"How are you feeling?" the doctor said in a slight singsong accent. He had cocked his head, like one of those crows Bravo had imagined. His coffee-black eyes scanned the electronic readouts flickering above Bravo's head. "Mr. Shaw, please say something if you can hear me."

The invocation of his family name came like a splash of cold water. "Where am I?" Bravo's voice sounded thick and peculiar to his ears.

"In hospital. St. Vincent's," the doctor said. "You've got some deep bruises, contusions, burns here and there and, of course, a concussion. But most fortunately nothing broken or burst."

"How long have I been here?"

The doctor checked his watch. "It's just about two days since they brought you in."

"Two days!" Bravo put a hand up to one ear, but the doctor's slim brown hand stopped him. "Everything sounds muffled-and there's a ringing…"

"Your proximity to the explosion caused a degree of temporary hearing loss," the doctor said. "Perfectly normal reaction, I assure you. I'm relieved that you've regained consciousness. I don't mind telling you that you had us all a bit on edge."

"That damn heavy door saved you, Mr. Shaw, that's a fact," the younger man said in a heavy New York accent.

And then it all came rushing back-the sprint up the block, mounting the worn limestone steps, a fury of sound and then… nothing. All at once everything looked flat. He felt hollow inside, as if while he was unconscious some great hand had passed through skin and tissue to scoop out his insides.

The doctor's brow wrinkled. "Mr. Shaw, did you hear me? I said that within a matter of days your hearing will be unimpaired."

"I heard you." In truth, Bravo had received this news with an equanimity bordering on stoicism. "My father?"

"He didn't make it," the suit said. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Bravo closed his eyes. The room began to swim around, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing.

"I told you. It's too soon," the doctor said from somewhere over Bravo's head. Then he felt a warmth, a sense of calm enter his system.

"Relax, Mr. Shaw," the doctor said. "I'm just giving you a bit of Valium."

Still, he struggled against it-the Valium and the tears that burned his lids, tears that leaked out onto his cheeks, humiliating him in front of strangers. "I don't want to be calm." He had to know… "My sister. Is Emma alive?"

"She's in the room down the hall." The suit had taken out a pad and pencil. No PDA for him.

"Don't worry about her. Don't worry about anything," the doctor added soothingly.

"I need some time with him," the suit said gruffly. There followed a minor altercation, played out on the edge of Bravo's consciousness, which the suit ultimately won.

When Bravo next opened his eyes, the suit was looking at him out of liquid brown eyes, slightly red around their edges. Dandruff lay on the shoulders of his jacket like ash from a fire. Or an explosion. "My name's Detective Splayne, Mr. Shaw." He held up an ID tag. "NYPD."

Beyond the door, a conversation had started up, one voice old and querulous. The squeak of rubber wheels took them away. Bravo endured the deathly silence as long as he was able. "You're sure. There isn't any mistake?"

The detective produced two photos, handed them to Bravo.

"I'm afraid he took the brant of the blast," he said softly.

Bravo looked at his father, or rather what was left of him, laid out on a slab. The second photo, unspeakably stark and therefore vile, was a close-up of his face. The pictures looked unreal, something from a gruesome Halloween prank. Bravo felt almost dizzy with sorrow and despair. His vision swam and, unbidden, the tears came again.

"Sorry, but I gotta ask. That your father? Dexter Shaw?"

"Yes." It took him a very long time to say it, and when he did his throat felt raw, as if he'd been screaming for hours.

Splayne nodded, pocketed the photos and went and stood by the window, silent as a sentinel.

Bravo wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "How… how is Emma?" He found that he was almost afraid to ask.

"The doctor says she's out of the woods."

Splayne's words momentarily reassured him, before the full force of his father's death came rushing back to him, blotting out everything. Dimly, he became aware of the scrape of a chair's legs, and when he next opened his eyes, Splayne was sitting beside the bed, watching him, patient as a cat.

The detective said, "I know this is difficult for you, Mr. Shaw, but you're an eyewitness."

"What about my sister?"

"I already said."

" 'Out of the woods.' What does that mean?"

Splayne sighed as he ran a huge hand across the worn facade of his face. "Please tell me what you remember." He sat still, hunch-shouldered, directing all his attention at the man lying on the hospital bed.

"When you tell me Emma's condition."

"Christ, you're a piece of work." Splayne took a breath. "Okay, she's blind."

Bravo felt his heart jolt. "Blind?"

"They've gone in and done whatever they could. The doc says that either she regains her sight in a week or two, or the blindness will be permanent."

"Oh, God."

"See, this is what I wanted to avoid." Splayne leaned forward. "You aren't gonna pass out on me, are you?"

With fingers like steel pincers, he steered Bravo's face in his direction, stared hard into his eyes. There was a slight cast to the left eye, as if something terrible had happened to that side of his face. Bravo caught the other's intensity, allowed it to bring himself back from the edge of panic and despair. His father dead, Emma blinded, all in the space of a single breath. It was too much, he couldn't accept it as the truth. There must be another reality out there-one in which his father had survived, where Emma hadn't lost her sight-if only he could find it.

"Mr. Shaw, I need you to tell me what happened. It's important, okay?"

"Yes," Bravo said in a reedy whisper. "I understand." He recounted as best he could what he remembered of the brief chain of events just before the explosion.

When he had finished, the detective looked at him. "To be honest, I didn't expect much more than that."

"Then why was it important to talk to me?"

"Hey, I gotta close this thing out, otherwise the paperwork will hound me like a bitch in heat."

Bravo felt a renewed surge of anger. "Do you know what caused the blast?"

"Gas leak in the basement. It was an old brownstone, maybe the heating system was in need of repair. The fire department's going over the place now." Detective Splayne's pen was suspended over the notebook. "One other thing, who's Jordan"-a quick glance down to his notes-"Muhlmann? He's been calling twice a day to check on your condition."

"He's my employer and my friend."

"That's what he told me. So. Anything else?"

Bravo shook his head.

"Then my work here is finished." With a sense of finality, Splayne closed his notebook. "I wish you well, Mr. Shaw."

"That's it? That's where the investigation ends?"

Splayne shrugged. "To tell you the truth, Mr. Shaw, it's where most investigations end. This is a big city, millions of people in it walking in shadows, running away from the light, crawling in the sewers like maggots. It's the maggots I get to spend time with, day in, day out. This here's clean and clear-cut compared with the shit I get most days. I swear, it's enough to hollow you out inside, turn even a hard-case optimist into a cynic." He rose. "Like I said, I'm sorry for your loss, but it's time I was getting to where I'm really needed."

Bravo, still fighting the effects of the Valium, twisted in bed. There was a question he'd wanted to ask. What was it?

"Wait a minute, did you talk to my sister?"

But Splayne had already gone.

Bravo lay back for a moment, his head swimming. The moment he closed his eyes his father reappeared. "All of life's great lessons involve loss," Dexter Shaw said and laid his hand on his son's damp brow. "Don't forget what I've taught you now."