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                   Hope you enjoy this short story

                          A TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT

He was working on The Pile, bent over, carefully moving small pieces of debris, searching for any signs of a living person.  Acrid smoke drifted up from the crevices around him, and he thought he saw movement near a large crack off to his right. He cautiously reached down to part the hot, twisted steel and put his gloved hand down into the crack. Suddenly, something grabbed it firmly.  He yanked his arm up in fright, and a green arm followed it up, its scaly hand gripping his tightly.  The arm started to pull him down into the hole.  He couldn't break its steely grip, and his strength was no match for that of the bony arm.  The crack widened as the arm drew him down, and he saw the ugly, green face of a witch leering up at him.  She opened her mouth in a grotesque smile and said, "I've got you now, my pretty.  I've got you now."

   He trembled in terror and, try as he might with all his strength, he could not break free from her terrible grasp.  The witch's other scrawny arm shot up from the ground and grabbed his shield, which was securely fastened to his uniform shirt.  "This is what I want," she said, her raspy voice sending shivers down his spine.  "This is what I've come for, my pretty."

   And now she was slowly, inexorably, dragging him down into the widening crack as the heat and smoke rose and seared his face and eyes.  She had a death grip on him, and she cackled loudly, saying, "This is what I want, and if you don't give it to me, I'll drag you into hell.”

   He screamed, “Help me!  Over here!  She’s dragging me into the hole…”

The dream had not awakened him, but when the early morning sun streaming in through the half-open blinds in his hospital room struck his eyes, Detective John T. Dempsey opened them fearfully. It took him a full minute to realize where he was and how he had gotten here.          

  Although his bullet wounds were healing nicely, Doctor Johannsen, the surgeon who had operated on him, postponed his departure from the hospital for two more days.  He said, “Johnny, the wound in your upper arm was the worst, and it’s still draining somewhat.  I want to see it heal up some more before I let you out of here.  The others are fine, but even the two days will make only a week since you were shot.  Let’s be cautious.” 

   “Sure, Doc,” he said.  “That one still hurts like hell anyway. No problem.”

   When Sergeant Linda Miller came to visit on Tuesday evening, he told her he would not be going home the following morning as planned, but probably on Friday instead.

   “Are you disappointed?”

   “Not really. I’m still kind of weak in the knees anyway.  Tomorrow I’ll start walking some more.  The days will go by in a hurry with you and the guys always visiting and keeping me company. Hey, it’s great you’re coming to see me all the time.  How are you getting away from Internal Affairs so often?”

   “Inspector Thorne has been wonderful.  He told me to take as much time as needed to visit with you until you get back to work.  Must be he likes heroes.”

   They laughed and Linda said, “Gotta run now, I have to do some work, you know. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

                                                                                                                        *  *  *

He was on The Pile again, and the heat had penetrated the soles of his shoes.  He was looking and listening for any signs of life.  He had been there ten days, and hopes of finding more survivors were beginning to fade, though no one had yet voiced that thought.  It was too terrible to consider that 3,000 people could all be dead.  There had to be some groups still breathing somewhere down there.  There had to be…

   A plume of smoke rose up twenty feet in front of him, and he carefully made his way toward it through the sharp, jagged metal.  The opening was about one foot square, and he peered down using his flashlight to search for some indication of a living person.  Suddenly, the hole opened wider with a loud groan, and he tumbled down into the darkness, dropping his flashlight from his hand.  He fell hard on what felt like flat concrete and passed out.

   When he came to, he was in semi-darkness and immediately knew he was not alone.  Off to his left in the dimness, a large metal pot steamed over an open fire from which emanated a foul, pungent odor of rotten meat.  Three figures were hunched over it, stirring its contents.  As his eyes adjusted to the light from the fire, he saw that the three forms were witches.  They all had ugly, green faces and straggly iron-gray hair.  There was a brighter light over to his right, and he began to rise to go toward it.  An unseen demonic voice intoned, “Beware the Ides of March!”

As he moved, one of the witches cackled, “Stop right there, my pretty.  You’re not going anywhere.  Come over here. You know what we want, and we will have it.”He instinctively put his hand on his silver shield and shouted back at them, “You’re not getting it, you old hags.”  His hand was burning.  His shield was white hot and had scorched his glove all the way through.  He pulled his hand away in pain, and the three witches cackled crazily and began shuffling over to him.  "We'll get it now," one said.  "Oh, yes," said another, "it will be ours now."

