Bloody Mary

I left Libby a message on her cell, and then occupied a few hours reviewing backlog cases. During my absence, Chicago lived up to its reputation of being the murder capital of the U.S. We averaged about 600 a year, but we were already at over 585 and the busy holiday season wasn't even upon us yet.

Immersing myself in paperwork turned out to be good therapy, and by the time five o'clock rolled around, I'd only thought about Fuller intermittently, rather than constantly.

I called home, got no answer, called Alan's cell, and got his voice mail. I told him I'd be home early, and left the office.

The snow had turned into freezing drizzle, and the ride took twenty minutes longer than normal, because every driver on the road collectively forgot how to drive in freezing drizzle.

After retrieving my mail, I went up to my apartment, walked into the living room, and caught sight of a very old and very naked man having sex with my mother on the Hide-A-Bed.

I immediately turned around and went into the kitchen. They hadn't seen me, having been too involved in the act. Perhaps their mutual moaning had masked the sound of my footfalls.

I considered my next move. Make a lot of noise, so they knew I was home? Sneak out? Ask them to quit it, because I was now scarred for the rest of my life?

I chose sneaking out. A twenty-four-hour coffee shop/diner was a few blocks away, but the freezing rain wasn't enough to erase the image branded on my brain, of Mr. Griffin's naked bottom rising and falling. I also found myself thinking, quite surprisingly, that it wasn't a bad butt for a guy his age. Firmer than I might have guessed.

I had coffee, and a Monte Cristo sandwich -- hot turkey, ham, Swiss cheese, and bacon, on two pieces of French toast. The sandwich came dusted in powdered sugar, with a side ramekin of raspberry jelly. It didn't make sense that jelly went so well with turkey and ham, but for some reason it worked. I suppose some things that worked didn't need to make sense.

After killing an hour in the diner, which seemed to be more than enough time for my mom to finish, I called the apartment.

No answer. Perhaps they were napping in the post-glow.

Wanting badly to shower and change clothes, I again braved the inclement weather and made my way back home.

They were still going at it.

I didn't get an eyeful this time -- the groaning was enough to keep me at bay. I turned and walked right back out.

My opinion of Mr. Griffin went up a notch. I'd always dated younger men. Perhaps I'd been missing out.

The local googleplex had a new Brad Pitt movie playing, and I plunked down ten bucks to spend ninety minutes with Brad.

Afterward, I called home. Thankfully, Mom picked up.

"Hi, Mom. Just calling to tell you I'll be home in about twenty minutes."

"Hello, dear. Um, can I ask a tiny favor of you?"

"Sure, Mom."

"My gentlemen friend from Florida, Mr. Griffin, is visiting. Would you mind giving us an hour or two to catch up?"

"An hour or two?"

"Yes. We haven't seen each other in a while and we've got some things to work out."

My mother made a frank, gasping sound. I rubbed my eyes.

"Sure, Mom. I'll catch a movie. I'll be home around ten?"

"Ten is fine," Mom said, an octave higher than normal.

I hung up.

Unbelievable.

I killed another two hours with Julia Roberts, and by then I was so tired I went straight home, my mother's sexual needs be damned. She just broke her hip, for heaven's sake. Shouldn't she be minding the injury?

Thankfully, Mom and Mr. Griffin were fully dressed when I returned. They were in the kitchen, sipping coffee. Mom's hair was a mess, and her cheeks were flushed.

"Nice to see you again, Jacqueline." Mr. Griffin was a student of the old school, meaning he stood up when I came into the room and offered his hand.

I shook it, and he winced.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. My back is acting up a little."

I wonder why.

"We've got a pizza coming, if you're hungry."

"No, I ate. I'm going to turn in. Did Alan call?"

"He told me earlier he was going out with some old buddies, wouldn't be back until late."

I said my good nights, slipped in and out of a hot shower, and climbed into bed, determined not to take a sleeping pill.

After forty minutes of staring at the ceiling, I heard a deep moan come from the living room.

I took two pills, and fell asleep with the pillow over my head.

Chapter 36

Fuller lies awake in his cell. It's past midnight, and he needs to sleep. He has to look good for court. Appearance is everything.

He knows the jury watches him constantly. Looking for some trace of guilt or deceit. He'll only show them what he wants them to see.

The vomiting was a masterstroke. The piece of beef had been rotting in his mattress for days. Less than the size of a grape, the smell alone was enough to make him gag. Popping it in his mouth produced instant nausea. Disgusting, but effective.

The real show will begin when he takes the stand. He's hidden some red peppercorn flakes in his mattress -- much more effective for bringing on tears than onions.

He knows the case will wrap up soon. Garcia wants to finish it before Thanksgiving, betting on the fact that the jurors will want to get the verdict in before the holiday. That leaves two days for testimony, and one for closing statements.

So far, everything is progressing smoothly.

There had been a bad moment, when Garcia told him about the tape. Some guard at Cook County jail had contacted Fuller's attorneys, willing to sell them a recording of his conversation with Jack at the prison. Blackmail, is what it boiled down to. Pay me, or I'll give this to the prosecution.

Fuller paid. He had to give power of attorney to Garcia, and authorized him to liquidate several things around the house -- Holly's jewelry, a signed Dali litho she'd bought with her modeling money, the Lexus.

Fuller had been worried that Garcia might turn on him, once he found out about Fuller's deception. But the smarmy little bastard didn't bat an eyelash. In fact, he ingeniously used the tape to discredit Daniels.

Who says money can't buy a verdict?

The only problem at the moment is these damn headaches. They're getting worse. He hasn't explained to his doctors about how bad they've gotten, because he needs to give the impression that he's cured. If headaches made him kill, and he's still got headaches, they won't let him out.

So he makes do with Tylenol and sheer will.

But he can't hold out much longer.

There's only one thing that helps him when the pain gets this bad.

"Just a few more days," he whispers to himself. "Then I'll be free."

Fuller has Thanksgiving plans. He's going to drop by the Daniels household. Get a little pain relief. He's heard that Jack is living with her mom and ex-husband. What fun it will be to kill them both, in front of Jack, before ripping off her arms.

"Murder. The headache medicine."

When he finally falls asleep, it's with a smile on his face.

Chapter 37

"Dr. Jurczyk, in your eighteen years' experience as a brain surgeon, how many operations have you performed?"

Dr. Robert Jurczyk answered in a deep, resounding tone that radiated authority. "I've performed several hundred."

"Was one of them on the defendant, Barry Fuller?"

"Yes. I was in attendance at Northwestern when they brought him in."

"In technical terms, what was the defendant's condition?"

"He was brought in with a extradural hemorrhage caused by a bullet wound to the top right quadrant of the frontal bone, and after a CT scan it was determined the subject also had a neoplasm on the frontal lobe."

"Now in layman's terms."

"The bullet wound caused the outermost meninges to rupture. Meninges are the membranous layers that cover the brain. When this ruptured, it began to bleed, and the blood leaked into the space between the brain and the skull. Since the skull is a closed structure, this blood was pushing against the brain and would have resulted in death if a craniotomy wasn't performed."

"So you opened up the patient's skull to release the pressure?"

"Yes."

"Then you also removed the tumor on Barry Fuller's frontal lobe?"

"Yes."

"How big was that tumor, Doctor?"

"Approximately forty grams, about two centimeters in width."

"Your honor, and members of the jury, I'd like to present defense exhibit F, the tumor removed from Barry Fuller's head."

From the defense table came a glass jar containing a small gray thing floating in formaldehyde. The courtroom did its customary rumbling and the bailiff began to pass the jar around.

"Is that the tumor you removed from the defendant's brain, Doctor?"

"It appears to be. Yes."

"And how many of that type of operation have you done? Craniotomies, I believe you called them."

"Hundreds."

"Have there been any cases where a patient has had a craniotomy to relieve the pressure from an extradural hemorrhage, and later the patient experienced amnesia?"

"Yes. Almost eighty percent of patients with extradural hemorrhages experience some amnesia. In fact, after operations of this type, it's necessary to keep a constant watch on a patient in recovery because they usually wake up not knowing where they are or what happened to them."

"Have there been instances where the amnesia went back a few days, or even a week?"

"Yes. And further than that. I had one patient, brought in with a severe extradural hemorrhage caused by a car accident, and he completely forgot the last five years of his life. He didn't remember that he was married, and didn't know he had kids."

"Did those memories ever return to him?"

"Bits and pieces returned, but he never regained a significant amount of his memory back."

Things weren't looking good for the home team.

"How about personality changes? In your esteemed opinion, Dr. Jurczyk, could an intracranial neoplasm of the frontal lobe be sufficient enough to cause such a massive personality change that even murder could result?"

"Yes, it could."

Murmurs from the courtroom. Garcia faced the jury, smug. Libby gave me the briefest of sideways glances.

"Please elaborate, Doctor."

"The frontal lobe is the personality center of the brain. I've reviewed dozens of cases where damage to a patient's frontal lobe, either by an accident or by neoplasms, altered a person's personality to such a degree that even their own family members no longer recognized them."

"Are there any cases where a head trauma was associated with a personality change so dramatic that murder resulted?"

"There are many. Henry Lee Lucas, the notorious serial murderer who claimed responsibility for over one hundred victims, sustained several severe head injuries as a youth. John Wayne Gacy, Richard Speck, Charles Manson -- all had records of serious head injuries."

"So it is possible that a normal, upstanding member of society like you or me, if afflicted with a meningioma of the frontal lobe, could undergo such a dramatic personality change that murder may be committed?"

"Assuming that the part of the brain dealing with morals and values was affected, which is also part of the frontal lobe, yes, it is possible."

"And if this person, before the tumor, was a nonviolent and caring individual, is it possible that the tumor could be the sole cause of such a dramatic personality change and the violent episodes that ensued?"

"Yes."

"And if that tumor -- the sole cause of this violent behavior -- were removed, would the person's personality then revert back to normal?"

"In my opinion, yes."

"Thank you, Doctor. Your witness."

Libby stood up but didn't even bother to move from behind the table.

"Have you ever, in your professional capacity, Doctor, treated an individual with an intracranial tumor who murdered anyone?"

"No, I haven't."

"And as one of the premier brain specialists in the world, have you ever encountered a case in your research where a person with an intracranial tumor murdered anybody?"

"No."

"How many cases have you reviewed, either in person or through research, throughout your career, Doctor?"

"Several thousand."

"Can you speak up, sir?"

"Several thousand cases."

"Several thousand cases, and not one case of murder. No more questions."

Garcia passed on the redirect.

I studied the jurors, and they seemed unconvinced by the cross-examination. Hell, if I didn't know Fuller was faking it, I would have been unconvinced too. When the world's leading brain specialist says it's possible that a tumor could cause someone to kill, you believe it.

"You may step down, Doctor. And we'll have an hour break for lunch." Taylor banged the gavel. "Adjourned."

Libby wasn't happy.

"Losing this case won't bode well for my career." She took my arm as we exited the courtroom. "I got a copy of the tape from Garcia yesterday. He claims it came in the mail, in a plain brown envelope, no return address, no note. Even gave me the envelope. I had it checked. Clean."

"I take it the tape didn't have Fuller's confession on it?"

"No. He says what he played in court was all that was on it, but Garcia is a sneaky little bastard, and he didn't get a name for himself by playing fair and nice with the other children."

"Did you get the tape checked?"

