John Hartigan

An old man dies. A young woman lives. A fair trade. I love you, Nancy.

Sometimes the truth doesn't matter like it ought. But you'll always remember things right. That's gonna mean a lot to me. But stay away, Nancy. They'll kill you if you don't stay away. Don't visit me. Don't write me. Don't even say my name.

Sure, Bob. You'll call for back-up. And we'll sit on our hands while that Roark brat gets his sick thrills from victim number four. Victim number four! Nancy Callahan. Age 11. She'll be raped and slashed to ribbons. And that back-up we're waiting on will just happen to show up late enough to let Roark get back home to his U.S. Senator daddy and everything will be fine until Junior gets the itch again.

Nancy's car. Six miles from the farm. "Nobody but me can keep this heap running" she told me. Good girl. The car stalled out on that yellow bastard and you didn't tell him how to start it up again. You kept your mouth shut. I'll bet Junior was furious.

Just one hour to go. My last day on the job. Early retirement. Not my idea. Doctor's orders. Heart condition. Angina, he calls it. I'm polishing my badge and getting used to the idea of saying goodbye to it. It and the 30 odd years of protecting and serving and tears and... blood and terror... triumph it represents. I'm thinking about Ilene's slow smile, bout the thick, fat steak she picked up at the butchers today. I'm thinking about the one loose end I haven't tied up. A young girl who's out there somewhere, helpless in the hands of a drooling lunatic.