   He turned and ran on the flat cement toward the light, and the wild cackling and crazy laughter of the witches receded.  He came into the light and found himself in a plaza with round, white columns and white marble steps leading up to a large platform.  There was a group of people with their backs to him, slightly bent over, looking at something.  They were dressed in pure white robes that came down to the floor, and the robes had different colored sashes.  He crept up behind them to see what was going on.  As he approached within a few feet, one of the figures whirled around and drew him in with the others.  “Look what you have done,” he said, pointing at a body on the platform.  You’ve killed the Emperor. You’ve killed Caesar.”

   Looking down at the body, he realized it wasn't Julius Caesar or any other Caesar – it was Marty Conroy lying there.  And there was a huge sword protruding from the middle of his chest.  Marty's eyes were open, and his hands were feebly trying to grasp the sword and pull it from his body.  He caught his eye and whispered, “Demp…Dempsey…help me…help me this time…don’t let me die again…please…”  He turned from Conroy, and now the men were dressed in black robes with powdered white wigs.  They had grim faces and pointed at him.  In unison, they said, "Betrayer! We have judged you and found you guilty.  Hand it over now."  They began to surround him, and he ran and broke free, clutching his shield, which was now ice cold.  They were gaining on him and were armed with huge machetes, the curved blades glinting in the white light.  He could run no more, and they were upon him.  He withdrew his pistol and fired, but the only sound that came from it was the metallic click of the hammer falling on emptiness.  They began to hack at him, and he screamed in agony…

“Detective Dempsey!  Detective Dempsey, calm down.  It’s all right.  Please calm down.  You’re having a bad dream,” Christine, the day nurse, said, placing a cold, wet cloth on his forehead and then grasping his flailing arms tightly, comforting him.  He awoke totally confused, “Where?  What happened…?”

   “You had a bad dream, Detective.  It’s not uncommon after trauma like you’ve been through. You’re all right now.  Here, have some cold water.  Drink.”

   “Thank you,” he said, still not used to being called by his new rank, the result of his heroics during the shootout. He gulped down half the glass, saying, “I’m burning up.”

   "You sure did sweat up a storm.  Here, drink some more."

   “You said these dreams are common?  How long do they last?”

   “You never know, could be weeks, or months, or -”

   “Or years?”

   “Sometimes, like with the war veterans.  Sometimes they never stop.”

   “This was more than a dream, nurse. This was one super-sized freakin’ nightmare.  I don’t know how many more like that I can take.”

   “It helps sometimes if you talk to someone.”

   “You mean like a shrink?”

   “Yes. You know, not only were you shot, but you killed two people.  That’s heavy-duty mental stuff.  You should definitely talk to a counselor soon after you leave here.”

   “Thanks, I know just the person to speak with.  What time is it?”

   “Eight-thirty.”

Jennifer, the day nurse supervisor, entered the room and said, “Hey, bright eyes, don’t you want to go home today?”

   “Sure!” he exclaimed.

   “Then get your buns in that shower and let me see your wounds when you come out.  I’ll put some fresh dressings on you.  You want to look good for the doctor, or you're not going anywhere."

   Linda arrived at a quarter to ten, and Doc Johannsen popped in a few minutes later.  He said, "Let's have a look," and peeled back the new bandages and examined each wound thoroughly.  "They look fine.  How do they feel?"

   “Not too bad, Doc.”

   “Good.  I’m releasing you, but I’m going to have a nurse come to your place on Monday and then again on Thursday, to change your dressings and put the proper salve on them.  After that, assuming all goes well, you can have your wife change them every three days until they completely close up.”

   Johnny smiled and Linda said, “I’m not his wife – yet.”

   They all laughed, and Johannsen shook hands with Johnny and left, saying, "If there are no complications, see me in my office in two weeks.  We'll decide then about going back to work."

   “Thanks, Doc. Thanks for saving my life.  I’ll always remember you in my prayers.”

   “I was pleased to help one of our Finest.”

   He got dressed, and they brought the wheelchair in for him.  He knew the hospital rules, so he sat down without complaint.  The discharge nurse pushed him down the hall, and he said goodbye to all the wonderful nurses who had taken care of him. God bless them all.

