The Brotherhood

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Sosa had also often warned in his sermons that sometimes God has to allow a person to come to the end of himself before he realizes his deep need. Well, Boone couldn’t imagine being more at the end of himself, but right now he and God were not on speaking terms—and he wasn’t sure they ever would be.

  Everyone who knew and loved him would say something about God being his strength and comfort, his rock in this time of need. But Boone had too many questions, too many challenges, too much of a grudge against a supposedly all-powerful, loving being who could allow such a thing to happen to Nikki and Josh . . . and him.

  Boone felt guilty that his stomach was growling. It seemed wrong to worry about physical needs when what was left of his wife and baby was wrapped in gauze and plastic and lying on steel gurneys in a basement morgue. But he was hungry, and Jack was right that it would do him no good to quit eating altogether. With everything he was going to have to endure, he didn’t need malnutrition.

  The refrigerator was full, as Jack had said, but his hope for a cold piece of beef or chicken or ham was not to be satisfied. The only thing that appealed was a block of cheese. He hauled it out and rummaged through the cupboards, looking for crackers. Boone found a box, hoping they weren’t stale, but he also came upon Jack’s clumsy hiding place for the family photos he had swept off Nikki’s end table. And what was that? It couldn’t be. Why would Jack think to bring Nikki’s Bible?

  Boone couldn’t bring himself to peek at the pictures. He also let the Bible lie. It was Nikki who could be found reading it most every day, as casually as the way he leafed through Sports Illustrated or American Police Beat. He kept his own Bible on the shelf next to his gun safe above the refrigerator. He hauled it out for church each weekend, even though Pastor Sosa projected the passages on huge screens. Few people brought their Bibles to church, but to Boone it seemed like part of the Sunday uniform. And it was the one time he wasn’t embarrassed to be seen with it.

  It was strangely thoughtful of Jack to have brought it, along with the photos. What must he have been thinking? Keller was about the furthest thing from a man of faith or even a church attender. Maybe he thought Boone would find some sentimental value in Nikki’s Bible. And perhaps he would. For the moment, it held nothing else for him. Even if it did, he wasn’t about to give it the chance.

  Boone hadn’t really tasted the bits of food he had forced down earlier in the day, but he did taste the sharp cheese and salty crackers. In a strange way, it felt good to have something hit his senses other than abject grief and revulsion. And now he was thirsty.

  Should he try the wine? Would it help him sleep? He’d never had any specific conviction against alcohol. His high school and college buddies had enjoyed beer, especially during and after pickup games and of course at Wrigley, Cellular (still called Comiskey back then), and Soldier Field. Boone had tried it and just didn’t care for it. He had tried wine years ago too. To him it smelled like rotten fruit, and in a way that’s what it was. He’d never had enough to get any kind of a buzz.

  What would be the harm now? It could only help. He desperately needed sleep, if for no other reason than to allow his brain to idle. He found a large drinking glass and filled it half-full of the red. That was the extent of his knowledge of wines. Red and white. Oh, he knew that the older a wine was, the better it was supposed to be, but it seemed to him, the fresher the better. Why not? That line had always made his friends laugh. Well, Jack Keller said this was cheap stuff, and it bore the name of a grocery store chain, so he sure didn’t have to feel any guilt about sipping away something valuable.

  Boone didn’t even have to remove a cork. How convenient, a screw cap. The familiar fermented smell hit him first. He had no idea why people swished wine around in the glass or sniffed it. He would just sip at first, because he did not expect to like it.

  And he didn’t. Too strong. Tasty after a fashion, but a little went a long way. He reminded himself that this was medicine, anesthesia, and while his curiosity over the wine and his talking himself into imbibing had for a few seconds channeled his mind elsewhere, there was no hiding what he needed to be numbed to.

  Three or four sips, each tasting slightly less strong than the previous, hit the back of his throat with a little jolt, and finally he began to feel a bit of the mellowing it was supposed to provide. He certainly wasn’t high, but something was happening. He mustered his courage and took a healthy swallow.