"It's being checked, but it's obvious the tapes come from different sources. I played it against the one you made, and the sound quality is completely different. It's better, and Fuller is louder than you. The mike must have been on his side of the room."

"Maybe it was someone from the prison. You know the warden better than I do. Ask him if he's had any no-shows lately. Guards calling in sick, quitting suddenly, that kind of thing."

"I'll do it today."

I switched gears. "I think I've got a way to get Rushlo to talk."

I gave her the short version. Libby frowned.

"Not my preferred course of action, but I'll swing it. Anything to save this sinking ship. I can have the paperwork ready by tomorrow. Cook County jail is right down the street, so we can do this on our lunch break."

I smiled, but it didn't quell the butterflies in my stomach.

Chapter 38

Herb and I were going through a list of every student who attended classes with Fuller at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale, and trying to make connections between them and any of the 137 missing persons from that time. We allocated my floor for the purpose, spreading out files in a big, uneven grid sorted semi-alphabetically. Benedict was on his knees, crossing off possibles, when Libby called.

"I've got a name. Marvin Rohmer. He's a guard at Division Eleven, been missing for the past week. A look into his personal finances revealed Rohmer has recently opened up eight checking accounts, each with cash amounts ranging from two to six grand. Probably got a large payment from that weasel Garcia."

"Spreading it out because banks have to report big cash deposits. Smart."

"Yeah, but he called attention to himself anyway by skipping work."

"We're on our way."

"Too late. Rohmer's a West Side boy, and I got a team to his place before the ink on the warrant dried. He skipped. Didn't find the tape, but we found a voice-activated recorder with some duct tape still on it. He probably taped it to the ceiling, or under a chair."

"Have you checked--"

"We're on it, Jack. We've frozen his assets, tracked his credit cards, and will soon release his name and description to every cop in the United States and Canada. If we find him, we don't even need the tape. I'll cut him a deal, force him to testify."

"Fax me Rohmer's file."

"It's already on its way."

I shared the info with Herb, and then we spent a few hours on the student records, ordering in a pizza with extra meat. Benedict ate most of it, but avoided the crust, leaving a cardboard box full of saucy white triangles.

I buried myself in the work. We were creating a big cross-reference grid; we listed all the students Fuller might have known from classes, sports, activities, and fraternities, and then tried to link them to any of the missing persons by doing the same thing. Tedium, and exactly what I needed.

"Got a possible." Benedict held up a paper. Not unusual, we'd had a few possibles so far.

"Name?"

"Missing person is Melody Stephanopoulos. Student. She had three classes with a kid named Michael Horton, who was on the football team with Fuller."

"Horton's girlfriend?"

"Could be. She was a science major, Horton was liberal arts, and she took two writing classes and a classics literature class with him, sophomore and junior year. Disappeared during the spring term, as a junior."

I looked up Horton in the Carbondale police files, got zilch. Then I called the SIU alumni organization, and spoke with a peppy lady named Missy who was hesitant to help until I gave her my badge number.

"I found him. Michael Horton is living in Seattle. Says he's married, a stockbroker, two kids."

I wrote down his number and dialed it.

"This is Michael."

"Mr. Horton, this is Lt. Daniels from the Chicago Police Department. We'd like to ask you a few questions--"

"About Barry, right? I've been following it on the news."

"Well, sort of. First we wanted to ask you about Melody Stephanopoulos."

"Have you found her?" The sentence came out so fast all the words ran together.

"I'm sorry, no. She was your girlfriend?"

"Fiancee. She disappeared."

"Did Barry know Melody?"

"Yeah. She didn't like him. Oh, Jesus, you don't think . . ."

"We don't know, Mr. Horton. We're trying to establish a connection. Were you and Barry friends?"

"Sure. We partied a lot together. Coach liked the team to hang out in our free time."

"Did Barry ever hang around with Melody, without you there?"

"Not that I remember. Melody was pretty much glued to my side all the time."

"When did she go missing?"

He paused.

"We had a fight, at a party. She didn't like me drinking so much. I told her to lighten up and quit being a nag. She left. That's the last time I saw her."

"Was Barry at the party?"

"Yeah. It was after the Florida game. Big celebration."

"Do you remember if Barry left after Melody?"

"I wish I could remember, Lieutenant. But I got pretty trashed that night. When I went to Melody's dorm the next day to apologize, her roommate told me she never came home."

Horton spent ten minutes filling me in on his relationship with Melody. He'd loved her deeply, and her loss devastated him. He spent another five giving me personal insights into Fuller, whom he called "a team player, a regular guy."

Which is how I would have described Fuller, before I found out about his extracurricular activities.

When the conversation wound down, he promised to call if he remembered anything else.

Herb, who'd been on the extension, hung up.

"Could be a lead. Maybe you can hit Rushlo with it."

I looked at my watch. Almost seven in the evening. I yawned. Herb gave me a look of disapproval.

"Jack, you need to get some rest."

"I'm fine."

"You look like a shit sandwich, with extra corn."

"That's sweet. You read that in a Hallmark card?"

"Go home."

"I'm afraid to go home. It's like walking into a geriatric version of Last Tango in Paris."

He frowned.

"What's wrong with you lately, Jack?"

Herb's voice took on a harsh tone, something that happened once in a leap year.

"What do you mean, Herb?"

"You're not yourself. You're edgy, short-tempered, and unhappy."

"If you're questioning my competency, Detective, then you're free to seek other employment opportunities."

Herb stood up.

"Maybe I should put in for reassignment."

"It wouldn't surprise me, considering you just did the same thing with your marriage."

Benedict shot me a very un-Benedict-like stare, and walked out.

I sat there for a few minutes, trying to get my breathing under control.

I couldn't.

Chapter 39

"Do you know why you are here, Barry?"

Fuller nodded, doing a damn good impression of a scolded puppy. He wore a dark blue suit with a light blue shirt, which was wrinkled by his slouching.

"Because I killed some people." His voice was soft, meek.

"Do you know why you killed these people, Barry?"

"I don't remember. I don't remember killing anyone."

"But you've watched the proceedings. You know that without a doubt you are the one who murdered these people."

"Yes. I know."

"But you can't tell us why you did?"

"I don't remember why. I don't remember anything for almost a month before the first murder. It's like all that time never happened. My God, I'd never . . . I'd never kill anybody. I can't believe . . ."

Fuller's voice cracked. Fountains of tears streamed down his face. His crying became sobbing and he wailed and moaned and Garcia held out a box of tissues and Fuller went through one after another, for almost two minutes.

"It wasn't me. I know it wasn't me. I couldn't have done that."

"Why not, Barry?"

"Because I'm not a killer. I'm not even violent."

"But weren't you a pro football player? And a police officer? Most people consider those violent professions."

"I mostly sat on the bench. Coach didn't think I had that 'killer instinct,' he called it. And I became a cop so I could uphold the law and help people. I had a terrific record, until, oh God . . ."

More sobbing and more Kleenex. It made my stomach turn.

"Take your time, Barry. You say you can't remember any of the murders. What is your last memory, prior to your brain operation?"

"The last thing I can really remember clearly was getting drunk on my couch after work, trying to make it go away."

"Trying to make what go away, Barry?"

"The pain. In my head."

"Your last memory is of a headache?"

"A terrible headache. I thought my head would explode. Aspirin didn't help, so I drank a bottle of rum to make the pain stop."

"When was this?"

"Sometime in late spring. May, maybe."

"Why didn't you go to a doctor?"

"I don't remember. I don't remember anything after that. Maybe I did go to a doctor."

"When you woke up in the hospital, after your operation, what was your first thought?"

"I thought I was in the hospital because I drank too much and fell down some stairs or something."

"And how did you react when you were told you'd been shot after murdering your wife?"

More sobbing. Garcia made a show of getting a second box of tissues from the defense table.

"I thought it was some sick joke. I still can't believe it. Everyone is telling me I've done horrible things, things I would never do. And all the evidence says I did them. But I can't remember them. How would you feel if someone said you murdered your wife? Oh my God . . ."

More crying.

"Settle down, Barry. It's okay."

"No, it's not okay. It will never be okay. Do you know I haven't slept for more than two hours a night since this began? I should have gone to a doctor, or a shrink, or . . ."

"Or what, Barry?"

"Or killed myself. If I had killed myself, all of those people would still be alive."

Amen to that, I thought. But a glance at the jury told me they didn't share my sentiments.

"Is there anything you'd like to say to the families of those people?" Garcia asked.

"Yes. Yes there is."

Fuller stood up and removed a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket. He held it tenderly in his hands, as if it were a kitten, but as he spoke he didn't have to look at it once.

"I can't say anything that would justify my taking six lives. I can't say anything that would make you forgive me. I can only say that I'm, I'm . . ." He began to cry again. "I'm so, so, so sorry. I wish I could remember their deaths, because that would give me something I could use to hate myself even more. I don't know how any of this happened. My doctors and my attorneys say it was a brain tumor. Maybe that's the case, because I really don't know how I could have done all of this, hurt so many people. If I could return any of those lives I took with my own death, I would. Oh God, I would in a second."

Fuller stood there, blubbering like a baby, for several minutes. Every time he began to speak the sobbing would take over again. And in a moment that would forever be embedded in my brain, I turned to look at the courtroom, and saw at least eight people dabbing their eyes.

Two were on the jury.

"What's your plan of action?" I whispered to Libby. She had on a double-breasted gray pantsuit with champagne stripes. Emanuel Ungaro, she'd told me earlier. I also wore a gray pantsuit, which I picked up at JCPenney's for $89.99. I felt like a hobo about to spit-roast a hot dog over some Sterno.

"No plan."

"You're going to wing it?"

"I'm not going to cross-examine."

"Why not?"

"So Fuller can spout more lies and gain more audience sympathy? Noel and I can't look like bullies -- you already did more than enough of that. I don't want to give Fuller's testimony credence by acknowledging it."

The Garcia and Fuller Show went on for another hour, Garcia gently asking questions, Fuller striving for a Tony Award. He managed to produce more tears than an entire season of All My Children.

When the judge broke for lunch, Libby and I hauled tail across the street to Cook County jail.

Rushlo was being held in Division 2, a medium security facility. Dorm living, fifty cots to a room, no barred cells. For a man as private as Derrick, I could guess the effect this had on him.

Rushlo's lawyer, Gary Pludenza, met us at the first security checkpoint. He apparently hadn't been able to slough off Rushlo on other counsel.

Libby shook his hand. "Good afternoon, Mr. Pludenza. We've got a new deal for your cousin."

"What's the deal?"

"We have suspicions he's been covering up for Fuller longer than we thought. We want names."

"He won't turn on Fuller. He's made that clear to me several times. He's terrified of him."

"We realize that. We think he will."

"I don't see how. I've begged him, and I can't get through to the guy. He won't even acknowledge me."

"Maybe if you closed your eyes and played dead?" Libby suggested.

Pludenza frowned. "Can we get this over with, please? I have to be at the Daley Center in two hours for a bankruptcy hearing."

"Sounds exciting."

"Yeah, well, we all can't be characters in a Grisham novel."

Through the metal detector, through the security doors, and into the heart of Division 2. Two guards accompanied us, regulation rather than protection. This section of the prison was for nonviolent offenders. Still, Libby and I got a few obscene catcalls from the male population.

Well, Libby did. I convinced myself it was her suit. Even criminals appreciated fashion sense.

