'Kevin, you did everything you could.'

Shaking his head, Kevin forced it out. 'No. It wasn't enough, Mel. If I'd just-'

'How could you have?'

'That's just it. Don't you see? I could have. I should have seen from the beginning. I was too damn slow.'

'But you did get to him.'

'I got to him. Then they got to me.'

'That isn't your fault.'

Again, he shook his head. 'I kept believing it would stop. After I got to him I must have eased up a minute. I didn't want to kick and punch and yell and stab at everybody around me. I mean, just five minutes before I was drinking with these guys. I thought once I got to holding him up, then everybody would realize like, "hey wait a minute, this has gone far enough, we can't do this." But it didn't happen. I just wasn't prepared for that much hate. I let them beat me, and it killed Wade. Now it might kill me, and you.'

Melanie came up off the bed onto her knees in front of him. 'You know what this is, Kevin? This is fatigue. This is total exhaustion. You don't have anything to be ashamed of.'

'I keep seeing him…'

She nodded. 'And you probably will for a long time. You tried to save him, that's what's important.'

'It didn't work, Mel.'

'Lots of things don't work, Kevin. That doesn't mean they weren't worth trying.'

He took in a breath and looked up at the darkened ceiling. 'How about if nothing works? Ever. How about that one?'

She held his arms tightly until he looked down into her eyes. 'That's a tougher one,' she said, 'but that's not you.'

She went into the bathroom and when she came out Kevin was stretched out on the bed, his breathing labored and heavy. When she sat on the side of the bed he opened his eyes. 'Thank you,' he said.

She brushed a finger over the side of his cheek. 'How bad are the ribs? Let's see.'

'I'll show you mine if you show me yours first.' She ignored that and started to pull the UCLA shirt. 'Easy, easy,' he said. Another heavy breath. 'I don't know if this is going to work.'

'Can you lift your arms?'

'A little.'

He raised them as high as he could, and Melanie tugged at the shirt, gently, until it cleared. 'Oh my God, Kevin.' The right side of his chest seemed to be encircled by a rope of bruises – black, red, purple. The skin was broken in half a dozen places, looking infected. 'We've got to get you to a doctor.'

'I don't think that's a great idea.'

'Then what are we going to do?'

'I think we should get some sleep and think about it in the morning. I don't think I've got much left, Mel.'

'Okay, you lay down.' She took his shoulders and carefully helped him lower himself. 'All the way up, head on the pillow,' she directed. When he was settled she saw the physical relief flood through him, his eyes closed, his body relaxing. Covering him to his waist with the thin comforter, she turned and went into the bathroom, got a washcloth and ran warm water over it.

By the time she was back to his side, perhaps one minute had elapsed, and Kevin was asleep.

She tested the washcloth against her arm, then with great care wiped the bruises on his chest, drying it with one of the bathroom's towels and bringing the comforter up to cover him to the neck. Going around the bed, she turned off the television, then the lights by the door and stepped out of her shoes. Otherwise still dressed, sliding in beside him, she lay down on her back, hands at her sides, hardly daring to breathe.

The knock was barely audible. 'Ms Sinclair? Melanie?'

What? No one knew she was here except…

She parted the drapes a couple of inches and was staring into the face of the clerk from the office. Not a young man, his deep-pitched gravelly voice seemed to make the window vibrate against her hand. 'I thought you might be lonesome, want a little company?' The look in his eyes chilled her, and she glanced quickly at the thin chain that, in theory, protected her.

She let the drapes fall, stepping back. Another knock, quietly. 'Ms Sinclair?' A pause. 'Okay, then, no offense.'

She waited as long as she could bear it, then tried the drapes again and looked. He was gone.

Getting into the bed again next to Kevin, she pulled the comforter up around her, but after a short while suddenly lifted it off and sat up.

She walked around the bed, picked up the telephone, and punched in some numbers. It was after ten and she'd been trained not to call anyone after that time, but this time she was going to make an exception.

The tired voice answered. 'Hello? What time is it?'

'Cindy?'

'Melanie? Where are you? Are you all right?'

'I'm fine. One thing, though…'

'Sure, what, anything.'

'Fuck you, Cindy.' And she hung up.

Glitsky went straight up to homicide, but Marcel Lanier, the inspector who had been on call in the office when Loretta Wager was brought downtown, had decided it would be wise to move the senator to avoid the media circus and had chosen a place he thought would be less likely to be used for the next couple of days – Chris Locke's office. He had borrowed a couple of uniformed officers and asked them to wait, standing guard in Locke's reception area until Lieutenant Glitsky arrived. The way things were going he just didn't know – the senator had almost been killed once tonight, and Lanier wasn't about to have anything like that happen again while he was on duty.

Glitsky dismissed the two men in the reception area, closed the door behind him and for the first time in almost twenty-five years was alone in a room with Loretta Wager.

She raised her head. She'd been sitting with her back stiff, one foot curled under her, on one of the couches in Locke's office. Her profile was to him and she held it there. He remained by the door a moment, struck by the control in her posture, the unexpected vulnerability of her face.

'Hello, Loretta.' He stepped toward her. 'Are you all right?'

Her voice had a mechanical quality – shock. 'I don't know how I am. I don't… they tell me a bullet missed me by less than six inches.' She uncurled the leg that had been under her, stood up and faced him. She was barefoot, shorter than he had remembered – an inch over five feet. Her shoes and a small clutch purse that matched the color of her blue suit lay on the floor by the end of the couch.

'But Chris…' She shook her head wearily, lapsed into silence. 'This isn't how I would have chosen to see you again.' She let her posture slip, something giving in her shoulders. 'But then again, you'd chosen not to see me at all.'

Glitsky ignored that, still standing at the doorway. 'You want to tell me what happened?' She cocked her head to one side, some expectation verified. Glitsky felt he should say something, explain himself, though he couldn't say why. Not exactly. 'I run the homicide department. Chris Locke is a pretty important homicide. I gather you're the only witness we've got. I'd like to hear about it.'

Loretta closed her eyes, sighed. Glitsky knew she must have been through it tonight. 'I told my story upstairs to several officers and a tape recorder. I'm sure they're writing it all down.'

'I'm sure they are.'

'But you want to hear it again?'

Glitsky shrugged. He didn't understand why she'd asked for him, but he did know why Lanier had humored her. Well, he was here now, and this is what he did. 'If you want to humor me I'd appreciate it. I understand you asked for me. Here I am.'

There was the start of a smile, but Glitsky couldn't read it. 'When you're bidden.'

'That's just the way I am, Loretta. I'm trying to do my job. You know that.'

A pause. Then: 'I remember.' Unexpectedly – he 'd crossed over to her now – she reached a hand up to the side of his face. But no sooner had the touch registered than she pulled it away. 'All right,' she said, 'but God, I am so tired.'