I, Michael Bennett

CHAPTER 47

MARY CATHERINE AND I stayed over at the hospital. I would have said “slept over,” except we didn’t do any sleeping. We were still too shocked about the whole bizarre, horrible situation. Despite Dr. Walker’s assurances, we couldn’t help but worry that some horrendous complication would pop up unexpectedly.

As my late wife, Maeve, slowly died of cancer, I remember actually aching with worry—physically aching—as my entire self, body and soul, went around from moment to agonizing moment clenched like a fist. I felt that same full-body ache again as I paced the dim halls of the hospital. Of course I did. Old habits die hard. Just like riding a bike.

Around 6:00 a.m., after the morning shift nurse told me the boys were doing fine, I decided to go out and get some breakfast and coffee. After I picked up some takeout from a twenty-four-hour diner on Broadway, instead of heading back to the hospital, I decided to drive around.

Newburgh really had seen better days, I thought, shaking my head at the blighted streets. I cruised past whole blocks of abandoned two- and three-story row houses—decrepit blocks where the only thing functional on the listing structures seemed to be the jury-rigged satellite-TV dishes.

On one corner, I spotted rows of rum bottles and candles, a faded Mylar balloon tied to a Virgin Mary statue. It was a street shrine to someone who’d been murdered, I realized. There was even a picture of the victim, a handsome young Hispanic man, taped to the telephone pole above a stuffed hippo and a Happy Meal Pokémon toy.

I stopped at the address where Moss had told me my boys had been assaulted. I stared down the alleyway between two dilapidated Victorian row houses. The peeling, weather-battered clapboard on both houses made them look scoured and beaten, punished for some horrible crime. Bent and twisted metal poles from an old missing fence stuck up from the concrete in front of the old houses, as if the area had taken a direct artillery hit.

I turned off the bus and got out. Reluctantly. It was deserted and desolate this early, but it was definitely a scary-looking place. The only comfort I took as I headed down the alley was the Glock on my ankle.

I hadn’t taken more than a dozen steps when I saw it. The stain on the concrete. From my sons’ blood. Then I wasn’t afraid anymore. Just extremely pissed.

Who the hell would shoot two unarmed kids?

When I looked up, I saw someone on the back porch of the Victorian to my left. He was a cute six- or seven-year-old black child, standing there shirtless in his underwear, sucking his thumb as he watched me.

I smiled at him. His happy brown eyes lit up as he smiled back. I’d been a cop for a long time, but it never failed to shock and break my heart when I saw i

He took his thumb out of his mouth.

“You’re not from around here,” the kid said. “Are you a policeman?”

“Yes, I am,” I said, showing him my shield.

He peered at my badge.

“Why you driving a bus, then?” he said, pointing down the alley at the street. “Policemen don’t drive no bus.”

“That’s my family car,” I said, smiling again. “I have a really big family. That’s the reason I’m here. Two of my sons were hurt here yesterday. My two boys. Someone shot them with a gun. Did you see or hear anything, son?”

The little boy’s eyes went wide as he nodded. But as I approached him, there was a sound on the porch behind him. A door opened and before I could open my mouth, the boy ran into it. Then the door slammed and its locks clicked.

I let out a breath. No one wanted to get involved.

Who could blame them? I thought, quickly heading back to my bus.

CHAPTER 48

WHEN I ARRIVED back at the hospital, Eddie was still sleeping, but I saw that Brian was awake. Knowing that it’s usually easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission, I made a command decision and just opened the door and went in with Mary Catherine.

Brian had an enormous white gauze bandage tied around his neck and under his arm. He looked like an extra in a war movie, which I guess made sense, since he had, in fact, been shot in a drug war. The good news was that he looked worlds better than he had the night before. There was a lot more color back in his cheeks.

“How’s it going, buddy?” I said.

He looked at me for a second in complete relief. But after a moment, his face fell and he stared at the wall.

After a few seconds, I realized he was crying, silent tears streaming down his cheeks.

“What is it, son? Are you in pain?”

Mary Catherine put a hand on his shoulder.

“What is it, Brian? Should we call the doctor?”

Brian looked up at the ceiling.

“All you ever tell us is to look out for one another,” he said. “Especially me because I’m one of the oldest. I let you down, Dad. I got Eddie shot. He’s going to die, and it’s all my fault.”

“No, no. He’s just sleeping. He’s going to be okay. You both are,” I said, thumbing the tears off his face.

“But—”

“But nothing, Brian. “You’re both okay. That’s all that matters now,” I said. “Eddie getting shot was the fault of the person who shot him. In fact, your hollering saved both your lives. The only thing you have to do now is tell me what happened from the begi

He did. He told me about the girls and their friend in the black Mustang, the driver asking them to watch his back only to run away as a drug dealer—a gang drug dealer, judging by Brian’s description of him—just started shooting.

The whole thing was bizarre. Why would these older girls take so much interest in Eddie and Brian? Not to mention the guy with the Mustang. Also, why would some dealer just start shooting? He felt threatened by a thirteen-year-old and a sixteen-year-old? It didn’t add up.

“Mr. and Mrs. Be

“Mr. and Mrs. Be

Mary Catherine blushed as I winked at him.

“Rest up, wise guy. I’ll talk to you later.”

But the best surprise of the morning, by far, came as the door closed behind us. Down the other end of the hallway was the whole Be

“We couldn’t wait any longer, so we took a cab,” Seamus said. “How are Jesse James and Billy the Kid holding up? What a vacation so far! Are we having fun yet?”

“The hooligans are doing okay, Father. So far, at least,” I said.

CHAPTER 49

PLATINUM LADIES WAS housed in a dilapidated barnlike wooden building a little south of Newburgh in New Windsor, near the airport.

Upstairs in the loft, which he jokingly referred to as his command center, Ramon Puentes hauled his muscled bulk out from behind his desk. He walked to the window that overlooked the stage and slammed down the blinds in order to take his visitor’s attention away from the new white girl down below, starting her routine.