We located Rushlo in the rec room, sitting at a steel table, reading a dog-eared People magazine. When he saw us, he freaked out.

"I'm not saying anything." He jumped to his feet, head jerking this way and that, searching for an escape route. His cousin put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed.

"It's okay, Derrick. They're coming here with an offer. Hear them out."

"I don't want their offer. They tricked me before."

I sat down, smiled easily. "You don't have a choice, Derrick."

Rushlo stared at me. Well, one eye did.

"I'm not talking."

"You don't have to." Libby handed him some papers.

"What are these?"

Pludenza looked them over, then broke into a big grin.

"They're dropping the charges, Derrick. You're free."

Rushlo turned a pasty shade of white.

"No . . ."

"I'll have you out of here by this evening."

"No . . . you can't let me out."

Libby winked at him. "We can, and we just did. Good timing too. Your buddy's trial is almost over. You guys can have a nice little reunion."

Rushlo began to whimper. I put my hand on his forearm, hiding my revulsion.

"I'd watch your step, Derrick. Fuller is kind of annoyed you didn't cremate the body of Eileen Hutton. I think he'll want to speak to you about that."

Rushlo went from pale white to bright pink. I thought he was going to pop.

"You have to protect me!"

"We'd like to help you, Derrick, but you haven't helped us at all."

I nodded to Libby, and we stood up.

"Please, help me!"

"We can put you into the witness protection program, Derrick. Change your name, hide you someplace. Or, if Fuller stays in jail, you'll never have him to worry about again. Either way, you have to help us before we help you."

His whole body began to shake.

"I . . . I can't!"

"Have a nice life, Derrick. For as long as it lasts."

We walked away.

"Please! PLEASE!"

Libby and I made it back to the courthouse with enough time to indulge in a vending machine lunch.

"Think he'll crack?" she asked, her mouth around a triangularly cut cheese sandwich.

"I was going to ask you the same thing. I think so. The question is: Will he crack in time?"

"Closing arguments should only take a day. But even if the jury is deliberating, I can motion Judge Taylor to allow a surprise witness, and she can call them back into court. Rushlo's got to come clean before they reach a verdict. If Fuller gets off, we can't retry him. Double jeopardy."

I had a bite of tuna on wheat. Soggy.

"Can you filibuster?"

"This isn't Congress, Jack. If I try stalling, Taylor will jump all over me."

"How about trying for some kind of extension or continuance?"

"I've tried, several times. Taylor kept reminding me we had three months to prepare. She'll allow last-minute evidence, but won't postpone the trial so we can get it."

Libby ate more of her sandwich, and then glanced at her watch. A Movado, with diamonds around the bezel.

"Gotta get back to court. You didn't like your sandwich?"

"It tastes like wet paper towels."

Libby raised an eyebrow.

"You okay? Seem kind of off today."

"Got a lot on my mind."

"No kidding. Hey, all's not lost yet. Rushlo might still spill."

Everyone filed back into the courtroom, but didn't stay long. Libby's cross-examination of Fuller was a study in brevity.

"Mr. Fuller, I understand you were in the drama club at Southern Illinois University. What plays did you perform there?"

"I did Death of a Salesman, Merchant of Venice, and Waiting for Godot."

"I bet you were excellent." Libby sat down. "No further questions."

Judge Taylor adjourned for the day, with closings to begin tomorrow.

When I got back to my office, Benedict was nowhere to be found. We hadn't spoken since yesterday, and I didn't like any bad blood between us. I called his cell.

"Where are you?"

"I'm meeting with my lawyer."

"Can it wait? The trial is going to end any day now, and we have to finish cross-reffing these missing persons."

"No, it can't wait. Some of us haven't gotten a day off in the past three months."

I bit back my response, and hung up. I'd told him to file for reassignment out of anger, but now I was thinking it might be a good idea. I didn't like the person Herb had become.

I tackled the project solo. Ruled out some names. Followed a few leads to nowhere. Cleared a small section of paperwork off of my floor.

By dinnertime I had a headache. I called home and spoke to Alan, who was getting together with some old friends over at Mirabell's, a German place on Addison. Did I want to come?

I didn't feel very social, but I agreed because I'd blown off Alan for the past few nights. Maybe being around company would help get me out of my funk.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

Chapter 40

"Hi, Jack." Alan had been waiting in the bar, and gave me a hug when I entered the German place. He looked good, in black slacks and a gray cardigan. When I pecked him on the cheek I could tell he'd just shaved.

"I'm not in the best of moods," I said.

"It'll be fun." He took my coat and led me through the restaurant. "This is an old friend of yours."

"What old friend?" Then I saw.

Harry McGlade winked at me from his seat. He wore the standard Harry outfit: a wrinkled brown suit and a stained tie.

"Hiya, Jackie. This is my new squeeze, Nora."

"It's Dora." Dora was half McGlade's age, blonde with a streak of pink in her bangs, and the blouse she wore would have been tight on a Barbie doll.

"Yeah, Dora. Sorry, honey."

"Harry called earlier." Alan beamed like a schoolboy after his first kiss. "He wanted to thank you for something. Since you've been in a funk lately, I thought it would be nice if he thanked you in person. He's the guy who was in that made-for-TV movie with you, right? I mean, his character and your character?"

"Yeah." I tried to sound upbeat and enthusiastic. I failed.

Harry didn't have to fake it. "I just got my PI license in the mail this morning. The Illinois Department of Regulations takes their time, but you made good on your word, Jackie. Dinner is on me."

"Great." That sounded even worse.

The waitress came by, a woman in her sixties dressed in a dirndl. Her English was heavily accented with German. She made the mistake of starting with Harry.

"Something to drink, sir?"

"Got any German beer?"

"We've got the largest selection of imported beer in Chicagoland."

"How about Schlitzkreig?" asked Harry.

"We don't have that."

"Krautweiser?"

She shook her head.

"He'll have a Beck's," I told the waitress. "And so will I."

"Make it three." Alan held up three fingers.

"Diet cola with an orange slice, a lemon slice, a lime slice, and a cherry," Dora said.

"Why not just order a fruit salad?" asked Harry.

Dora giggled. I shot Alan a pained look, but his nose was buried in the menu and he didn't see it. I suppose I couldn't blame the guy. Alan didn't know Harry, and I'd never had any reason to mention him.

"Would you like an appetizer?"

"Swastikabobs." This from McGlade, naturally.

"We do not have shish kebab."

Harry shook his head. "No, I said--"

"We'll think it over," I interrupted. The poor waitress loped off.

Alan set the menu down. "I'm going with the wiener schnitzel."

"What's that?" Dora asked in a forced-cutesy way.

"It's veal."

"What's that? Like pork?"

"It's a baby cow." Harry pinched her cheek. "You're so adorable."

Dora's face bunched up. "You're ordering a baby cow wiener?"

"Wiener is German for veal," Alan explained.

"Wanna see my veal?" Harry winked.

Where was that beer?

It came, eventually, and I ordered a second one before taking a sip. If you're stuck in hell, you might as well roast some marshmallows.

Conversation, if it could be called that, centered around McGlade and the various cases he'd been involved in. Dora remained glued to every word. Alan laughed politely when it was called for. I drank.

The food was wonderful, and I had to give Alan credit; he did manage to make me forget about Fuller for a few hours.

"What's the deal with the Fuller trial, Jackie?"

So much for that.

"The deal is, he's going to get off, unless his partner confesses or we locate a runaway prison guard."

"You gotta find someone? Why didn't you tell me?"

"We've got every cop in Illinois, plus Feds, looking for him. What could you do, McGlade?"

"I happen to be a world-famous private investigator, Jackie. And what do I do, Dora?"

She giggled. "You investigate privates."

"Indeed. And I also find people. Gimme the rundown."

The beer had loosened my tongue a tad, so I gave Harry the scoop.

"You got the file?"

"In the car."

"I'd be happy to assist you in this instance. And in return, I only ask a small favor."

"I don't think I can handle any more favors, McGlade."

"This one is easy."

"What is it?"

"I'll tell you when I catch the guard." McGlade winked at me.

Dessert was black forest cake and incredibly strong coffee. Harry made good on his word and picked up the check. Alan tried to reach for it, but I gave him a vicious pinch underneath the table to squelch that idea.

Afterward, McGlade invited us back to his place for a nightcap. Alan got another pinch as a warning, and he made up a nice excuse about having to get home early.

McGlade got the file, Dora gave me a hug good night, and we went our separate ways.

"I'm getting the impression that Harry isn't your favorite person." Alan grinned at me when we got into the car.

"You picked up on the subtle nonverbal clues?"

"That, and all night you kept muttering 'idiot' under your breath."

"Was I right?"

Alan laughed. "You were right. He's a character, though. Think he'll find that guard guy?"

"He couldn't find snow in Alaska."

Alan put his hand on the back of my neck. Rubbed.

"You haven't been yourself lately. You okay?"

"Everyone keeps asking me that. I'm a little tense, that's all."

"Want to talk about it?"

"I'm fighting with Herb. We're losing this case. I walked in on Mom and Mr. Griffin."

Alan laughed. "You did too? He's spunky, for an old guy."

"Spunky? The man's a jackrabbit. He's going to break Mom's other hip."

"Anything else bugging you?"

There was an implied, anything with us?

I told him no, but that wasn't true. There was a problem with us. Every time I got home from work, I half-wondered if Alan would still be there. He left me once. He could do it again. So to protect myself, I was holding back.

I had to. Until I was sure.

"I'm glad." Alan moved his hand from my neck to my leg.

"Don't start something you can't finish."

"Oh, I may not be Jackrabbit Griffin, but I think I can finish okay."

And when we got back to my place, he proved that he could.

Chapter 41

The call came at four in the morning.

"I got him."

I tried to open my eyes, but the Ambien wouldn't let me.

"Who is this?"

"It's Harry. Duh."

"What do you want, McGlade?"

"The bull. The guard. I got him."

That got my eyes open.

"You're kidding."

"Why would I kid?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm in the lobby of the Four Seasons. He's in room 3604, under the name John Smith. Real creative, huh?"

I shook my head, tried to get my thoughts clear.

"How'd you find him?"

"I'll tell you when you get here. Bring a warrant."

Judge Taylor wasn't happy about being woken up in the middle of the night, but because she knew the immediacy of the situation, she understood. I stopped by her place on Cumberland, and then went to the hotel.

McGlade greeted me at the entrance with a canary-eating grin.

"How the hell did you manage this?"

"I told you. I'm a world-famous private investigator."

"Spill."

"Well, I knew you guys would have checked the airports, bus terminals, and train stations, and since the guy didn't have a car, I figured he'd still be in the city. You froze his accounts, so he couldn't use his credit cards. That meant he had to pay with cash. So I touched base with some of my friends at a few dozen local hotels, asking if anyone checked in lately paying in cash. Got a hit here, and confirmed it when the doorman saw the picture."

"Harry, I gotta admit it, I'm amazed."

"Yeah. Sometimes I amaze myself. You ready to crack some skulls, partner?"

I nodded. We entered the building, all crystal chandeliers and polished marble, and I hit the button for the lobby.

"So, you owe me a favor, right?"

"Anything you want, Harry, as long as it doesn't involve either of us getting naked."

"You wish. You remember my movie? Fatal Autonomy?"

"Unfortunately."

"Well, I'm talking with the producer, and he's considering turning it into a series."

"That blows my mind."

