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.
