Brennan let out a screech, grabbed a paring knife from the bar, and lunged for Devlin, who raised his hand defensively. The blade went through the flesh of Devlin’s palm and emerged near the back of the wrist. Brennan tried to pull it free again, John on his back, Devlin clawing his face. The two detectives wrestled the old man into the wheelchair and John cuffed Brennan’s wrist to an armrest. Brennan grinned—insane. No, now they saw. He was up again, the armrest sliding easily out of its mounts, suddenly a weapon raised over Devlin’s head. John had it, and pulled the old man back down again. Devlin found his handcuffs in his jacket pocket, covering them almost instantly with his own blood. John took the cuffs, pulled Brennan’s other arm down to a wheel and locked him to it. Brennan swung the metal wheelchair arm at John now, cutting his head, knocking him back, blood splashing. Devlin yelled, “No more! No more!” He rushed the wheelchair toward the fantail, where the fireworks were still exploding overhead. Devlin opened the door. John clung to hang on. All three men were yelling. Devlin didn’t care. Brennan saw what he was going to do, and tried to plant his feet in the carpet. Out in the warm air, Devlin pushed John back inside, and dragged and pushed the wheelchair to the rail. Charlotte Brennan’s dead eyes stared past their struggle. Devlin felt John tearing at him, yelling for him to stop. Brennan swung the metal arm back, yelling, too—but Devlin was yelling loudest, shrieking, screaming. He levered Brennan up onto the top rail, perhaps thirty inches above the deck, where he teetered, silhouetted against a barrage of exploding rockets, John grabbing for him, Devlin pitting his weight in the other direction. Brennan went down toward the water headfirst, screaming until he went in, the electric motor shorting out with a sudden, fierce hiss. When Devlin turned around, his bloody partner was staring at him in disbelief.

“Two hundred and fifty pounds,” John said. “Brennan and that wheelchair must have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds.”

Devlin applied pressure to his wrist. He looked John in the eye. “I did everything I could to stop him, and I know you did, too.”

John took his time answering, glancing at Charlotte Brennan and then at the black, boiling water below. “You’re right,” he said. “We recorded his confession and then he attacked us. Murder and suicide. Why don’t you call Eileen while I get us some first aid?”