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.”