"Mine too. One of the Baldwin brothers is going to play me this time. They want to get that fat actress who played you to reprise her role. There's a little matter of permission, though."

My good mood lost a smidgen of goodness.

"Please, Jack? I found this guy for you, right? You owe me one. They love your character, and don't want to do a series without her."

I sighed. "Fine."

McGlade opened his arms to hug me, but I advised him against it.

The elevator spit us out on the seventh floor. We passed a table stacked high with cut flowers, and made our way to the second set of elevators. McGlade pressed the number 36.

"Nice hotel." He tapped the marble-inlaid floor with his shoe. "Reminds me of a HoJo I stayed at in Jersey."

When the elevator stopped, we found the room without difficulty.

"Mr. Rohmer! Chicago Police Department. Open up. We have a warrant."

No answer.

"Mr. Rohmer! Open the door, sir!"

Nothing.

"I'll get a manager." Harry trotted off. I continued knocking for another five minutes, before a desk clerk came over, smiling nervously.

"We'd like to keep this as quiet as possible, so as not to disturb the other guests."

"Sure. Just open up."

He opened it. I went in first, gun in hand. The room was dark, but I noticed two things immediately.

First, the television was on, playing the kind of movie that men watch when they're alone.

Second, Mr. Rohmer was on top of the bed, naked and grasping his veal. He was also quite dead.

"You could try mouth-to-mouth," Harry suggested. "He'd probably like that."

I might have tried, too, but I'd been around enough corpses to know he'd been dead for at least an hour.

Harry shook his head. "And they say pornography is harmless."

I turned off the TV, cursing bad luck, fate, and timing in the same breath.

"Oh, dear." The manager made worried mother-hen noises. "We can't let this get out."

"It'll make a good headline." Harry put his arm around the clerk's shoulders. "Crooked Department of Corrections Employee Wanks Himself to Death at Four Seasons."

"Oh, dear."

"At least he died happy."

I called it in, then flipped on the lights and spent ten minutes tearing the room apart. I found a few grand in cash, and nothing else.

"Get anything?" I asked McGlade.

"Just an almost new bottle of baby oil."

"No tape?"

"No tape. It's not here, unless he's hiding it in a body cavity. I'll roll him over if you wanna check."

I rubbed my eyes. Cops came, and paramedics.

"Probably a heart attack or a stroke," said a uniform.

"More like a lot of strokes," Harry said.

My cell rang. I went into the hallway to answer.

"Daniels."

"Lieutenant? This is Gary Pludenza, Derrick Rushlo's lawyer. Derrick would like to talk."

"I won't testify!" Rushlo screamed in the background.

"We need him to testify, Mr. Pludenza."

"He won't do it, but I think he might be able to help you anyway. Can you come here?"

"Where are you?"

He gave me his address, a house in the suburb of Naperville.

"How soon can you get here?"

"Gimme an hour."

I hung up, heading for the elevator. McGlade nipped at my heels.

"You're still going to sign the permission form, right? Jackie? I'll be by in a couple of days, okay? Sorry this didn't work out for you--"

The elevator doors closed, saving me from further pestering.

I took Delaware to Congress, and hopped on 290 heading west. Rush hour was in full effect, and the stop-and-go traffic was a perfect setting for inducing a panic attack. My heart rate doubled, my palms became slick, and I chewed on the inside of my cheek while my brain kept sending me still pictures, like a slide show, of every mistake I'd ever made over my whole life.

By the time I made it to Naperville, I was a wreck.

Pludenza's house reeked of money. It sat in a cul-de-sac in a ritzy development, two stories high with four alabaster Doric columns supporting the roof overhang. The doorbell was hooked up to real bells.

"Thanks for coming, Lieutenant." Pludenza looked about as agitated as I felt. He led me through a grand foyer, my short heels clicking on the terrazzo floor.

"Bankruptcies seem to be on the rise."

"Hmm? Oh. My wife comes from money. It's like living in the Taj Mahal. Derrick is in the den."

The den was an expansive room with vaulted ceilings, black leather furniture, and a beautiful Prairie Wind pool table in colonial maple.

Derrick sat in an armchair, hugging his knees to his chest.

"Is he out yet?" he asked.

"Soon. Closing arguments are today. If you want to keep him locked up, you have to testify."

His head shook violently.

"No. No testifying."

"Then he's going to get out, Derrick. And then he'll come for you. He was a cop. He knows how to find people."

Derrick began to hum, off-tune.

"Did you want something to drink, Lieutenant?"

I asked Pludenza for some coffee, and sat across from Rushlo.

"Derrick, we need to keep him in jail. Do you understand that?"

He nodded.

"I know that you're scared. We can keep you safe. I promise. But you need to help us make sure he doesn't get out."

He nodded again.

"Tell me about Southern Illinois."

His good eye locked on me.

"You know about Southern?"

"I know about you getting kicked out. I know that's where you met Fuller. I know about the body you stole."

"I took her out into the woods, where no one would see. He followed me and watched."

I ventured a guess. "Fuller turned you in."

Rushlo looked at me like I'd just grown donkey ears.

"Barry didn't turn me in. He was the one that told me to do it. He understood."

"How did you meet him?"

"He came up to me, after class. Wanted me to get him and some of his fraternity buddies into the morgue. For hazing week."

"Did you let them?"

"No. I would have gotten kicked out of school. But for fun, I let them see my embalming book. The guys were making jokes, acting tough, because they didn't want to admit being grossed out. But Barry was different. He seemed . . ."

"Interested?"

"More like aroused. Not by the embalming pages. By the reconstruction pages. He liked the trauma pictures. Extreme disfigurement. Stuff like that. So a week later, he came by again, alone. We got to talking. We have a lot in common, you know."

Yeah, I thought. You're both psychotic perverts.

"Were you helping Barry with disposals while in college?"

"No. That didn't happen until I had to leave. During my internship, at the funeral home in Champaign-Urbana. We stayed in touch, and one day he calls me up and says, 'Do you want a fresh one?'"

"A fresh corpse?"

"Yeah. He was still down at Southern. He told me she was untraceable, and he needed my help to get rid of her."

"This was someone he'd killed?"

"Yeah. So I drove down to Southern to pick her up. He'd bloodied her up pretty good, but she was still warm."

Derrick got a faraway look in his one eye; the other one always had a faraway look.

"You buried her in a closed casket with another body."

He fixed both eyes on me, a first for him. "How did you know that?"

"Do you remember the names, Derrick?"

"The girl's name was Melody. Such a pretty girl."

"Melody Stephanopoulos?"

He nodded.

"How about the name of the person you buried her with?"

"Last name was Hernandez, I remember that. Skinny guy. Tongue cancer. Most of his jaw was gone. I put them both in the same coffin, planted them in Greenview Cemetery. It was a beautiful ceremony. Lots of flowers."

I took out a pad and scribbled all of this down.

"How many others were there?"

"Kantner's Funeral Home in Urbana didn't have a crematorium. When I got a job in Chicago, it was much safer. I would still do an occasional two-for-one special, though, if I could get away with it. Cremation is such a waste. You might not believe this, but I think death is sacred. A funeral is a sacred ritual. I think everyone should have a wake, even if it isn't your family kneeling at the casket."

"How many, Derrick?"

"There were about eighteen women, total, over the last fifteen years. I buried nine of them."

"You have names?"

He smiled shyly.

"Of course. I remember them all. Each and every one of them."

"What if you didn't have to testify? What if you just made a statement?"

That flipped the switch in Rushlo. "I won't testify! You can't make me testify!"

"Easy, Derrick. Calm down."

"I won't do it!"

"But you wouldn't have to go to court. You could just . . ."

"I love him."

Pludenza chose that moment to return with the coffee. He handed me a cup and saucer, a wince etched into his face.

"Derrick" -- I tried to sound soothing -- "Barry wants to kill you."

"I can't betray him like that. He understands me. He's the only one that understands me. But I don't need to make a statement. You can prove Barry killed those women."

"How?"

"He likes to bite. All of the girls I buried had bite marks on them."

"You're sure?"

"I'm positive."

That would be enough. If we exhumed Hernandez and found Stephanopoulos in the casket, with Fuller's teeth marks on the corpse, he'd have to stand trial in Carbondale. And since this was years ago, he wouldn't be able to use the tumor insanity defense.

I set down the coffee without taking a sip, and dug out my cell. Derrick grabbed my pants leg.

"You have to help me."

"I'll send some guards over to watch the house."

"How about the witness program? Where they give people new names?"

I punched in Libby's number. "If Fuller gets out, that's a possibility."

"Can they set me up at another funeral home?"

"We dropped charges against you, Derrick, but I really don't think the FTC, IDPR, or OSHA is going to let you practice again."

He began to cry. I thanked Pludenza and left Libby a voice mail on the way to my car. Then I called Herb.

"What?"

"Look, Herb, we can deal with our squabble later. I'm driving down to Carbondale and I need you to run interference for me."

"Tell me."

I filled him in, and he agreed to set the wheels in motion.

Southern Illinois University was a five-hour drive.

I hopped back on the expressway, my car pointed south.

Chapter 42

I was sixty miles away from Carbondale when Libby called.

"The jury's out."

"How was your closing?"

"Not as good as Garcia's." I could picture Libby frowning. "If I were on that jury, I'd vote not guilty."

"If that happens, we need to keep tabs on Fuller until we can get an arrest warrant from Carbondale."

"What're the chances of that?"

"If Rushlo wasn't lying, chances are good."

"Keep me posted."

"You too."

I met the Carbondale chief of police, Shelby Duncan, at Greenville Cemetery forty minutes later. With him were a woman from the Health Department, the county coroner, the assistant director of the cemetery, and several workers.

Herb had made good on his word; the permits were in order, and everyone who needed to be there was there.

The day was cold and miserable, befitting a disinterment. We huddled together, hands in pockets and shoulders scrunched, while the guy operating the backhoe repeatedly dipped the big yellow shovel into the Hernandez plot.

After an hour, he struck concrete. The vault. Illinois cemeteries required all coffins to be placed in a burial vault or grave box. That prevented the earth from collapsing the casket, which would leave the cemetery pockmarked with hundreds of obvious indentations.

Two men in overalls went down the hole to widen the edges, and large spikes with eyeholes were driven into the vault cover. They secured ropes, and the backhoe lifted the section of concrete out of the grave. Straps were then attached to the coffin, and it was brought to the surface and gently placed next to the vault top.

The coroner, a thin reed of a man named Russell Thompkins, brushed off some dirt at the foot of the casket, then fit a special hex key into a small opening. He cranked it, counterclockwise, and the rubber seal broke, releasing a powerful hiss of putrid air that I could smell from ten feet away.

The casket unlocked, Thompkins lifted open the head and squinted inside.

"Two bodies." He pinched the nostrils of his pointy nose with long, slender fingers. "A man and a woman."

"Is that enough?" I asked Chief Duncan. Duncan looked like a stouter version of John Wayne, and must have known it, hence the plaid flannel shirt and cowboy boots.

"It's a damn good start. We need to establish that it's Melody Stephanopoulos, and that your Barry Fuller was involved in her death."

"Did you bring her dental records?"

"Yeah."

"How about the faxes of the bite marks?"

"I've got it all in the car."

I accompanied him to his vehicle, and took what I needed up to the casket.

"We need to find bite marks, ones that match these." I showed Thompkins the papers. He nodded, slipped on some latex gloves, and got to work.

