Wednesday, September 22, 10:30 a.m.

“This is embarrassing,” David muttered, then flinched when a petite ER doctor pulled the suture on his chin a little too hard. “Ow. That hurts. Aren’t you done yet?”

She rolled her eyes. “You big guys are the worst, you know. Whine, whine, whine.”

He felt the need to defend himself. “Hey, it’s fifteen stitches.”

Her lips tipped up as she pulled another suture. “Only fourteen. You’ll have a scar, though, so you can brag about it for years to come.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Casey burst through the curtain, anger in his eyes that David knew was leftover panic. “What the hell did you do to yourself, Hunter?”

“I was stupid, okay?” David said, now angry with himself. “Ouch.”

“Hold still, cowboy,” she said. “Could you please sit down, whoever you are?”

Casey pulled up a chair and dropped into it. “I’m his captain. He’ll live?”

“Oh, sure. He’ll have a hell of a headache, but he’ll survive. Not so sure if he’ll survive the ribbing he’ll get later.”

“Thank you,” David said sarcastically. “I tripped, okay? It was an easy fire. Lady had left a towel on the stove, husband accidentally turned it on, and the kitchen went up. We put the damn thing out in three minutes. Less, even.”

“So what did you trip on?” Casey asked.

“Her damn cat.” He clenched his teeth. “I went down, hit my chin on some stupid metal modern-art sculpture… thing.”

“I have to say, I’m relieved you’re not invincible. I was getting kinda spooked there.”

The doctor’s brows lifted. “What horrible fates have you barely escaped?”

“Falling four stories and getting pinned by a beam,” David said flatly. “This week.”

Her eyes widened. “You caught the ball? Well, I guess you were due a scratch. I’m almost done.”

“Good,” he said, “then I can get back to work.”

Casey shook his head. “No.”

“What do you mean? She’s gonna stitch me up, send me back in the game. Right, Doc?”

She shook her head. “He’s the boss, big guy. I just do the needlepoint.”

Casey had his stubborn face on now. “You can’t work with stitches in your chin. It’s against policy. And even if it wasn’t, I’d still say no. You’re distracted, and you have a right to be. But I’m not putting your team in danger because you can’t concentrate.”

It was fair. He’d gone in, seen it was an easy fire and his mind had exploded three million different directions. Olivia, Kane, Zell, Lincoln Jefferson, that damn Web site and the boy who’d been at the fire… “I’m sorry, Captain. I know we’re shorthanded.”

“It’s okay. I should have seen the signs and told you to take a day off. I was preoccupied with Zell, too. Is he done?”

“He is. Go home, let your girl fuss over you. You’ll be back to work in a week.”

She left and David pushed himself to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.” His head hurt and he was feeling really surly. And a little nauseous, too. Wonderful.

“Who’ll fuss over you?” Casey said. “Your girl’s a little busy right now.”

“I know. She was just here last night. This is where they brought Kane.”

“I know. That was my first thought when Carrie called and told me you were hurt and the medics were bringing you here. I’ll take you back to the firehouse to get your stuff and get the paperwork done. Your stitches have to be healed before you can come back. You’re officially on leave.”

Wednesday, September 22, 10:30 a.m.

Olivia had hoped not to come back to the morgue today. She’d already had enough gut-churning for one morning. Feet like lead, she followed Noah through the hallways that seemed to grow narrower with each step.

Earlier this morning they’d met Ian in one of the offices up front to talk about Joel. This time they were going back to the autopsy suite. Somewhere in there, lay Kane.

Her heart pounding, she stopped, trying to slow her breathing. “Noah. Wait.”

He turned, surprised. “What’s wrong?”

It was humiliating, but somehow easier since she’d blurted it to Donahue that morning. “I’ve been getting panic attacks. Since the pit.”

Understanding softened his features. “What can I do?”

“Nothing. I just have to get through it on my own. But… this is harder than usual.”

“You know, you’re really hard on yourself. Do you think you’re the first cop this has happened to?”

“You?”

He nodded once. “Long time ago. You okay to go in now?”

“I have to be. How do you handle it?” she murmured when they were walking side by side. “When you get overwhelmed?”

“Therapeutic sex,” he said wryly. “I’m serious,” he added when she snorted a surprised laugh. “Sometimes you need to hold back reality for a little while.”

She thought about the amazing ride she’d taken with David that morning. Part of her had been feeling a little guilty for forgetting her grief for those few minutes. The other part of her knew it was silly and that Kane of all people would have told her that. But hearing it from Noah made it a little easier. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

“Anytime.” Opening the door, he stuck his head in, then looked back. “Just Joel.”

He’d understood that, too, her fear of seeing Kane here. Like this. She drew a breath and made her feet move. Ian stood waiting impatiently.

“I’ve got an angry undertaker pacing out front,” Ian said. “We need to hurry.”

“What’s so important?” Noah asked.

“This.” Ian lifted the sheet, exposing Joel’s pelvis. “Right here. A needle mark.”

Noah winced. “He shot up in his groin? God. I hate when they do that.”

Olivia gritted her teeth and made herself look. “That’s usually a behavior for long-term IV drug users. Did you find track marks in other places?”

“No, I didn’t and I doubt he injected himself,” Ian said. “I found the binder from the pills in his stomach contents, like I told you earlier, but I started thinking after you left. The pills he swallowed to get that much binder in his stomach weren’t consistent with the high level of narcotics in his system. I figure he swallowed the first two, then the rest was injected. Given no evidence of prior IV drug use, and a couple pills already in his system, I doubt he’d have been able to access the femoral vein with a steady hand.”

“So somebody did it for him.” Olivia felt relief for the Fischers.

“I wonder if Joel was about to tell on the others,” Noah said. “They shut him up.”

“Something else,” Ian said. “Injected, it would have been a fast high and not the slower action of swallowing the pills. I don’t know how he managed to drive anywhere.”

Olivia frowned. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t think he drove his own car off the road,” Ian said.

“They would have had to put him behind the wheel, shove his foot on the gas, and put the car in gear from outside the car,” Noah said. “It’s been done.”

“Whoever did this had to be strong enough to put Joel in the driver’s seat,” she said.

“Or they could have shoved him over the gearshift,” Ian said. “When you know what you’re looking for, you see things differently.” He pointed out a bruise on Joel’s left hip. “Could have been from being thrown from the car. Could have been from the shift.”

“I think this will give the Fischers some peace, but worsen their grief, too,” Olivia said. “Someone murdered their son.”

Wednesday, September 22, 11:15 a.m.

Austin stood on a downtown Minneapolis sidewalk, at the large plate-glass window of a gym with televisions suspended from the ceiling. They had the closed-captioning going for the exercisers, who sweated on treadmills.

His face was all over the news. The arsonists had struck again last night. Four dead. So many hurt. This has to stop. I have to make this stop. Then the next story started and his blood went cold. A bomb-threat scare. At my school. An unidentified student narrowly escaped kidnapping. Police detective killed. An interpreter missing.