'My God! Are you okay?' In case anyone is watching. There doesn't seem to be.
The woman is crying. Bloody. Scrapes on her palms and her face.
'We have to get you to a hospital.'
He half helps/half yanks her into his truck, and then they're pulling out into traffic.
'What happened?' she moans.
Fuller hits her. Again. And again.
She slumps over in the seat.
He makes a left onto Clark Street, turns into Graceland Cemetery. It's one of Chicago's oldest, and largest, taking up an entire city block. Because of the heat, there are few visitors inside the gates.
'We're in luck,' Fuller says. 'It's dead.'
The cemetery is green, sprawling, carefully kept. Winding roads, obscured by clusters of bushes and hundred- year-old oak trees, make sections of it seem like a forest preserve.
Plenty of room for privacy.
He pulls into an enclave and parks next to the large stone monument marking the grave of millionaire Marshall Field. Drags the woman out of the car, behind the tomb, rage building and head pounding and teeth grinding teeth so hard the enamel flakes off.
Fuller unleashes himself upon her, without a weapon, without checking for witnesses, without putting on the gloves he has in the front pocket of his jeans for this purpose. Punching, kicking, squeezing, grunting, sweating.
Fireworks go off behind his eyes, erasing the pain, wiping his brain clean.
When the fugue ends, Fuller is surprised to see he somehow pulled off the woman's arm.
Impressive. That takes a lot of strength.
He blinks, looks around. All clear. The only witness is the green, delicately robed statue, sitting high atop Field's monument. A copper smell taints the hot, woodsy air.
The grass, and his clothes, are soaked with blood and connective tissue. Fuller wonders if the woman might be still alive, goes to check her pulse, and stops himself when he realizes her head is turned completely backward.
He returns to his truck, opens up the hatch. Takes out a large sheet of plastic, a roll of duct tape, a gallon of blue windshield wiper fluid, and his gym bag.
It takes the whole bottle of cleaning fluid to get the red stuff off his skin, and he uses his socks to wipe himself clean. These get rolled up in the tarp, along with the girl, her arm, and his shirt, shoes, and pants.
His workout clothes are in the bag. They stink of sweat, but he puts them on.
Fuller loads the bundle into the back of the truck, gets behind the wheel, and leaves the cemetery.
Pain-free.
On Halsted Street he calls Rushlo.
The mortician doesn't pick up.
Alarms go off in Fuller's head. Rushlo always picks up. That's part of their deal. He turns the truck around, heading for Grand Avenue, for Rushlo's Funeral Home.
Another call.
No answer.
Fuller worries his thumbnail, tasting the sour bite of windshield washer fluid. Could they have found Rushlo already? What if they did?
Rushlo won't talk. He's sure of that. The guy is too scared of him.
But that might not matter. If Rushlo got picked up before disposing of the body, there might be trace evidence. Hair. Saliva.
Jack's earrings.
He told Rushlo to wipe off the prints. Had he done it?
Worry creeps up Barry's shoulders and crouches there.
He calls Rushlo again.
No answer.
He hangs a right onto Grand. Cops are everywhere.
Fuller does a U-turn, hitting the gas and making the tires squeal. In the rear of the truck, the body rolls and bumps against the hatch.
It's over. Time to leave the country.
Fuller's bank is ten minutes away. He parks at the curb, jogs inside the lobby. The security guard stops him.
'You need shoes to enter, sir.'
