Chief Donaldson aims his .38 Special at the moaning postal worker lying on the ground, kicking his right arm away from the knife half an inch from his fingers.

“You’re losing it, Chief.”

Chief Donaldson looks over his right shoulder at a shadowy, preteen figure, its footsteps splashing closer. He catches the Mets cap, the boy’s blue eyes in the ambient streetlight. “What are you doing here, Timmy? This wasn’t one of your cases.”

“It’s worse than I thought.”

Chief Donaldson turns to Timmy as he hears elastic stretching, the gun shaking in Donaldson’s hands. “Whatever you’ve got aimed at me boy detective, drop it.”

“This is the only way to bring you back from what Adam did to you.”

“What are we really working for, Timmy? I can blow you all to Hell and you’ll finally go home.”

“Not like this, Craig.”

Chief Donaldson howls as the knife dives between his shoulder blades. He turns, fires two shots at where the postal worker laid. As he turns back to Timmy, a pellet breaks against Chief Donaldson’s cheek, sending him wilting to the concrete. Timmy walks over and kneels down, listening for the Chief’s ragged breathing.

“He’s…right. What…are we really working for, Timmy?” Timmy looks up, peers through the rain dripping down the brim of his baseball cap at Leopold taking off his postal worker disguise, removing the bulletproof vest from his chest to look at where the bullet crumpled.

“To end all this madness, eventually.”

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