  That was a mistake. His friends never guzzled wine like they did beer, and now he knew why. It was meant to be sipped. But as he wasn’t drinking for enjoyment but rather for lubrication, he decided to just finish off the glass. Whew, boy. A little dizzy. Would fatigue follow, the kind that would actually allow him to sleep or at least doze? He could only hope.

  As Boone cleared the table and tidied up, he felt lightheaded and sick to his stomach. That wasn’t all bad. Any feeling other than despair had to be positive. He sat at the kitchen table and breathed heavily for a few minutes. Something was going on inside. Going to bed was worth a try.

  Boone staggered heading for the bedroom, and the door seemed to grow smaller as he approached. He had to reach twice for the knob, and he fell onto the bed, rolling over and pulling the covers with him as he went.

  There was a part of him, no surprise, unaffected by the wine. He never lost sight of the tragedy, of the crisis he was enduring, of the difficulty facing him in the days to follow. But he for sure had the proverbial buzz now, and he assumed it had come from much less wine than would have affected someone with experience.

  His breathing grew even and deep, and while he was still in a dungeon of despair, Boone felt himself drifting, drifting. Suddenly he was back in the squad with Jack, and Jack was speeding toward Presbyterian St. Luke’s while talking and laughing on his cell. He handed the phone to Boone, who was pleased to find it was Nikki wanting to put Josh on the phone.

  The boy spoke gibberish, mixing in a few Da-das and bye-byes, and Boone laughed and laughed. And then they were pulling into the hospital and Boone was following Jack to the emergency room admitting desk, where Nikki sat with Pastor Sosa. They greeted him like a long-lost friend and told him the patient he wanted to see was just down the hall. Jack followed him, and they entered a patient room, only to find Boone himself in the bed, his hands thickly bandaged.

  “Didn’t expect to see you here,” the patient Boone said to police officer Boone.

  And his eyes popped open. He sat up to see that only thirty-five minutes had passed since he’d tumbled into the bed. The glow of having talked to Nikki and Josh was still with him, but only briefly as reality barged in. Within seconds he was wide-awake and fully aware. The only crazy dream had been the one that had just awakened him. The other nightmare was real. His life, his loves, were gone. He was sleeping in his partner’s apartment because he had been left virtually alone in the world. Yes, despite the multitude of people who would offer to do anything for him, Boone felt desperately alone.

  When he couldn’t fall back to sleep for an hour, he made his way to the refrigerator and drank straight from the bottle. That gave him another forty or so minutes of fitful, crazy-dreamed sleep, and he wasn’t sure how restful it would prove to be by morning. At 2:30 a.m., he rose and repeated the cycle. At four he awoke on the couch in the living room, knowing he was drunk and reeking of wine, yet needing another pull or two to allow him to sleep until dawn. Somehow he found enough fortitude to be sure he ended up in the guest-room bed. It was bad enough that there would be no pretending—the bottle was nearly empty. He didn’t need to be discovered passed out on the floor somewhere.

  Boone awoke at dawn with a raging headache, his mouth sticky and sour. He heard and smelled bacon frying, so he dragged himself to the door and peeked out, asking Jack if he had time to take a shower.

  “Sure. You sleep?”

  “After a fashion.”

  Jack displayed the wine bottle and said, “I would have too. Hungover?”

  “Yeah, sorry.”


  “Hey, any port in a storm. Get it? Listen, you don’t have to be in uniform today.”

  Twenty-five minutes later, Boone padded out in jeans and polo shirt and stocking feet, chewing aspirins. His Beretta was on his belt. He felt little hungrier than the day before but knew Jack had gone to a lot of trouble and would badger him to eat anyway. Once he started on the bacon and eggs, he ate a normal helping.

  “Don’t get used to this,” Jack said. “I usually only cook for my girlfriends.”

  Boone couldn’t muster a smile, but he appreciated Jack’s trying to be light.