   Back at Johnny’s apartment, Linda took his hand and said, “Johnny, you’ve got to get through this.  You have to put the Conroy case behind you, and the quicker the better.  I can help you.  That's where my training and education come into play.  Please let me try."

   “How are you with dreams?”

   “Still having some bad ones?”

   “Oh, yeah.  Nightmares would be a better description.”

   “As a matter of fact, I’m pretty good at dream interpretation.”

   "You are? Maybe when we get the chance, I can lay them out for you."

   “Sure, I’ll be happy to help if I can.”

                                                                                                                       *  *  *

That night, Johnny did not dream of witches or The Pile – at first – but he dreamed of the day he got shot.  He watched himself walk his beat in the 115th precinct in Jackson Heights, Queens.  He watched himself spot the killers of Marty Conroy go into an apartment building, and despite knowing what was going to happen next, he followed.

Johnny walked up the stairs and crept down the hallway to 3C.  He listened at the door for a full minute, but heard no movement inside.  He then slipped the super’s master key into the lock with his left hand.  He removed his Glock from its holster and flicked off the safety.  It was cocked and ready to go, with one already in the chamber.  He turned the key with his left hand, and when he felt the lock disengage, he burst inside. He immediately spotted three of them, two on the couch and one on a chair, and he yelled, "Freeze! Hands over your head, then get down on the floor. Now!"

The three young men complied.  One of them was Conroy's murderer, and he had a look of fear in his eyes.  Johnny got a bit of satisfaction in seeing that.  Just then, three more young men burst out of the bedroom with guns blazing, yelling, "Die, infidel!"  Johnny returned fire, and time seemed to slow down.  He was stunned as the first round caught him high on the chest of his body armor.  It spun him to the left, and two more slugs caught him in the right hip and thigh.  He twisted back to face the fire and blasted away as fast as he could at the multiple targets confronting him. He felt a bullet smack into the stomach area of the armor and one more into his left shoulder, and now he was falling.  Another round deeply creased the left side of his head.  He fell hard to the floor, squeezing off his last two rounds into the ceiling.

There was complete and utter silence in the smoke-filled room.  Johnny lay on his back, conscious, but knew he was badly wounded. He was bleeding heavily from several locations, especially from the head wound. Someone moved over him. He looked up, waiting for the final bullet to enter his brain.  He blinked the blood out of his eyes and focused on the face that hovered one foot above him. "You!" he gasped as he came face-to-face with the killer of Marty Conroy.

Suddenly, as Johnny drifted into unconsciousness, an urgent voice said, “Let’s go! I hear the sirens right outside. We must get out of here now!”

Johnny tossed and turned but did not awaken, and then…

The witches were shuffling after him again, and their ugly faces transformed rapidly as they accused him of betrayal over and over, three Marty Conroys now grinning at him.  Then he was at Caesar's funeral once more, straining to get a look at him as he lay on his bier, but terrified of who he would see lying there, knowing it would be Marty Conroy.  He finally elbowed his way through the robed crowd – brown robes this time, not white – and the men in the robes appeared to be Catholic priests, not Roman Senators.  One of the priests turned to look at him, and it was Father Tom Ryan, his confessor and friend.  He rushed over to Tom, and the priest's face transformed itself into a red Satan's mask, and a yellow-clawed hand reached out for his hand, and then tried to grab his shield.  Terrified, Johnny broke away and staggered to the edge of the crowd, but they still pushed him toward the bier.  He was forced to look upon the corpse, and it was not Caesar, nor was it Marty Conroy – sweet Jesus, it was himself!  He was in full uniform, and his face was rotting, and one eyeball was missing, exposing a reddish-black oozing socket.  His scaly left hand was pointing to the shield on his left breast.  The shield was no longer gleaming brightly, but was discolored with a brownish-green fungus which appeared to be moving and eating away portions of the shield as might a strong acid.  Suddenly, the corpse's right hand shot up and grabbed Johnny's left arm in a vice-like grip.  He was pulled down, struggling until his face was within a few inches of his grinning likeness.  A horrible stench arose from its mouth as it spoke, “See what you’ve done to me?  You have corrupted my soul and condemned me to everlasting damnation.”

   “No, no,” he shouted at the replica of himself.  “I am absolved.  I am forgiven.  I have repented. I am not responsible for the death of Marty Conroy!”

