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.