I took out a pair of my own, from the deep pockets of my blazer, and looked into the casket for the first time.

Julio Hernandez occupied the left-hand side. He was skeletal-thin, swimming in the oversized brown suit he wore. His facial features were sunken, recessed, and he had no lower jaw -- cancer, Rushlo had mentioned. His mouth and throat were packed with rotten cotton batting.

The smell was so bad I had to take breaths from over my shoulder. Even the best embalming job couldn't prevent decay, and the bacteria had eaten well for years before they too ran out of nourishment and rotted away.

Melody proved to be in much worse shape than Hernandez. She wore no clothing, and her flesh had a light gray cast. The atrocities committed upon her stood out in bas-relief black: a jagged tear across her throat, slits forming X-marks over each breast, a deep gash running from her pubis to her belly button. And dozens of dark, round sores, covering her head to toe like polka dots.

Bites.

The major wounds had been sewn up, the stitches expertly done, though hardly cosmetic. Rushlo's postmortem work.

The coroner snapped pictures, and I borrowed his scalpel and forced it between Melody's cold, dry lips, cutting the mortician's glue that sealed them shut. The blade clicked against teeth. I pried her lips apart and found the suture, looping under her lower gums and up through her septum. I severed the ligature, and attempted to open the mouth.

The mouth didn't comply.

Using the scalpel's handle as a lever, I pried open her mouth until I could get two fingers inside. It took considerable force, and felt like I was being bitten, but I managed to stretch her jaws wide enough to get a penlight inside.

There was a gold crown on her back molar, on the upper left side.

The crown matched the one on Melody's dental records.

The records also showed a filling on the upper right canine, and I easily found that with the light.

"It's Melody."

"Russell?" the chief asked the coroner.

"Too hard to tell. There's a lot of decay."

"I'll settle for your best guess."

"It's possible they're from the same man. I'd need more time, proper equipment, to know for sure."

My cell rang. Libby. I picked up.

"Verdict came in. They didn't take long to free the bastard."

"Hold on a second, Libby." I turned to the coroner. "Is there anything you notice that can prove our guy did this?"

Russell took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

"Actually, there is something pretty incriminating. See these two bites here, on her inner thighs? There are bite marks in the pictures you gave me, in the exact same places."

Chief Shelby unhooked the radio from his belt. "That's enough for me. I'm calling Judge Dorchester."

"You're getting an arrest warrant?"

"Yes, ma'am, we are."

"Libby," I said into the phone, "don't let Fuller leave the building. Find a cop and arrest him."

"You've got a warrant?"

"Yes. He's being charged with the murder of Melody Stephanopoulos."

"Gladly. Nice work, Jack."

Chief Shelby walked away, barking into his radio, and I stripped off my gloves and headed back to my car.

I wanted to be relieved, but I only felt empty. Empty and tired. The cop part of me would have liked to be there, to see Fuller's face when he got arrested. But mostly I just wanted to put all of this death, this ugliness, behind me.

"Nice work, Lieutenant." Shelby came over, offered his hand. "We'll get started on these other names right away. Looks like you've closed a lot of cases for us today."

"I don't envy you the media circus you'll soon have."

"We'll manage. We're a tough little town. Anyway, thanks for your help. You interested in some supper? Wife's a helluva cook."

"Thanks, Chief, but I have to head home."

The ride back to Chicago was the loneliest five hours of my life.

Chapter 43

Melody Stephanopoulos. Barry hasn't heard that name in a long time, but he remembers her.

You never forget your first.

He wonders how they found her. Rushlo, probably. It doesn't matter. What's done is done.

Barry tries to scratch his chin, but the chain isn't long enough; his handcuffs are attached to his ankle restraints.

"I've got an itch on my chin. Can you help out?"

The uniform seated to his right, a cop named Stephen Robertson whom he'd worked with out of the 2-6, scratches his chin for him. Fuller sighs.

"Thanks, man."

The squad car is making good time down Route 57. No lights or sirens, but speeding nonetheless. Fuller can guess how anxious they are to get rid of him. Cops don't like it when one of their own goes bad. It hits a little too close to home.

"I have to go to the bathroom," Fuller says to the driver, a Statie named Corlis. He has on a snap brim hat and reflector shades, even though dusk has come and gone.

"Hold it in."

"C'mon, gimme a break. I was in court all morning, got declared not guilty, and I'm free for two minutes and the cuffs get slapped on me again. It's been a real bad day, and I really need to take a shit."

"I'm sure Carbondale has johns. You can go there."

"I won't make it. There's a rest area coming up in a few miles. Please."

Corlis doesn't answer. Fuller clenches his sphincter, audibly passes gas.

"Jesus, Barry." Robertson fans the air in front of his nose. "That's disgusting."

Fuller shrugs, trying to look innocent. "Prison food. Not my fault."

"Stop at the rest area," Robertson says to Corlis.

"No stops."

"You can either stop, or trade places with me back here."

"I really have to go." Fuller puts on a million-dollar grin. "I'll be quick."

Corlis glances at his partner in the passenger seat, another state trooper named Hearns. Hearns shrugs.

Corlis flips on his signal, and turns into the rest area.

Route 57 is a divided highway, the lanes separated by thirty yards in stretches. This oasis sits between the north and south lanes, serving travelers going in either direction.

Perfect, Fuller thinks.

"Does anyone have change for the vending machine? I haven't had any junk food in three months."

No one answers. Fuller nudges Robertson.

"You got a buck? I'm good for it."

Robertson rolls his eyes, fishes a dollar out of his pants.

"Thanks, man."

The car stops, and Fuller's door is opened. He steps out, tries to stretch, but the shackles prevent it.

Hearns takes off his ankle irons. Fuller thrusts his wrists forward, but Hearns shakes his head.

"How am I supposed to wipe my ass with cuffs on?"

"You know procedure. I should cuff you from behind. That would make it even harder."

"Maybe Robertson will help you," Hearns says.

Snickering from Hearns and Corlis. Fuller chuckles too, and takes a quick look around. They've parked away from the other vehicles: four cars, plus two semis. On the other side of the rest area, the side servicing cars going north, there are three more cars and another truck.

Fuller guesses there are between ten and twenty people here, all taking potty breaks.

Corlis stays with the car, and Robertson and Hearns escort Fuller up the sidewalk to the building. It's typical of rest areas in Illinois -- a Prairie-style ranch, brown with oversized glare-reducing windows, surrounded by a copse of firs. This one has a large roof, giving it the appearance of a toadstool.

In the lobby sits a large, illuminated map of Illinois, a brochure rack filled with tourist attractions, and the requisite vending equipment. Fuller pauses in front of a soda machine, feeds in his dollar, and selects an Orange Crush.

Robertson and Hearns herd him into the men's room. Fuller notes two little boys at the urinals, a black guy washing his hands, and a bald man adjusting his comb-over in the stained mirror. It smells of urine and pine disinfectant. The tile floor is wet from people tracking in rainwater.

Fuller goes into the nearest stall and closes the door, latching it behind him. He sits on the toilet seat with his pants still on, and removes his leather loafer and his white athletic sock. His shoe goes back on, sockless. He places the can of Crush into the sock and pushes it down to the toe. Holding the sock firmly by the open end, he stands and takes a deep breath.

Time slows. Fuller can feel his vision sharpen. Whole encyclopedias of sensory input bombard him; the sound of a toilet flushing, Hearns talking to Robertson about football, the two boys giggling, his bare toes rubbing against the inside of his shoe, the weight of the sock in his hand, the throbbing in his temples . . .

Throbbing that is about to stop.

He opens the door and sights Hearns, swinging the can at the trooper's right temple, putting his weight into it.

The Crush can explodes on impact, and there's a burst of orange soda and red blood that hangs in the air a millisecond after Hearns hits the floor.

Robertson reaches for his gun, but Fuller brings his large fists together and clubs him across the jaw, bouncing him off of the sink counter.

He kneels next to Hearns, and pushes the button on his safety holster to release the Colt Series 70, a .45 with seven in the clip and one in the chamber.

The first one goes into the back of Hearns's head.

A scream; the two little boys. Fuller winks at them. The comb-over guy scrambles for the door, and gets one in the back. The black guy is backing up into the corner, his hands over his head.

"I'm cool, man. I'm cool."

"Not anymore." Fuller shoots him twice in the face.

Robertson is on the ground, moaning, slapping at his holster in a most comical way.

"Thanks for the dollar," Fuller tells him, arm extending. "I guess I won't have to pay you back after all."

He ends Robertson with a cap to the dome, and it's the messiest one yet. He takes Robertson's gun, a Sig Sauer 9mm, and his wallet and badge. Then he goes back to Hearns and locates the handcuff keys in the trooper's breast pocket. He removes the cuffs, and also takes the trooper's badge and wallet; it will take longer to ID the body and sort out what happened.

Crying, to the left. Fuller swings the gun around.

The two little boys are hugging each other, hysterical.

Fuller smiles at them. "You kids stay out of trouble, you hear?"

They both nod so eagerly Fuller laughs. The pain in his head is a memory, the adrenaline pounding through his veins makes him feel like he's woken up after a very long slumber.

He steps out into the lobby. Two people stare at him, a man and a woman. As expected, people don't tend to believe violence when it happens around them. They had probably been asking each other, "Were those gunshots?" "No, they couldn't be."

Wrong.

He squeezes off three rounds. One catches the man in the chest, one hits the woman in the neck, and the last flies between them and finds the tinted glass window, punching through with a spiderweb of cracks.

Fuller drops the Colt, checks the Sig. It's a P229, chambered for 9mm. Thirteen-round clip, plus one in the throat. He thumbs off the safety and walks into the women's bathroom.

Empty, except for a stall. An elderly woman opens the door.

"You're in the wrong bathroom."

"Nope." Fuller grins. "You are."

The Sig has a lighter recoil than the Colt, and the results aren't as messy.

Fuller turns back to the door and eases it open a crack. Corlis bursts into the lobby, his .45 clutched in a two-handed grip.

Unfortunately for him, he's looking in the direction of the men's room, rather than behind him.

Fuller gives him four in the back. Corlis sprawls onto his face, arms and legs splayed out like a dog on ice. He's still clutching the gun in his right hand, but Fuller is on him in four steps and he stomps hard on Corlis's wrist. The hand opens, and Fuller shoves the Colt into the front of his pants.

He kneels next to Corlis and speaks above the man's whimpering.

"Thanks for stopping, buddy. I appreciate it."

At this close range, the Sig does quite a job on the trooper's crew cut.

Minding the blood, Fuller takes the wallet and badge, and exits through the opposite doors, the side where the cars are going north. The semi is still there, parked off to the side. Fuller walks over, then uses the side bar to hoist himself onto the running board. He peers into the cab.

The driver is at the wheel, eyes closed and snoring pleasantly. The guy is white, mid-forties, and his brown hair is cut into a mullet.

Haven't seen one of those in a while, Fuller thinks.

He holds up Robertson's badge and taps on the window. The guy wakes up, startled.

"What's going on, Officer?"

"Please step out of the vehicle, sir."

"What's going on?"

"I need you to step out of the vehicle, please."

The man complies. He's awake now, and copping an attitude. "What's the problem?"

"No problem. I didn't want to get your blood in my new truck."

Two in the chest, and Fuller takes the man's keys and wallet, hops into the driver's seat, and starts the engine.