   With that, the corpse's hand dropped back to its side, and the devil's claw belonging to Father Tom grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

   Satan/Tom hissed at Johnny, “I withdraw my absolution.  You are not worthy to see God.  Go straight to hell.  Do not pass go.  Do not collect $200.”

   The claw was on top of his shoulder and was pushing him straight through the concrete into the dirt below, and his feet were getting hotter and hotter….

                                                                                                                 *  *  *

The next morning, Linda called at 11:30.  Johnny had slept until past ten, having finally drifted off at five, when the dreams blessedly left him.  Even after coffee and a long shower, he felt drained and shaky from the awful visions he had experienced a few hours before.

   "I'm coming over in a half an hour," she said.  "I'll pick up some lunch and then we'll discuss your dreams.  I don't have to be back to the office until four for a scheduled interview."

   “None too soon, Linda.  I had two doozies last night.  Do you think your training can help me stop dreaming?”

   “That’s not the objective.  The task is to analyze the dreams, so you know what they mean.  Then they should gradually subside, but they may never go away completely.”

   “Why is that?”

   "Some traumas or experiences are embedded so deeply because they were so terrible when they happened.  Like the guys from the Vietnam and Gulf Wars. Some of them still wake up screaming.  And that’s after a lot of psychotherapy.”

   “I never experienced anything like those poor soldiers did.”

   “Weren’t you just in a gun battle in a small room where you got shot up and killed two bad guys?”

   “Yeah, but I don’t think that’s the problem.”

   “What is it then?”

   “I’ll tell you when you get here.”

   She arrived with a huge Italian hero of salami, provolone, lettuce, and onions, dripping with olive oil and balsamic vinegar.  They split it in half and ate hungrily, washing it down with diet soda.

   “That hit the spot,” Johnny said.  “What do I owe you?”

   “My treat, but don’t you worry; I’ll make up for it when you take me out to dinner.  That will be your treat, Detective Dempsey.  Tell me about your dreams.”

   “Shall we go into the parlor?  Must I lie on the couch?”

   “Whatever makes you comfortable, sweetie.”

   Johnny relaxed on the sofa, and Linda sat on the chair facing him.  “I’m listening,” she said.

   “The first one happened when I was in the hospital, two or three days after I was shot.  I had a couple more there, and I thought they were over with.  But last night I had another one, long and scary, and that was the first one I had since I’ve been home. I guess I didn’t leave them in the hospital as I’d hoped.”

   Johnny related the dreams to the best of his recollection, and when he finished, Linda said, “They seem fairly easy to explain and interpret.” 

   “How about the three witches and the Roman scene?”

   “Did you read Shakespeare in school, particularly Macbeth and Julius Caesar?”

   “Sure, and I saw them performed by the drama club.”

   “And did you see the movie, The Wizard of Oz?”

   “About fifteen times – it was one of my favorites as a kid.”

   “Your mind mixed up Macbeth’s three witches with the green-faced witch from Oz and the soothsayer in Julius Caesar.  The soothsayer was warning Julius Caesar to beware the Ides of March.”

   “And the Ides of March was March 15.”

  “And you were shot on…?”

  “March 15.”

   "Duh!  Parts of your dreams are related to the shootout, but the rest are mainly concerned with your betrayal of Marty Conroy. First, you see Caesar on the bier, then Conroy, and finally yourself.  You're punished for your betrayal and then you assume the role of the betrayer, Brutus, and the victim, Caesar/Conroy."

   “What about when I was the corpse?”

   “You were both the betrayer and the betrayed.  Make sense?”

   “I guess.”

   “Tell me what the significance of The Pile is.  I would assume it represents Hell, but so can a lot of other places.  Why did you dream of The Pile?”

   “I was there.  The Pile.  Ground Zero.  I was there for three weeks looking for survivors, then for bodies.”

   “I didn’t know you were on the Job back then.”

   "I was a rookie when the attack happened.  The whole recruit class was assigned to the site every morning.  We worked with the veteran cops and firemen who were devastated by their losses.  It was a numbing, emotional experience, and it has forever changed my conception of Hell from what I was told in church as a boy.  I am now convinced Hell is The Pile.”

   "That explains just about all of it, but the real root cause of these dreams is your fixation, your irrational belief that your actions were so terrible they were beyond absolution and forgiveness."

   ”Maybe they were.”

   “How so?  I don’t remember what you did was so awful.”

   “Maybe you don’t know all of it.”

   “I’m still listening.”

