'I think that's how he's always meant it to play.'
'I think you're damn right there, Mr. Cowart.'
'Where we going?'
The reporter was being led onto a different wing than he'd been to before.
'Sully's in the isolation cell. It's right close by the chair. Right close to an office with phones and everything, so's if there's a stay, we'll know right fast.'
'How's he doing?'
'See for yourself.' He pointed Cowart toward a solitary holding cell. There was a single chair set outside the bars. He approached alone and found Sullivan lying on a steel bunk, staring at a television screen. His hair had been shaved, so that he looked like a death's head mask. He was surrounded by small cartons overflowing with clothing, books, and papers -his possessions moved from his former cell. The prisoner turned abruptly in the bed, gestured widely toward the single chair, and rolled his feet off the bunk, stretching as if tired. In his hand he clutched a Bible.
'Well, well, Cowart. Took your own sweet time getting back for my party, I see.'
He lit a cigarette and coughed.
'There are two detectives from Monroe County, Mr. Sullivan. They want to see you.'
'Fuck 'em.'
'They want to ask you about the deaths of your mother and stepfather.'
They do? Fuck 'em.'
'They want me to ask you to see them.'
He laughed. 'Well, that makes all the difference in the world, don't it? Fuck 'em again.'
Sullivan got up abruptly. He stared about for an instant, then went to the bars and grasped hold of them, pushing his face against them hard.
'Hey!' he called out. 'What the hell time is it? I need to know, what time is it? Hey, somebody! Hey!'
'There's time,' Cowart said slowly.
Sullivan stepped back, staring angrily toward him. 'Sure. Sure.'
The man-shuddered, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 'You know something, Cowart? You get so you can actually feel all the muscles around and about your heart just getting a little tighter with each second.' 'You could call an attorney.' 'Fuck 'em. You got to play the hand you're dealt.' 'You're not going to…'
'No. Let's get that settled. I may be a bit scared and a bit twitchy, but shit. I know about dying. Yes, sir, it's one thing I know a lot about.'
Blair Sullivan shifted about in the cell, finally sitting on the edge of the bunk and leaning forward. He seemed to relax suddenly, smiling conspiratorially, rubbing his hands together eagerly.
'Tell me about your interviews,' he said, laughing. 'I want to know everything.' Sullivan gestured at the television. 'The damn television and newspapers don't have any real details. It's just a lot of general garbage. I want you to tell me.'
Cowart felt cold. 'Details?'
'That's right. Leave nothing out. Use all those words you're so damn clever with and paint me a real portrait, huh?'
Cowart took a deep breath, thinking, I'm as mad as he is, but he continued. 'They were in the kitchen. They'd been tied up…'
'Good. Good. Tied tight, like hog-tied, or what?'
'No. Just their arms pulled back like this…' He demonstrated.
Sullivan nodded. 'Good. Keep going.'
'Throats cut.'
Sullivan nodded.
'There was blood all over. Your mother was naked. Their heads were back like this…'
'Keep going. Raped?'
'I couldn't tell. There were a lot of flies.'
'I like that. Buzzing around, real noisy?'
'That's right.' Cowart heard the words falling from his mouth, echoing slightly. He thought some other part of him that he'd never known existed had taken over.
'Had they been in pain?' the condemned man asked.
'How would I know?'
'C'mon, Cowart. Did it look like they'd had some time to contemplate their deaths?'
'Yes. They were tied in their chairs. They must have been looking at each other, right up to the time they were killed. One got to watch the other die, I guess, unless there was more than one killer.'
'No, just one,' Sullivan said quietly. He rubbed his arms. They were in the chairs?'
'Right. Tied down.'
'Like me.'
'What?'
'Tied in a chair. And then executed.' He laughed.
Cowart felt the cold abruptly turn to heat. 'There was a Bible.'
'… And some there be, which have no memorial; who are perished, as though they had never been…'
That's right.'
'Perfect. Just like it was supposed to be.'
Sullivan stood up abruptly, wrapping his arms around himself, hugging himself as if to contain all the feelings that reverberated within him. The muscles on his arms bulged. A vein on his forehead throbbed. His pale face flushed red. He let out a great breath of air.
'I can see it,' the condemned man said. 'I can see it.'
Sullivan raised his arms up in the cell, stretching out. Then he brought them down sharply.
'All right!' he said. 'It's done.' He breathed hard for a few moments, like a runner winded at the end of a race, then looked down at his hands, staring at them as he twisted them into claws. The dragon tattoos on his forearms wrenched with life. He laughed to himself, then turned back to Cowart. 'But now for the little bit extra. The addition that really makes this all worthwhile.'
'What are you talking about?'
Sullivan shook his head. 'Get out that notepad. Get out that tape recorder. It's time to learn about death. I told you. Legacy. Old Sully's last will and testament.'
As Cowart got ready, Sullivan resumed his seat on the edge of the bunk. He smoked slowly, savoring each long drag.
'You ready, Cowart?'
Cowart nodded.
'AH right. All right. Where to start? Well, I'll just start in with the obvious first. Cowart, how many deaths they pinned on me?'
Twelve. Officially.'
'That's right. But we gotta be technical. I been convicted and sentenced to die for those nice folks in Miami, that cute little gal and her boyfriend. That's official-like. And then I confessed to those ten other folks, just to be hospitable, I guess. Those detectives got those stories, all right, so I ain't going into those details right now. And then there's that little gal in Pachoula – number thirteen, right?'
'Right.'
'Well, we're gonna leave her aside for the moment. Let's just go back to twelve as the