He figures he has a twenty-minute lead. That will be enough to get him to Interstate 80, and from there, he can take back roads and side streets.

Fuller flips on the CB, and switches it to the police frequency. Standard chatter, no mention yet of his little dalliance.

He yanks the Colt out of his pants and sets it on the passenger seat. The Sig he keeps on the dashboard. Fuller pulls out onto the highway.

He's two miles away from I-80 when the news breaks. Fuller picks up the mike.

"This is car 6620. Suspect is an African American male, five feet ten inches tall, in his mid-thirties, driving a brown sedan. He was last seen heading south on Route 57. Over."

"Car 6620, what's your position?"

Fuller smiles, doesn't answer. That will keep them confused for a few more minutes. He merges onto I-80, squad cars screaming past him. A large green sign reads: CHICAGO 40 MILES.

"Ready or not, Jack. Here I come."

Chapter 44

"You've always been like this, since you were a little girl."

Mom sat on the sofa with Mr. Griffin, who had fallen asleep sitting up, his head tilted back and his mouth open wide enough to drive a car into. She removed the half-finished drink from his hand -- I guessed it to be a bloody Mary from the red color and the celery stick -- and raised it to her own lips.

"Been like what?" I asked.

"Been moody, when you should be happy. Remember when you won your first medal in tae kwon do?"

"No."

"You won it for sparring. You must have been eleven or twelve. I think you were eleven, because you were wearing pigtails and on your twelfth birthday you declared yourself a grown-up and that you'd never wear pigtails again."

"Do all old people ramble on like you?"

Mom smiled at me. "We do. When you turn sixty, you get a license to ramble from the federal government."

"Mine may come in the mail, in the time it takes you to finish this story."

Mom sipped the drink and shuddered. "No wonder he's asleep -- he managed to fit a whole bottle of vodka into a ten-ounce glass. Now, what was I saying?"

"You were rambling about my tae kwon do competition."

"You'll miss my rambling someday. So anyway, there you were, with all the winners, and the grand master put the gold medal around your neck, just like he did with the others in the row. Every one of them was smiling. Every one of them, except for you."

"I remember now."

"You always tried too hard to win, but when you did, you never seemed happy."

"That's because I was thinking of the next match, and wondering if I'd win that."

Mr. Friskers hopped onto the sofa and bumped his head into my mother's thigh, demanding to be petted. She complied, eliciting a deep, throaty purr from the cat.

"You can't let the uncertainty of tomorrow interfere with the joy of today, Jacqueline. May I offer a little bit of wisdom?"

"I thought that's what you were doing."

"You should be taking notes. This is the meaning of life I'm talking about."

"I'm all ears, Mom."

My mother took a deep breath, sat up straighter. "Life," she said, "isn't a race that can be won. The end of the race is the same for all of us -- we die."

She smiled at me.

"It's not about winning the race, Jacqueline. It's about how well you run."

That sounded vaguely familiar.

"In other words, it's not if you win or lose, but how you play the game?" I said.

"I prefer my analogy."

"How about something simpler? Like, 'Try to have fun'?"

"That works too."

I pulled myself out of the rocking chair, destination: kitchen. Alan had his head in the fridge.

"My mom says I need to have fun."

Alan looked at me. "I'll agree with that."

"So maybe we can go do something fun."

"A movie?"

"I just saw two of them."

"A few drinks?"

"That's a possibility. What else?"

"Dancing?"

"Dancing? I haven't been out dancing since kids were spinning on their heads on sheets of cardboard."

Alan held my arms, drew me close.

"I was thinking something more adult. Something that involved moving slowly to old Motown classics."

"I'll get my shoes."

I kissed Alan on the cheek and went back to the living room. Mom was trying, unsuccessfully, to get Mr. Griffin's mouth to stay shut. Every time she eased it closed, it yawned back open.

"Alan and I are going out dancing." I plopped on the sofa and slid on my flats.

"Good. Take your time. I may wake Sal up and do a little dancing of our own."

I leaned over, reaching for my cell phone on the table.

"Leave it, Jacqueline."

"My phone?"

"It's a phone? I'm sorry -- I thought it was a leash."

I left the phone where it sat.

"Fine. See you in about two hours."

"No sooner. You're putting a cramp in my love life."

I pecked her on the forehead. "Love you, Mom."

"Love you, Jacqueline. And I'm proud of you. I raised a pretty good daughter."

"The apple never falls far from the tree. See you later."

From the sofa, Mom waved me and Alan good-bye.

Chapter 45

Fuller ditches the truck on the West Side and takes a cab to Jack's apartment. He pays with Robertson's cash, and quickly cases the building.

No doorman. The security door is a joke for a guy his size -- one solid kick from a size thirteen and the door opens with a bang.

He knows Jack's apartment number. While in prison, he would recite her address over and over and over again. A mantra.

His patience is about to be rewarded.

Another kick. The apartment door buckles in.

Fuller, gun in hand, strolls into the living room and finds two old people on the couch, holding each other. He laughs.

"Were you just necking?"

The old man, eighty if he was a day, stands up with his fists bunched. Fuller ignores him, walking through the kitchen, finding the bedroom and bathroom empty.

"Get out of here, right now."

The old man points a finger at him.

Fuller asks, once, "Where's Jack?"

The man reaches for the phone.

Fuller hits him with the butt of the Sig, busting open the old guy's head like a pinata. The fossil falls to the ground, twitching and bleeding out.

The old woman is still on the sofa, gnarled hands trying to work a cell phone. Fuller slaps it out of her hands.

"You must be Mom. Jack's told me so much about you."

The woman stares at him. Fuller sees fear. But he sees anger too. And a hardness that he's never seen in prey before.

"You must be Barry. Jack has mentioned you as well. Still humping dead hookers?"

Fuller laughs, despite himself. Gutsy old bitch. He sits next to her. The sofa creaks with his weight.

"Where's Jack?"

"You're not only a disgrace to police officers everywhere, you're a disgrace to the human race."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm a big disappointment to everybody. Now, where's Jack?"

The mother sits up straighter.

"I spent half my life putting scum like you behind bars. I'm not telling you anything."

"Tough talk. But you'll tell me, sooner or later. I can be very convincing."

"I doubt that, Barry. I've seen you play football. You're a real candy-ass."

He doesn't use the gun -- doesn't need to. Her bones are old and brittle.

Snap! There goes an arm.

Snap! There goes a leg.

Fuller laughs. "Didn't anyone tell you to take calcium supplements?"

He cuffs her across the face, feeling the cheek shatter.

The old woman's face is wet with tears and blood, but she doesn't make a sound. Not even when he grabs her broken arm and twists.

"Where's Jack?"

The attack catches him off-guard. Something hits him in the face. Something soft, yet sharp.

Fuller cries out in surprise. There's a yowling sound, and the thing attached to his face is digging at his left eye, scratching with needle-sharp claws.

A cat. Stuck tight.

Fuller grabs. Pulls.

Mistake. The cat holds on, and Fuller almost tears out his own eye.

He punches the cat. Once. Twice.

It drops off and limps away.

Fuller is in agony. The eyelid is rapidly swelling shut, his eye a hot coal burning in the socket.

Both hands pressed to his face, he stumbles through the apartment, finds the bathroom.

The Elephant Man stares back at him in the mirror. His left eye has puffed out to the size of a baseball.

Fuller lashes out, smashing his reflection with a meaty fist. He finds some gauze pads in the medicine cabinet, presses one to his face, and howls.

He needs a doctor. Without medical attention, he'll lose the eye. And the pain -- Jesus -- the pain! He searches the bathroom and finds a bottle of ibuprofen. He takes ten.

What next? What to do next? A hospital? No. Can't risk it. He needs a safe place. To heal. To plan.

Fuller hurries back through the kitchen, stepping over the mess left by the dead guy, and pauses briefly in the living room. Jack's mother is lying facedown on the carpet. Dead? Possibly. No time to check. He speeds out the door, down the stairs, and onto the cold, wet streets of Chicago. After a frantic moment of wondering what to do, Fuller hails a taxi and knocks on the driver-side window. The driver rolls it down.

"You need a cab?"

The guy has an accent. Indian, maybe, or somewhere in the Middle East.

Fuller says nothing.

"You okay? You are bleeding."

"You are too."

He places the Sig against the man's head and fires, causing quite a mess on the passenger side. Then Fuller opens the door, shoves the guy over, and hits the gas.

He stops the taxi under a bridge, searches the driver's pockets. A cell phone. A wallet, with a few hundred bucks. A set of house keys.

Fuller checks the driver's license. Chaten Patel, of 2160 N. Clybourn.

"Thanks for inviting me over, Mr. Patel. Do you live alone?"

Fuller pulls back into traffic.

"I suppose we'll find out."

Chapter 46

When I pulled onto my street and saw the flashing lights in front of my apartment, I knew. I threw the car into park, got out, and ran.

"Jack!" I faintly heard Alan call after me.

Herb was standing in the lobby. He saw me, and rushed over to hug.

"Jack, we thought he got you."

"Fuller?" I managed.

"Killed three cops and a bunch of others, escaping."

My eyes welled up.

"M-Mom?"

"They're about to bring her down."

"Dead?"

"No, but she's in bad shape."

I pulled out of Herb's grasp, raced up the stairs.

Cops, paramedics, a crime scene unit. Pained looks from people I knew. A black body bag, on the floor of my kitchen.

My breath caught. I unzipped the bag.

Mr. Griffin, half of his head missing.

I pushed into the living room, saw the stretcher, watched some horribly beaten body being intubated.

". . . oh no . . ."

I rushed to her side, unable to reconcile it in my head, unable to believe that this broken, bleeding thing was my mother.

Her hand was cool and limp. The paramedics pushed me away. I wanted to follow, wanted to go with her, but my legs gave out and I collapsed onto the floor.

Something brushed against my leg.

Mr. Friskers.

I grabbed the cat and held him tight and cried and cried and cried until nothing more came out.

Chapter 47

Doctors came and went, talking about Glasgow Scales and Rancho Los Amigos levels of cognitive functioning. I was too numb to pay attention. I only knew that Mom wouldn't wake up.

Two days passed, or maybe it was three. People visited and stayed for a while and left. Alan. Herb. Libby. Captain Bains. Harry. Specialists and nurses and cops.

Guards were posted outside my door. I found this amusing. As if Fuller could possibly hurt me more than he already had.

Benedict kept me updated on the manhunt, but the news was always the same: no sign of Fuller.

"She's probably going to die," I said to Herb.

"We'll get him."

"Getting him won't make her better."

"I know. But what else can we do?"

"I should have been there."

"Don't play that game, Jack."

"I should have killed Fuller when I had the chance."

"This isn't helping the situation."

I got in Benedict's face. "Nothing will help this situation! This is my mom, lying here. And she's lying here because of me. Because of my job."

"Jack . . ."

"To hell with it, Herb. To hell with all of it."

My star was in my pocket. I held it out, made Benedict take it.

"Give this to Bains. I don't want it anymore."

"He won't accept it, Jack."

"He'll have to."

Benedict clutched my badge and got all teary-eyed on me.

"Dammit, Jack. You're a good cop."

"I wasn't good enough."

"Jack . . ."

"I'd like you to leave, Herb." I watched my words register on his face. "And please don't come back."

Chapter 48

He watches Detective First Class Herb Benedict leave the hospital. Unlike Jack, Herb doesn't have an armed escort.

Big mistake.

