Robert Tanenbaum: Malice

One of her main political backers in her party had been none other than city power broker Emil Stavros. When Karp's office brought a murder indictment against him, she howled that the charges were trumped up and "dirty politics."

Still, he'd never figured her for a nutcase, much less an assassin.

"I think she heard about Emil's conviction and knew that she'd look like she'd supported a killer. I guess at that point the only way to win the election was by killing her opponent," Marlene said when he'd wondered aloud what caused Rachman to snap.

"What happened to her after she shot me?" he asked, then wished he hadn't when he saw the look on his wife's face. That was the first time he recalled the image of her running into the street with a gun in her hand.

"I killed her," Marlene confirmed, her eyes dropping. A tear rolled down her cheek and fell on the bed. He reached up and brushed away another. He knew the tears weren't for Rachman; they were for her own seeming inability to escape the cycle of violence that had taken over her life. She'd been trying to put that behind her with varying degrees of success, but in general seemed more at peace than she had in years.

A burst of hushed laughter and giggles from the nurse's station brought Karp back to the present. Clay would cut this young bull's balls off if he pulled a surprise inspection and caught him away from his post, he thought.

Fulton's already overprotective nature had only been exacerbated by the shooting. Hard to believe, but true, considering he'd already gone overboard following the murderous escape of the sociopath Andrew Kane from a police motorcade while being transported to a psychiatric hospital in upstate New York. Even though he was blameless, the detective, who'd been shot during the escape, wore the guilt like a coat of lead on his broad shoulders.

The thought of Kane's escape brought back the images of the children from Karp's dream. He could see the photograph from the crime scene of their bodies lying next to an overturned bus. He knew each of their faces from the school yearbook photographs kept in the evidence file back in his office. Smiling, happy children with freckles and ponytails who'd been butchered by terrorists as a diversion to ambush the police escort and free Kane.

Lying in the hospital bed, Karp felt anger rise in him like bile as he returned to the question that had haunted him for all the months since: Who else was responsible? Kane didn't do it on his own.

The last time Karp had seen him, Kane was diving into the turbulent waters where the Harlem and Hudson rivers meet-a place called Spuyten Duyvil, or the Devil's Whirlpool-to avoid recapture. He'd been followed into the depths by the half-mad vigilante David Grale. But neither man-nor their bodies-had been found despite an extensive search of the heavily wooded shores of the Hudson to the waters of the Atlantic Ocean. But that was not a big surprise, according to the NYPD harbor patrol team leader.

"We've pulled strong swimmers from those waters," the officer had told him before the shooting. "Some of them dead by the time we could get to them. It doesn't look bad on the surface, but the combination of all that water coming down the river and the pull of the ocean tides makes it damn nasty underneath. It's like jumping into a big washing machine; it's not easy to tell which way is up. These two you're looking for-both fully clothed and not exactly Olympic swimmers-they're dead. And with those tides, their bodies could be ten miles out to sea."

He knew they were dead, but the lack of closure troubled Karp. He'd made the mistake before of assuming that Kane was finished. He would have rested easier seeing his body.

On the other hand, Karp was torn in regard to his feelings toward Grale. He'd first met him several years earlier when Grale was a young Catholic layman working in a soup kitchen for the homeless. Actually, it was then that teenaged Lucy, Marlene and Karp's daughter, who'd been working in the soup kitchen, had developed a schoolgirl crush on the handsome social worker. She'd even brought him home to meet her parents.

Grale had been intelligent, personable, and gentle. So it had come as a surprise to all of them that he turned out to be a killer who'd been hunting down men who preyed on the homeless. He believed that the men he hunted were literally possessed by demons and that God had appointed him to the task. But while there was little doubt that his victims were themselves murderers, there was no provision in the law that allowed for the summary execution of demons or unconvicted killers.

Grale had become a fugitive, wanted for murder. He'd fled underground, literally, living in the labyrinth of tunnels and sewers-some man-made, some natural-beneath Manhattan. There he'd become the spiritual and temporal leader of an entire population of societal refugees who lived beneath the streets and called themselves the Mole People, or sometimes "underworlders."

In the dark, Grale had devolved further into madness until he saw himself and his followers as the vanguard for God in an upcoming apocalyptic battle against the gathering forces of evil. In his worldview, Manhattan was at the epicenter of Armageddon, and events such as the September 11, 2001, terrorist attack was proof to him that the final war had already begun.

"The demon's face that was seen, and even photographed, in the smoke rising from the World Trade Center was not an accident, or trick of lighting, or the caprice of the wind," Grale had once told him. "It was a warning."

Karp knew that Grale was dangerous, a killer and therefore subject to prosecution under state law in the County of New York. But time and again, this madman, this cold-blooded killer had shown up to rescue some member of the Karp-Ciampi clan, and in fact, thousands of people owed him their lives for his actions against terrorists intent on attacking Gotham.

Grale's alleged death had brought a mixture of relief and sadness. Karp was no longer going to be faced with the prospect of prosecuting him for murder. But part of the unfinished business alluded to by the priest was the desire to simply thank him for the lives he had saved.

As if he'd summoned a ghost, Karp was startled by a sound that emanated from the darkest corner of his room. It sounded like a man trying to suppress a cough. "Who's there?" he demanded.

A tall, thin shadow removed itself from the dark and moved toward him. "Please, not too loud, Mr. Karp," the shadow said.

"David Grale," Karp replied as a pale, hooded face appeared in the minimal light. "We thought you were dead."

"Yes," Grale whispered. "But I can assure you that the rumors of my demise were once again greatly exaggerated…though, perhaps, that is no great comfort to you."

As usual when it came to David Grale, Karp found himself in a conundrum. He didn't know whether to shout for the police officer or listen to what his visitor had to say. He decided to wait.

Grale seemed to sense both the debate and its outcome. He smiled, an act that showed his once perfect smile was now marred by gaps. "Thank you," he said. "I'll take your silence as meaning you won't turn me in. I have what I think is an important warning."

Whatever he was going to say next was interrupted by more deep, wet-sounding coughs that Grale tried to cover behind the sleeve of the monk's robe he wore. Karp recalled that the last time they'd talked, Grale had been racked by a similar bout, and he'd seen him wipe blood away from his mouth.

"Maybe you should get that cough checked out," Karp suggested.

Grale's haggard face softened for a moment. "Oh, this…just a summer cold." He laughed lightly. "But thank you for saying that-the elixir of human kindness is the best medicine. A few more years in the sewers and I'll be better than ever." He tried to laugh but was interrupted by another fit.