   “Let’s make some coffee first.  I need a break.”

                                                                                                                       *  *  *

"I'm walking my beat last Christmas Eve, and I hear glass breaking.  I checked it out, and what happened was this young guy had just been thrown through the glass door of the Bird’s Nest bar.  I confront the bartender, Marty Conroy, and he gives me the ‘I don’t know nuttin’ routine.'  I have my hands around his neck, choking the bastard, but I release him before he goes unconscious.  Meanwhile, the kid beats feet, leaving me with no complainant, which makes Marty very happy.  I leave the bar and go home."

   “Were you drinking at all up to that time?”

   "No, not a drop.  But I knocked off four, five, maybe six beers when I got home, thinking all the time about how Marty just got over on me again. I decide to go back to the bar in civvies. I’m upset that my two kids and ex-wife have just moved 200 miles away, and I’m alone at Christmas. I'm really angry, but have no idea what I'm going to do other than break Marty's balls, which I do.  I have three or four more beers, argue some more with him, and then I finally leave, wondering why the hell I went back there in the first place.  I go out and sit in my car and have a smoke and observe Conroy lock up the bar and go down the alley to the back parking lot.”

   “Is this when the kid came back?”

   “Yeah, I see him and his two pals as they cross the street. The three go down the alley, and I figure they came back for revenge, probably to throw Marty a well-deserved beating.”

   “Is that all you thought they were doing back there?”

   “Yes, at first, or I would have moved sooner. Then I realize they were back there a long time, and the thought then crosses my mind that they might be doing more than just using their fists. I reach for the door handle to get out and go back there to check it out when the three guys run out of the alley and back across the street.”

   “Johnny, how drunk were you?  I mean, if you had gotten out of your car and back there sooner, could you have prevented the attack on Conroy?”

   "I wasn't staggering drunk, but my reflexes were shot, and my mind was not moving real fast.  I think if I confronted those three young guys, they would have wasted me, too."

   “What happened then?”

   “I run back to Conroy's car, and I see what they did to him, and I'm debating what to do. I mean, I hate the son-of-a-bitch, but he's sliced up and hurt bad, so I tell him to hang on, I'm going for help. I ran to the call box a couple of blocks away.”

   “Ah, that’s what his final words meant. He thought you called for help.”

   "Yeah, when the radio car showed up, he probably figured I had notified them."

   “But you hadn’t.”

   “No. As I got nearer the call box, the cold air had sobered me up a bit, so I could think a little clearer.  I realize if I speak to the desk sergeant and inform him what happened, I would be in deep trouble trying to answer the inevitable questions.”

   “Such as?”

   “Such as:  Why are you on your beat at three a.m.?  Why do you sound drunk?  What three guys?  Did you stab Marty?  And so on…”

   “You had the phone in your hand, and you replaced it on the hook without requesting an ambulance for Conroy, and you went home?"

   “Yes.”

   “You made a conscious decision to protect your ass rather than to get help for Marty, essentially choosing to allow him to die there to prevent yourself from getting in trouble?”

   "Yes, I betrayed the shield and oath of office; in my mind, there is no greater sin."

   "And that's why you're having dreams, Johnny.  You still believe, subconsciously, that you have not atoned for that awful decision. But everyone else has forgiven you, or believes your subsequent actions have allowed you to fully atone for your behavior. The sergeant immediately sent a radio car to the call box, and they found Conroy and transported him to the hospital, probably quicker than if you had called for an ambulance. Those three guys killed Marty, not you.”

   “Sounds logical, but not everyone has forgiven me. I will never forgive myself.”

   “You must deal with it and accept it.  Acceptance is the first step to forgiveness and forgetting. Only when you truly forgive yourself will your nightmares disappear.”

   “Easier said than done.”

   “Yes, but I’d like to help you with that.”

   “Thanks, Linda.”

    “Good, now I have to get back to the office.  Start thinking about your recovery in the context of four steps – acceptance, letting go, forgiving, and forgetting.  That’s your path to inner peace.”

   “You’re an amazing woman.  I don’t know how to thank you for everything you’ve done for me so far.”

   "I'm sure I'll think of something," she said as she kissed him goodbye.  "I have errands to do tonight.  I'll call you tomorrow.”

                                                                                                                *  *  * 

Johnny picked up the phone and said, “Good morning, Linda. I didn't dream the dream or any dreams last night.”

