'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.