  At the District 11 station house, Boone was aware of the sympathetic looks and stares. He just nodded to anyone who caught his eye. It was plain they didn’t know what to say but felt awful for him, the way he would have had this happened to one of them.

  A heavyset black woman in uniform stood when he entered the conference room, and the district commander, a beefy white-haired man in his sixties named Heathcliff Jones, introduced her as Bonnie Wells from Human Resources, benefits division. She expressed the obligatory “I’m sorry for your loss,” and “Thanks for taking the time to meet with me,” then sat before a mountain of papers and forms and notebooks.

  Boone assumed there was a lot he would have to know, but when he looked expectantly at Ms. Wells, she looked to the commander, who said, “I’m going to sit in on this, if you don’t mind, Officer Drake.”

  Boone had rarely spoken to the commander outside of a few official recognitions for his service. “Absolutely.”

  The commander sat next to Ms. Wells and folded his hands before him. “Let me say first, Officer, that you have my sincerest condolences and those of the entire department.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And let me also express my apologies for not having been with you yesterday. Very little could keep me away when one of my people is going through something like that. But as you may or may not know, command staff were at a retreat downstate all day, and there was simply no getting back in time to see you at the hospital. I’m sorry.”

  “Not a problem, sir. I appreciate it.”

  The commander looked to Ms. Wells, who began. “Officer, I will try to keep this as short and clear and informative as I can. I lost my own husband of nearly forty years last fall, and while it was expected and followed a long illness, I know I was in no condition to be hearing all kinds of policies and such even before the funeral.”

  Boone nodded.

  Ms. Wells reminded Boone that he had twenty paid vacation days and thirteen paid holidays, and that with proper protocol and documents, he could combine these and patch them together with what she called bereavement benefits “to give yourself an appropriate amount of paid time away from the job. You need that, and we assume you are aware of the need as well.”

  “I sure don’t feel like working,” Boone said. “And I have no idea when I will.”

  Commander Jones leaned forward. “We’re going to ask you to surrender your weapon, Officer, during the furlough. It’s standard procedure.”

  “You’re worried I’m going to hurt myself?”

  “No, not at all—”

  “Because frankly, I just might.”

  Boone could tell by Ms. Wells’s look that he probably should not have admitted that. She and the commander shared a glance. “To be frank,” Jones said, “that is one concern, but primarily, if you are not going to be policing on work time, we don’t want you policing off duty during a time like this either. There are emotions and so forth not conducive to typically rational police behavior. I’m sure you can understand that.”

  “I do.”

  “I’ve asked your partner to bring in your M4 from the squad, and I’ll be happy to take your department-issue sidearm for safekeeping.”

  Boone stood and unstrapped it, sliding it across the table. “I feel like I’m being suspended, just like in the movies.”

  The commander flashed a smile, then seemed to realize he probably shouldn’t, and it faded. “I’m not asking for your badge, Officer, but we would appreciate if you would temporarily not carry it. This is to keep you from any temptation to act in an official duty during your time off.”

  “Now, sir,” Ms. Wells said, “there is the matter of psychological evaluation and potential counseling.”

  “Oh, I’ll pass.”

  “It’s not something you should avoid, Officer Drake.”

  “But really, I’m okay. I’m not happy, and I don’t know what my future holds, but nothing will be served by subjecting me—”

  “It’s mandatory,” the commander said. “Just like when you’ve fired your weapon in the line of duty. It’s for your own benefit. Now I can see by your face that you want to argue this, Officer, and believe me, I’d feel the same way you do. But there is only one way out of this, and I think you know what that is.”

  “Resignation.”

  The commander nodded. “For all I know, you may lose your passion for the job.” There was that word again. “I would certainly understand. But let me urge you to not make any rash decisions. You will have plenty of time to think this all through, and the evaluation and counseling may prove helpful. There will certainly be no harm in it. I realize how fresh this is, Officer. I mean, it hasn’t been even twenty-four hours. But your job may prove to be your salvation. We have not interacted a lot, but everything I know of you tells me you’re all cop. I know right now you can’t imagine going back on patrol. But the day will come when you will need to do just that. Will you make an effort to trust me on this?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “And can we schedule you for the evaluation and, if deemed necessary, counseling—let’s say within a week after the funeral?”