Herb climbs into his late model Camaro Z28, starts it up. Fuller starts the cab and follows Herb out of the parking lot, turning left onto Damen.

It's nighttime, cold enough to need the defrosters. The cab smells like blood; Fuller never bothered to clean up after dispatching the hack. Normally it's a smell he enjoys, but pain is playing tug of war in Fuller's head, his injured eye and his unrelenting headache each vying for top honors.

The eye has gotten worse. It's infected, there's no doubt. Fuller can't open the lid, and it's leaking a milky, foul-smelling fluid.

Goddamn cat.

The throbbing in his head has returned with a vengeance too. It's even worse than before the operation. Fuller wonders if the doctors really got all of the tumor out. Perhaps they'd left a teeny-tiny piece in his brain, and it keeps getting bigger and bigger every day, growing like a seed.

Benedict parks alongside the street, in front of a health food store. Fuller waits until he leaves the vehicle and enters the shop. Then he pulls into an alley.

Fuller doesn't think Herb will be tough to handle, but he's no geriatric, either. He has a plan to keep the cop under control.

Two days ago, Fuller shot a street corner dealer and relieved him of his stash. He scored a lot of reefer (which Fuller thought might help his eye but didn't do a damn thing), a few grams of coke, and three balloons of black tar heroin, complete with works.

The heroin went down smooth. Fuller boiled the needle first and had no problem tapping a vein -- it reminded him of his steroid days.

Blessed pain relief.

The last hit he took, a few hours ago, is wearing off. He has one syringe left, resting safely in the inside breast pocket of his jacket, a piece of cork on the tip.

He prefers to use it on himself, but if Benedict gets rowdy . . .

Speaking of, the portly detective comes out of the health food store with a protein bar. His attention occupied with unwrapping the snack, Fuller sidles up behind him.

Benedict spins around, reaching for his gun, but Fuller anticipates the move and grabs Herb's wrist. His grip tight, he gets behind Benedict and applies a hammerlock, one arm around his neck, another pinning Herb's wrist behind his back.

"Hello, Detective. Glad to see you're watching your health."

Benedict reaches for his shoulder holster with his free hand and Fuller tightens the submission hold. Benedict is strong, but not strong enough. With a quick jerk, Fuller yanks upward on the older man's arm. Benedict's elbow hyperextends, and then blows out.

Herb is yelling now, fighting like crazy, but Fuller has a firm grip on his bad arm and levers him into the alley. He forces Benedict to his knees, pulls the cork from the needle with his lips, and jabs the fat man in the neck.

Benedict continues to resist, but slowly, sweetly, the energy goes out of him.

Fuller replaces the cork, tucks away the syringe, takes Herb's gun, and muscles him into the back of the cab.

Then he goes prowling for more smack.

The taxi makes him invisible -- urban camouflage -- so he's free to cruise parts of the city where a Caucasian might ordinarily stand out. He drives to 26th and Kedzie, an area known as Little Mexico. It doesn't take long to find a young Hispanic male hanging out on a corner. Cold night to be just hanging out, alone.

He circles the block twice, and then stops. The youth walks over in the wide, unhurried gait of a young man whose pants are too baggy.

"Tienes cocofan?"

The Latino has a little peach-fuzz goatee, and a gold crucifix hanging from his ear. "Que?"

"Cocofan, puto. Zoquete. Calbo. Perlas?"

"Calbo?"

"Yes, jackass. Heroin."

"No tengo calbo. Tengo Hydro, vato."

Fuller sighs, and shoots the kid in his sideways-tilted baseball cap.

Rico Suave takes the big dirt nap, and Fuller steps out and gives him a quick pat-down. He finds three loose joints, and six vials of brown granules.

"No calbo my ass."

Fuller squeals tires, heading back to his hidey-hole on Clybourn.

Twice, people try to hail him. Fuller slows down, lets them get close, and then pulls away before they can get in the cab.

Good, clean, American fun.

Benedict moans in the backseat.

"We'll be home soon, Detective."

Chaten Patel shared a residence with his girlfriend. Fuller never got her name. They lived on the ground floor of a two-flat. A modest place, old but clean, with a large basement they used for storage.

The basement currently stores Chaten, and what's left of his woman.

Fuller parks the taxi in the alley behind the house, and half-carries/half-walks Benedict through the backyard and down the steps to the basement entrance. Herb obligingly has a pair of handcuffs in his pocket, and Fuller locks the detective's bad arm to a pipe under the concrete shop sink, and takes his keys.

The corpses have begun to smell, but Fuller won't be here for long. Once Daniels is dead, he's going to make good on his original intent and flee to Mexico.

But first things first.

Upstairs, Fuller fills up a pot with some water, puts it on the stove, and drops in the syringe.

As it boils, Fuller removes a heroin vial from his pocket and shakes out four big chunks. It doesn't look like the black tar he's been using -- it's lighter in color, and crumbles easier. He sniffs it. There's no odor of vinegar, a telltale trait of smack.

What did that kid call it? Hydro? Maybe it's a hybrid -- heroin and coke, or heroin and XTC.

Fuller doesn't care. It could be heroin and rat poison, and he'll inject it just the same. He needs a break from the pain.

There's a fat candle on the kitchen counter that smells like vanilla. Fuller lights it, dumps the boiling water into the sink, and puts the syringe back together.

Placing the granules in a metal tablespoon, he adds a squirt of water and holds the spoon over the candle flame.

With his free hand he removes a cotton ball from the open bag on the table and rolls it between his fingers until it's the size of a pea. When the drugs are fully dissolved, he puts the cotton on the spoon and watches it expand.

The needle goes into the center of the ball, the plunger is slowly pulled back, and all Fuller has to do is pick a vein and the good times will roll.

Not yet, though. First, he has a phone call to make.

Fuller takes out his cell phone and punches in Jack's number. Then he heads down the basement stairs, to wake up Herb.

Chapter 49

My cell phone rang. I ignored it.

Though Mom was nonresponsive to sound and touch, she still had brain activity, so I talked to her.

I talked about a lot of things.

Sometimes I talked about silly stuff, like the weather, or people we used to know. Other times I spilled my guts, apologizing for what happened, begging forgiveness she couldn't give.

Tonight I was in begging mode.

My cell rang, again. I couldn't handle any more condolences. Even from friends. Especially from friends. I finally had to tell Alan to back off, give me room to breathe, or I'd go crazy.

On the positive side, I hadn't taken any sleeping pills in days. I embraced my insomnia.

The phone rang once more. I finally picked it up and shut the damn thing off. I was crying, again, and I didn't want to talk to anybody.

Before I could begin another apology to Mom, the room phone rang.

I let it ring. And ring. And ring. It eventually stopped. Then it started again. Couldn't whoever it was take a hint?

"What?" I answered.

"Hi, Jack."

I almost dropped the phone in surprise. Fuller.

"I was beginning to think you weren't going to pick up. That wouldn't have been good for your friend here. Say hello, Herb."

A male voice screamed.

"Herb's not doing so well. And if you don't follow my directions, he's going to be doing even worse. Here's what I want you to do."

In the background Herb yelled, "It's a trap, Jack! Don't--"

Followed by another scream, even louder than before.

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry.

"What do you want, Fuller?"

"Turn your cell phone back on and call me on my cell. When you're ready, I'll give you the number."

I powered up my cell phone and punched in what he told me. It rang once, and he picked up.

"Good. Now hang up the hospital phone. Here's the deal. I want you to come over and join our party. We're having fun, right, Herb?"

Another scream.

"I'll be right over." I clenched the phone so tightly it shook. "Want me to stop for beer and pretzels?"

"Funny. What I want you to do is lose the police escort."

"How?"

"Tell them you got a call from me, and I'm in the parking lot. Be convincing. If you try to give them any signals . . ."

Benedict screamed again.

"Stop hurting him."

"Hurting him? You mean like this?"

I shut my eyes while poor Herb wailed in agony.

"I'll do what you say, Barry."

"Good girl. Remember -- I'm listening. Ready . . . go!"

I went into the hallway and yelled at the two cops on duty.

"Fuller just called me! He's in the parking garage!"

They drew weapons and took off down the hall.

"Are they gone?"

"Yes."

"Who's nearby?"

"No one. A nurse."

"Give the nurse the phone."

"Why?"

Mistake. A part of me died inside when I heard Herb's scream.

"Nurse!" I hurried to her. "Someone wants to talk to you."

She gave me a quizzical look. "Who?"

"Just tell him whatever he wants to know."

The nurse took the phone. "No. . . . Nope. . . . Nobody." Then she handed it back. "He wanted to know if there were any men outside the door to room 514."

I growled into the cell. "Satisfied?"

"Not yet. But I will be. Get in your car and go north on Lasalle. I want to hear your voice the whole time."

"What if the cell signal goes out?"

Herb screamed again.

"You'd better make sure it doesn't, Jack. Now keep talking. Start with the ABC's."

I recited the alphabet while I hurried through the corridor. Elevator or stairs? Which was better for cell transmission? I picked the stairs, moving as fast as I could. When I made it down to the parking garage, I saw one of the cops ordered to guard me, his gun drawn, creeping around a corner. I threw my back against a wall so he didn't see me.

"Jack? You there?"

". . . Q . . . R . . . S . . . T . . . U . . ."

I paused for a moment, and then made a beeline for my car, stepping lightly so my footsteps didn't echo on the asphalt.

My cell reception became staticky.

"It sounds like I'm losing you, Jack. I hope not, for Herb's sake. Frankly, I don't know how much more he can take."

I made it to my car and fumbled with the keys, beginning the alphabet for the third time. When I opened the door, one of my cops saw me.

"Lieutenant! We can't find him!"

"Uh-oh, Jack," Fuller purred into the phone. "You'd better hurry."

I hopped in the driver's seat, my cell signal getting even weaker. I was yelling the alphabet now, hoping my louder voice got through. Both cops converged on my car. I jammed it into gear and hit the gas.

The exit was up a concrete ramp.

"Jack?" Barry was yelling. "I can't hear you, Jack. Jack--"

The phone went dead.

Chapter 50

Fuller scowls at the dial tone. He hits Redial. Daniels picks up immediately.

"I lost the signal on the exit ramp. I didn't do anything stupid." She sounds anxious, breathless.

"How can I believe you, Jack?"

"Don't hurt him again."

Fuller lifts his foot, ready to stomp on Benedict's dislocated elbow. Herb stares up at him, hate in his eyes.

"We had a deal, Jack."

"If I hear him scream once more, I swear to God, I'm hanging up and throwing my phone out the window."

"How do I know the cops aren't with you?"

"I'm alone. I ditched them in the parking garage."

"Maybe you called for backup, on your radio."

"I didn't have time. If my radio was on, you'd hear it."

Fuller walks away from Herb, takes the Sig out of his belt. He fires a round, up the stairs.

"What did you just do, Barry? Let me talk to Herb."

"That was a warning. If I think you're lying to me, if I think you're bringing more cops, I end Herb Benedict's life. Understand?"

"Let me talk to Herb."

Fuller rolls his eyes. He holds out the phone. "Herb, say something."

Benedict looks away, lips pressed shut.

"Hold on a second, Jack. He's being stoic."

Fuller plays pull'n' bend with Herb's swollen arm until the guy sings like a choir boy.

"Tell her you're okay."

"Jack!" Benedict screams. "Don't come!"

"There, Jack? Satisfied he's still with us?"

