. Don't worry about it."

"Happens?"

"I've been an ER doctor in the city for a long time. You never see veteran cops come in person to pay respects to victims, only the young ones."

"No, really. I was just checking to see if I could take a statement."

"Sure… but you could've called to see if he was conscious. Don't play all hardass, Officer. You got a good heart."

Which was pounding all the harder now.

The doctor's eyes went to Palmer's motionless form. "Was it a hit-and-run?"

"No. We know the driver."

"Good. You nailed the prick. I hope the jury throws the book at him." Then the man, in his stained outfit, was walking away.

Pulaski stopped at the nurses' station and, once more under the aura of his uniform, got Palmer's address and social security number. He'd find out what he could about him, his family, dependents. Even though he was single, Palmer was middle-aged so he might have kids. He'd call them, see if he could help in some way. Pulaski didn't have much money, but he'd give whatever moral support he could.

Mostly the young officer just wanted to unburden his soul for the pain he'd caused.

The nurse excused herself and turned away, answering an incoming call.

Pulaski turned too, even more quickly, and before he left the nurses' station, he pulled on sunglasses so nobody could see the tears.