   “That’s great, but that doesn’t mean they are over, you know.  Even before our one session, you did not dream them every night.”

   "I know, but it's a good start, isn't it?  I mean, if I had one right after our talk, I would have been disappointed."

   “All right, I’ll agree with you.  It’s a good start.  But have you consciously begun to think about Conroy and that night?”

   “Yes, but it was difficult.”

   “Keep doing it, a little longer each day.  Remember – acceptance, letting go, forgiveness, forgetting.”

   “Yes, Madame Freud, I remember.  Are you coming over today?”

   "No, I have a full plate at the office, and I have to shop tonight and clean up my apartment.  I'll be over in the morning to take you to the doctor."

   “See you then.”

   “What are you going to do today?”

   “I want to get out and walk some more.”

   “Good, and work on what I suggested while you’re stepping out in the fresh air.”

    He said goodbye and smiled.  Linda Miller was a helluva woman indeed.

He dreamed the dream again that night, a slightly different version, but with the same cast of characters.  It was not as terrifying this time, except for the ending.  Perhaps he was getting used to the witches and Julius Caesar, but the witches did something different this time as they chased him.  He was in uniform, and they came at him, grinning their toothless smiles, each with an outstretched arm that terminated in a green, twisted hand.  He moved away from them easily, but they persisted and picked up their ungainly, limping pace.  He drew his gun, but it felt different.  It was not the standard-issue .40 caliber Glock semi-automatic, but an old S&W six-shot revolver like his Uncle Pete carried in the old days – the one he had used on himself when the job became unbearable.

The witches got closer as he was looking at the revolver, and one hand grasped it and turned it toward his face.  "You know what you have to do," she crooned, an evil leer spreading across her lumpy face. "Pull the trigger, and all your suffering will be over. Just pull the trigger and salvation will finally be yours."

Suddenly, her hand clamped over his, and her crooked finger entered the trigger guard and lay on top of his. The trigger began to move. He wrenched the gun free from her grasp, but stumbled and fell to one knee, and then turned and emptied the gun at the three of them.

The bullets hit them all, two each, but they didn't seem to have any effect.  He groped at his belt for another clip, but then he realized a clip would be of no use, and, where the spare clips should be, he felt cartridges neatly aligned in their old-fashioned, black leather loops sewn to his uniform belt.  His fingers struggled to pry them loose, but he was too slow.  The witches fell on him, cackling and screaming. Their putrid breath made him gag, and suddenly, one face was directly in front of him. He felt his shield being ripped from his shirt, and a grotesque hand held it up.  It was gleaming in the street light and dripping bright, red blood.  "Yes," the witch said, "we've got it now."  The face was joined by a second one who smiled and crooned, "And we have you too, my pretty.  You are ours now. And you will do what must be done or forever burn in hell.”

Johnny screamed awake, springing to a sitting position on the sweat-soaked sheets.  He covered his face with his hands, gasping for breath as his mind came back to the reality of this moment in time and space.  He went into the bathroom, glancing at the clock radio on his night table.  The red numerals glared 4:17.  He washed his face with cold water and drank from his cupped hands.  When his breathing returned to normal and the trembling in his body stopped, he returned to bed, but recoiled at the feel of the cold, wet sheets.  He grabbed the blanket and headed for the dry sofa in the living room where, after a few minutes of tossing and turning, he finally settled down into a deep, dreamless sleep.

That evening, Linda arrived bearing a large pepperoni pizza and a bottle of Chianti. After they ate, they moved into the living room, bringing their glasses and the rest of the wine. Johnny told her of the latest dream, saying, "The witches think they have finally gotten me, but at least I got a few shots off at them, not that it fazed them.”

"I like that, and I sense finality here, at least I hope so. I believe you have gotten through your first two steps, but you still haven’t conquered that next tough one – forgiveness.”

“That is a tough one, and it will take a long time, if ever. And I’ll never forget that night as long as I live.”

“I’d like to stay with you for as long as it takes,” she said as she snuggled up against him on the sofa.

“Linda, I know I said this before, but I really appreciate what you’re doing for me.  If it wasn’t for you, I’d probably be making love to a case of beer and a gallon of scotch.”

   “Is that an offer?”

   “Huh?”

   “Are you offering to make love to me?  Are you telling me you find me more attractive than booze?”

