Read Online Precinct 11 - 01 - The Brotherhood by Jerry B. Jenkins - Free Book Online Page A

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-da s and bye-bye s, 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