  Boone nodded.

  Commander Jones stood and shook his hand. “That’s good thinking, son. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Ms. Wells will give you some particulars regarding the department’s involvement in the funeral.”

  Boone raised his eyebrows.

  “That surprise you?” the commander said as he headed to the door. “Your family is our family. Now you don’t have to accept it, but we will work with your funeral director and your church and stand ready to add all the appropriate department pageantry you’ll allow. The entire CPD is eager to be represented and express itself to you, Officer Drake, and I hope you’ll allow us to do just that.”

  Ms. Wells outlined a package that called for Boone to be furloughed for up to twenty working days, during which he would be evaluated for counseling, and then it would be determined—between him and the department—when he would be eligible to return to duty. “You may be eager to get back on the job, or you may need more time. Within reason, we will accommodate you.”

  “And this funeral thing?”

  “My advice would be to simply say it’s all right to, as Commander Jones said, let us work with your people. You handle the arrangements however you wish, and we will come alongside to add to the program. You may rest assured that it will be dignified, appropriate, and if I may put it this way, impressive. You will be glad you allowed us to be part of it. May I record that you are open to this?”

  “I guess; sure.”

  7

  The Wilderness

  Boone owed a LOT to his parents, Ambrose and Lucy Drake. Whatever he was, whatever he had become, they had helped shape him. Problem was, his father was a know-it-all who pretty much did know it all, and his mother overspiritualized everything and tended toward the dramatic.

  Well, that was an understatement. By the time Boone got out of his meeting with Bonnie Wells, he was well aware his parents had arrived. Jack Keller was in the commander’s office with them, and Boone could tell from Heathcliff Jones’s look that he was doing all he could to tolerate the intrusion. Even before entering, Boone could hear his mother going on about “proud of him,” “devastated,” “don’t know how he’s going to cope,” “says such wonderful things about his job,” and “loves the dickens out of you.”

  Sh
e wasn’t beyond embellishing. Boone could not remember having ever mentioned the commander to his parents. He certainly had spoken highly of Jack Keller, so maybe she was confusing the two.

  While Boone appreciated his parents to a degree, he believed he had made parenting easy and had said as much to friends and to Nikki. He knew how that sounded, but it was true. When he got to his teen years and his friends were rebelling and doing whatever they could to make life miserable for their parents, he saw no future in that and became essentially a model son.

  It wasn’t that he idolized them or put them on a pedestal; they were flawed human beings like everyone else. And while there was much to admire about both of them—his father’s discipline and consistency and his mother’s devotion to God (or at least to the church)—Boone could have easily become a pain to them.

  He saw himself as smarter than they, and there were times when he would have loved to poke holes in their assumed logic. He’d had the typical separation issues, wanting early to abandon them and their rules and their antiquated ideas, become a rebel, strike out on his own. But the truth was, he was smarter than that. He had the ability to look farther down the road and see that he would only delay his hopes and dreams if he made stupid, regrettable decisions.

  And so he had humored them. Besides, they didn’t deserve rebellion and opposition. His younger brothers gave them all of that they could handle. To their credit, his brothers seemed to be finally turning out all right too, but for years they’d had to deal with the inevitable comparisons to their straight-arrow older brother. Boone’s motives might not have been pure, but he was a hard act to follow.

  Nikki had wisely postulated that Boone’s form of separation and rebellion had come late and in the form of passive-aggressive behavior. Once he was out of the house, he was really gone. He was the son who rarely called, never wrote, and visited only when he couldn’t get out of it. He’d simply had enough of his father’s smug wisdom and his mother’s assumption that any son of hers would share her enthusiasm over spending every minute of every day “serving and glorifying the Lord.” Pastor Sosa would love her.