   “Much more.”  He took her in his arms and kissed her softly.  “But as far as making love to you, the spirit may be willing, but the flesh is weak.”

   “We’ll see about that, lover boy, “she said, grabbing him and kissing him passionately.

In a few moments, they were groping and kissing like a couple of teenagers in the backseat of a car on Lover's Lane.  She reached down below his belt and said, "Ah-ha, sailor, I believe the flesh is getting stronger.  Come weez me into zee alley.”

   “Be gentle with me, ma’am. I’m just a poor shot-up cop.”

   "Be quiet, take your clothes off, and lie down on the bed.  I will do the rest."

   Linda made love to Johnny gently and tenderly.  He hoped it would never end, but it did, all too soon.

   "It's been a while, hasn't it?" she asked.

   “Yeah, how about you?”

“A lot longer.  My sex life would fill a thin volume.”

   “Maybe you and I can expand that thin volume into a thick book, lover girl.”

   “I’m sure we can.  You know, Johnny, I wanted to jump in the sack with you the minute I laid eyes on you in Internal Affairs.”

“You find me sexually attractive?”

"Not only are you a tall, dark, handsome old-time movie star mixture, you are a bright, witty man who I enjoy being with."

“Now,” he said with a big smile, “if only I were Jewish…”

“Hey, beggars can’t be choosy, but at least you’re circumcised, as I just noticed.”

 Linda had gone back to her place on Saturday morning and came back with enough clothes to get her through until Monday.  They spent the weekend together walking, exercising, and making love. On Saturday night, they took the subway into Manhattan and had a leisurely dinner at a downtown Italian restaurant called Il Giglio, and after dinner, they took in a movie in midtown. On the ride home, Johnny said, “Should I stop at a hardware store tomorrow and make a key for you?”

“Sure, and I’ll do the same. Now get closer and kiss me, lover boy.”

“On the F train?”

“Yeah, and then some real F-ing will happen when we get home.”

                                                                                                                            *  *  *

The next night, Johnny had a vivid dream, but it was not the typical one.  All those terrible nightmares that Linda had explained did not recur that night.  No, this was a happy dream – a beautiful dream. At least at first.

Johnny lifted Linda's white bridal veil and kissed her on the lips.  The attendees at their wedding cheered and applauded their first kiss as husband and wife.  Father Tom Ryan and Rabbi Samuel Taub smiled and congratulated the happy couple.  All their friends and family were there. Everyone went into the reception hall, and they danced and drank and sang until well past midnight. Everyone was so damned happy.  Linda and Johnny drove to a Manhattan hotel and went up to the bridal suite.  They made passionate love for the first time as husband and wife, and fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.

Johnny awoke first the next morning.  He nudged Linda and said, “Wake up, lover girl.  We have to pack for our honeymoon.”

Linda did not respond, and when Johnny nudged her a bit harder, he realized his hand had not touched bare skin, but heavy cloth.  He looked over and saw that Linda was dressed in full uniform.  She was lying on her side, facing away from him. He grabbed her right arm and turned her toward him.  He bent to kiss her and then leaped out of bed, screaming.  Her face was full of bleeding bullet holes, and the blood had seeped into her hair and coagulated there.

Then her face changed shape and Johnny put his hands to his head and screamed again…and again…and again as the putrid, decaying face of Marty Conroy leered back at him.

And then the whole cast of characters from his previous dreams – witches, priests, devils, Romans – appeared before him. And they were all smiling at him! As if on cue, they turned in unison and walked away from him, gradually fading into nothingness.

                                                                                                                 *  *  *

Linda found him sprawled on the living room sofa, dead from a single gunshot wound to his right temple. He was dressed in full uniform, and a smile was on his face. His hand, still clutching his Glock pistol, was draped across his mid-section, and his shiny, new, gold detective's shield momentarily reflected the light from the table lamp into her eyes as tears slowly dripped from them. "Oh, Johnny,” she whispered, slowly sinking to the floor, and noticing the note on the arm of the sofa. With trembling fingers, she picked it up and read:

Dear Linda, I have found peace at last. I have finally paid for my sins of betraying my shield, my oath of office, and the death of Marty Conroy. Thank you for being there for me. I’ll see you on the other side, lover girl. All my love, Johnny.

The note dropped from her hand, and she cradled his shattered head in her hands. Between sobs, she could manage only to say, "Oh, Johnny," over and over again.