sidewalk, him on top.
I felt a rib or two crack under his weight, motes of light exploding in front of my eyes. My gun arm was over my head. I tried to bring it around, but Fuller grabbed it, his enormous hand swallowing mine and my weapon. I fired, and the bullet ripped through his palm, forcing out a collection of small bones. But he didn't let go.
Fuller's other hand moved up my body, and closed around my neck.
It rained blood, dripping from his face onto mine. I squeezed my eyes shut and brought up my free hand, digging at his empty socket.
Fuller howled, rolled off me.
I aimed my last bullet at his head, but he shifted and I missed.
Breathing hurt. I pressed my hand to my ribs, and it helped a little. I managed to get to my knees, then my feet.
So did Fuller. He faced me, gushing blood from too many places to count. But he didn't seem bothered by that fact, as evidenced by the wide grin on his face.
I found my center, reared back, and aimed a reverse kick at the holes in his chest.
It was like kicking a tree. He didn't budge an inch.
I spun around, using the gun as a bludgeon, and cracked him across the cheek.
The blow snapped his head back, but he didn't stagger.
He swung at me, slow, and I got under it and drove a fist into his ribs, pulling away before he could grab me.
Another swing, and he didn't come close to connecting. I kicked upward, between his legs, and missed, bouncing harmlessly off his massive thigh.
Fuller lashed out again, faster this time. I pulled back, but his knuckles caught my cheek. I rolled with the blow, hitting the frozen grass, yelping when my ribs bumped the ground.
A gunshot. Then another.
Herb.
He was at the top of the porch, his right arm hanging at his side, twisted in a funny way, handcuffs on his wrist attached to a piece of metal pipe.
In his left hand he held a semiautomatic.
Benedict couldn't hit an elephant from five paces with his left hand.
Luckily, Fuller was damn near as big as an elephant.
Herb's third shot connected with Fuller's chest. The fourth went wide, but the fifth buried itself into his right leg.
I heard sirens in the distance. Just a little longer.
Fuller rushed at Herb, incredibly fast. Benedict's next shot missed, and then he got buried under three hundred and fifty pounds of snarling, screaming, bleeding muscle.
I staggered to my feet, forced myself up the stairs. Out of bullets, I began to hammer at Fuller's skull with my .38, putting my whole body into it, trying to get him off Herb. Herb's face went from red to blue.
On the fourth hit, Fuller backhanded me, then climbed off of Herb and went stumbling into the house.
Benedict choked for breath. I felt his throat; there didn't seem to be anything broken.
Herb mumbled something.
'What, Herb?'
'Get out of here. He's got a . . .'
The slug flew over my head close enough that I felt the wind. I dropped down on the porch, on top of Herb, and peered into the house.
Fuller, impossibly, stood in the hallway in a quickly spreading puddle of his own blood. The Colt in his hand was pointing at me.
Herb raised up his left hand. He still gripped the Sig, but wasn't pointing it anywhere near Fuller.
I grabbed Benedict's wrist, lifted it up, trying to aim.
'I'm a god,' Barry Fuller said.
Herb answered, 'Bullshit,' and he squeezed the trigger and the gun fired, catching Fuller right in the middle of his face and blowing his brains out the back of his diseased head.
Chapter 52
Alan located me in the ER, while they were taping my ribs. His face glistened with tears.
He didn't rush to embrace me.
'I can't take this, Jack. I can't live like this. First your mother, and now you.'
I thought about telling him that I quit, that I was no longer a cop.
But love doesn't have conditions.
'Good-bye, Alan.'
