'Headaches, Jack. Terrible headaches. Caused by the tumor, probably, but I've had them my whole life, and they tell me the tumor can't be more than a year old. Killing makes the pain go away. I figured out it has something to do with endorphin. Endogenous morphine. The body manufactures it to block pain, and it's a hundred times more powerful than an equivalent dose of heroin. Killing gives me an endorphin rush. At least, that's what I think. I'd like to ask all of these shrinks watching me 24-7, see what they think, but I've got to keep up appearances.'
'So now that the tumor is gone?'
'Tumor doesn't matter, Jack. I'm addicted to killing.'
He grinned, his eyes as black and lifeless as a shark's.
I stood up, not needing to hear any more. I got what I came for.
'Leaving so soon, Jack? But I haven't told you my plans yet.'
'What plans?'
'For after they let me out. I'm going to be looking you up, Jack.' He waggled his tongue at me, and began to rub his crotch. 'We're going to have a real good time, Lieutenant. I got something special planned for you, and that fat partner of yours. I hated you before, because you wouldn't take me in Detective Division. Since you put me in this hellhole, I've grown to hate you even more. I'll show you, soon.'
I turned my back on him, and tried to walk to the door without shaking too badly.
'Don't worry, Jack. It won't be right away. First I'm going to kill everyone in your life. Everyone you know and care about.'
I pounded on the steel, harder than I intended.
'Give my best to your mom and boyfriend, Jack. Be seeing you soon.'
I pounded again, and Carver opened up.
'You okay, Lieutenant?'
I nodded. But I wasn't okay. My hands were quaking, and I had an overwhelming urge to vomit.
'Jack?' Herb had concern in his eyes.
'He's faking, Herb. Faking big time. We can't let him get out.'
'What happened in there? Do you have the tape?'
I held Benedict's eyes and grabbed his arms, squeezing hard.
'We can't let him get out, Herb. We can't. No matter what.'
Chapter 26
'Open cell eleven.'
'Opening cell eleven.'
The electronic lock disengages with a clang, and the cell door opens. Fuller eyes the prison guard escorting him; the man is eight inches shorter, with a neck so thin Fuller could strangle him with one hand.
The skinny guard unlocks Fuller's ankle irons, while the second guard, a fat guy with a face like a bulldog, stands at the ready palming a can of pepper spray.
Keep looking tough, punk. If I wanted to, I could take away that mace and stick it so far up your ass your breath would smell like jalapenos.
'Thanks,' Fuller says instead. He smiles, playing his role. The thin guy takes off his handcuffs, and Fuller enters his cell. It's tiny, cramped. A lidless steel shitter dominates one corner, next to a steel sink. In the other corner is a steel cot, a two-inch-thick cotton mattress resting on top.
There isn't enough room in here to do a decent push-up, so Fuller compromises, putting his palms on the cool concrete floor and his feet on the sink.
'One, two, three, four . . .'
He touches his chin to the floor with each tip, feeling the burn build up in his shoulders and chest. His face begins to turn red, and he smiles.
Jack's expression was priceless. I practically made her wet her panties.
'Eighteen, nineteen, twenty . . .'
Fuller looks at the cot. There's a small slit in the mattress, along a seam, with more pieces of onion and some other things. Things that will produce dramatic court theatrics.
'Thirty-seven, thirty-eight--'
The lie detector tomorrow will be fun too. He still has the staple, secretly liberated from his attorney's paperwork. A staple is all he needs to pass with flying colors.
'Sixty-five, sixty-six . . .'
Everything is going his way. His bitch of a wife is dead, finally. He got his lawyer to pass on word to Rushlo to keep quiet -- and the little toady will no doubt follow orders. If all goes as planned, Fuller will be back out on the street soon -- probably in a few weeks. Then he'll pay Jack a visit, make good on his promise.
'Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one . . .'
Only one thing is bothering him. Though the doctors assure him his tumor is completely gone, he's still getting headaches. They aren't as sharp as before, but they've been increasing in intensity over the past few weeks.
'Hundred twenty, hundred twenty-one . . .'
So far, aspirin is helping. But he foresees a time when that won't be enough. He'll need to kill again. Soon.