"When I get there, Barry . . ."

"Stop it, Jack. You're scaring me. Where are you?"

"Going north on Lasalle."

"When you get to Division Street, take a left. And let's hear that alphabet."

Jack begins the ABC's again, and Fuller goes back upstairs. His head thumps like someone's bouncing a bat off of it, and his eye does its best to compete for the gold medal in the Pain Olympics.

The syringe calls to him from the kitchen table.

One little shot, and the pain will go away.

But Daniels will be here soon. That will also make the pain go away.

The head pain. Not the eye pain. Take the shot.

She's coming armed. It's important to stay alert.

You can handle her. Take the shot.

Fuller lifts the needle. His arms are weight-lifter arms, the veins pushed to the surface by all the muscle. He doesn't need to tie off.

Good.

Fuller shoots up, waiting for the warm rush of heroin to flood through him.

The rush doesn't come.

"What the hell?"

"Barry? Did you say something?"

Fuller grits his teeth, staring at the empty syringe. That little Mexican bastard. What the hell did I just shoot up? Baking soda?

"Barry, I'm going west on Division. Barry?"

"Go right on Clybourn," Barry growls. He raises the syringe to throw it across the room. But then . . .

Something happens.

It's a subtle change at first. The kitchen seems to come into sharper focus. Barry stares at his hand, and his stare magnifies his fist until it's the size of a baked ham.

Barry looks at his feet, and they also seem to grow. He's ten, fifteen, twenty feet tall. How can he fit in this tiny room? A-ha! The kitchen is growing with him, walls getting longer, wider, stretching out and out.

And as he's growing, the pain in his head is shrinking. Until it's a tiny spot -- a speck of minor irritation -- in the middle of his swollen eye.

Fuller giggles, and the sound echoes through his head deep and slow. He hears someone talking, and notices he's holding a phone.

"Barry? Are you there, Barry? What's the address?"

Address? Oh, it's Jack. She's coming to the party.

"Twenty-one sixty," someone says. It's him. The words feel solid in his mouth, like they're made of clay and he's spitting them out rather than saying them.

This is fun.

He spins in a slow circle. The room moves with him, shifting and bending. When he stops, the room keeps moving, because he wills it to. He can control it. He can control everything.

"I'm a god."

Fuller touches his face, feels the bandage. Gods don't need bandages. He rips it off, and that causes a spark of pain in his eye.

"No more pain." His voice is thunder.

He glides over to the drawer, dumps the contents on the table.

A corkscrew.

It only hurts for a moment, and he cries a lot.

No, he's not crying.

It's blood.

He hears a car outside. A visitor.

All pain is gone now, replaced with something else.

Anger.

Jack Daniels is here. She's the one who put him in jail. She's the one who gave him these headaches.

She's trying to stop him from being a god.

He wipes some blood off of his cheek and balls his hands into fists.

"I'm in here, Jack."

Chapter 51

"Fuller? Fuller, dammit, are you there?"

There's no answer. Where was he? Was Benedict still alive? What happened?

I disconnected and dialed 911, giving them the Clybourn address. Then I spun the cylinder on my .38, counted six bullets, and set my jaw.

Fear, anxiety, and all of my other neuroses be damned; I was going to go save my best friend.

I was three steps up the porch stairs when the door swung open.

Fuller filled the doorway, arms stretching out as if offering me a hug. His face was awash with blood, a gaping hole where his left eye used to be.

Training took over. I brought up my gun and grouped three shots in the midsection.

Rather than fall back, Fuller did something unexpected.

He lunged.

I caught him in the shoulder with the fourth shot, and then he was on me, knocking me backward, onto the sidewalk, him on top.

I felt a rib or two crack under his weight, motes of light exploding in front of my eyes. My gun arm was over my head. I tried to bring it around, but Fuller grabbed it, his enormous hand swallowing mine and my weapon. I fired, and the bullet ripped through his palm, forcing out a collection of small bones. But he didn't let go.

Fuller's other hand moved up my body, and closed around my neck.

It rained blood, dripping from his face onto mine. I squeezed my eyes shut and brought up my free hand, digging at his empty socket.

Fuller howled, rolled off me.

I aimed my last bullet at his head, but he shifted and I missed.

Breathing hurt. I pressed my hand to my ribs, and it helped a little. I managed to get to my knees, then my feet.

So did Fuller. He faced me, gushing blood from too many places to count. But he didn't seem bothered by that fact, as evidenced by the wide grin on his face.

I found my center, reared back, and aimed a reverse kick at the holes in his chest.

It was like kicking a tree. He didn't budge an inch.

I spun around, using the gun as a bludgeon, and cracked him across the cheek.

The blow snapped his head back, but he didn't stagger.

He swung at me, slow, and I got under it and drove a fist into his ribs, pulling away before he could grab me.

Another swing, and he didn't come close to connecting. I kicked upward, between his legs, and missed, bouncing harmlessly off his massive thigh.

Fuller lashed out again, faster this time. I pulled back, but his knuckles caught my cheek. I rolled with the blow, hitting the frozen grass, yelping when my ribs bumped the ground.

A gunshot. Then another.

Herb.

He was at the top of the porch, his right arm hanging at his side, twisted in a funny way, handcuffs on his wrist attached to a piece of metal pipe.

In his left hand he held a semiautomatic.

Benedict couldn't hit an elephant from five paces with his left hand.

Luckily, Fuller was damn near as big as an elephant.

Herb's third shot connected with Fuller's chest. The fourth went wide, but the fifth buried itself into his right leg.

I heard sirens in the distance. Just a little longer.

Fuller rushed at Herb, incredibly fast. Benedict's next shot missed, and then he got buried under three hundred and fifty pounds of snarling, screaming, bleeding muscle.

I staggered to my feet, forced myself up the stairs. Out of bullets, I began to hammer at Fuller's skull with my .38, putting my whole body into it, trying to get him off Herb. Herb's face went from red to blue.

On the fourth hit, Fuller backhanded me, then climbed off of Herb and went stumbling into the house.

Benedict choked for breath. I felt his throat; there didn't seem to be anything broken.

Herb mumbled something.

"What, Herb?"

"Get out of here. He's got a . . ."

The slug flew over my head close enough that I felt the wind. I dropped down on the porch, on top of Herb, and peered into the house.

Fuller, impossibly, stood in the hallway in a quickly spreading puddle of his own blood. The Colt in his hand was pointing at me.

Herb raised up his left hand. He still gripped the Sig, but wasn't pointing it anywhere near Fuller.

I grabbed Benedict's wrist, lifted it up, trying to aim.

"I'm a god," Barry Fuller said.

Herb answered, "Bullshit," and he squeezed the trigger and the gun fired, catching Fuller right in the middle of his face and blowing his brains out the back of his diseased head.

Chapter 52

Alan located me in the ER, while they were taping my ribs. His face glistened with tears.

He didn't rush to embrace me.

"I can't take this, Jack. I can't live like this. First your mother, and now you."

I thought about telling him that I quit, that I was no longer a cop.

But love doesn't have conditions.

"Good-bye, Alan."

He left his brown bomber jacket on the cot.

A nurse came in, tried to give me a shot of Demerol for the pain.

I declined.

"Is Detective Benedict out of surgery yet?"

"Not yet."

I lay back on my cot and stared at the ceiling.

Cops came, wanting to debrief me. I told them all to go to hell. Captain Bains stopped by. He told me there would always be a spot on the force for me, if I decided to come back.

I laughed in his face.

Five hours later, Benedict was wheeled into recovery. I sat in his room with him until he woke up.

"Hi, Jack." His voice was hoarse, a symptom of a bruised larynx.

"Hi, Herb. They told me your surgery went well. You'll get full use of your arm back."

"Are we okay?"

My eyes teared up.

"We're okay, buddy."

"You're my partner, Jack. You're supposed to tell me when I'm acting like an idiot."

"Maybe we were both acting like idiots."

He nodded. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Sure, Herb."

"Can you call my wife, tell her I'm done being an idiot?"

I smiled through the tears. "I think I can do that."

"Tell her to bring doughnuts."

"I will."

"Two boxes."

"I will."

Chapter 53

I spent my days in the hospital, keeping vigil over Mom. Nights I spent at home, alone, staring at the ceiling.

Christmas came. New Year's Eve. Valentine's Day.

Bains refused to accept my resignation, and I got a modest biweekly pension check. I had very few needs. I made do.

Herb was promoted to sergeant, and when he visited, he made me call him Sarge. He traded the Camaro for a Chrysler, and he and Bernice took a two-week vacation in Napa Valley, visiting old friends.

My mother's condition showed some signs of improving. She wasn't coming out of the coma yet, but her Glasgow Scales were getting better, if only slightly. I talked to her, every day. Even when I didn't feel like talking.

"You remember what you told me, Mom? That there are no medals for the completion of a good life? I've been thinking about that. About how no one wins. Like you said, it's impossible to win, because the finish line is death."

I stroked my mother's hand.

"So what's the point? What's the meaning? Why do we all struggle if we're in a race we can never, ever win? You said we should still run the best that we can. The answer isn't in the winning. The answer is in the running. And you know something, Mom? I think you may be right."

The next day, I got off early retirement and went back to work for the Chicago Police Department.

And I ran on.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

So many people to thank . . .

To fellow writers Raymond Benson, Jay Bonansinga, Doug Borton, David Ellis, Eric Garcia, Rick Hautala, Libby Fischer Hellmann, Warren B. Murphy, Ridley Pearson, James Rollins, Steven Spruill, Andrew Vachss, F. Paul Wilson, David Wiltse, and especially Robert W. Walker, for their words, encouragement, and inspiration.

To my advance readers: Marc Buhmann, Jim Coursey, Laura Konrath, and authors Barry Eisler and Rob Kantner, for their comments, opinions, and assistance in making this book better.

To my family, friends, and those who went the extra mile: Robin Agnew, Lorri Amsden, Chris Bowman, Bonnie Claeson, Latham Conger III, Tom & Melanie Meyers Cushman, George Dailey, Moni Draper, Judy Duhl, Mariel Evens, Dick File, Holly Frakes, Maggie Griffin, Joe Guglielmelli, Maryelizabeth Hart, Jim Huang, Steve Jensen, Jen Johnson, Steve Jurczyk, Edmund and Jeannie Kaufman, Chris Konrath, John Konrath, Talon Konrath, Steve Lukac, Sheldon MacArthur, Otto Penzler, Barbara Peters, Sue Petersen, Terri Smith, Dave Strang, Jim & Gloria Tillez, Chris Wolak, and the many others who have helped out on this journey.

To Officer Jim Doherty for police questions, Jeffrey Evens for law questions, and Mike Konrath, whom I hope one day will embalm me, but not in the manner described in this book. Any technical mistakes in this book are mine, not theirs.

To the publishing folks: Michael Bourrett, Jane Comins, Jane Dystel, Miriam Goderich, Jessica Goldman, Eileen Hutton, Navorn Johnson, Elisa Lee, David Lott, Karin Maake, Joni Rendon, and Leslie Wells, who continues to be the world's best editor.

And of course, to my rock, Maria. Every day with you is a day worth living.

BLOODY MARY 1 1/2 oz. vodka 4 oz. tomato juice 1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce Several drops of Tabasco sauce Shake well over ice and strain into an old-fashioned glass. Add a celery stalk. ALSO BY J. A. KONRATH:

Whiskey Sour