'Hundred fifty.'
Fuller's feet touch the floor and he stands and stretches, knuckles dragging across the ceiling. He's breathing hard. There's a metallic taste in his mouth -- he's bitten his tongue.
The taste is arousing.
After a minute's rest, he puts his feet back on the sink and begins another set of push-ups. His teeth work on the cut in his tongue, making it larger.
'Twenty, twenty-one . . .'
He closes his eyes, pretending the blood he's swallowing is Jack's.
Chapter 27
I dialed Libby from Benedict's car and gave her the short version. The excitement in her voice was obvious.
'I knew he was playing us!'
'We don't have evidence.'
'But now that we know for sure, we'll get some. The polygraph examiner we've got is the best. He pegged Ted Bundy. He'll get Fuller too. You did good, Jack.'
'Thanks.'
Except I didn't feel like I did good. I felt like I'd just gotten my ass kicked.
'You want to be there? Tomorrow?'
'For the lie detector?'
'Sure. It'll keep him off guard.'
I wanted to say no. I didn't want to be there. Fuller unearthed feelings I thought I'd buried.
Feelings of fear.
In crisis situations, cops need to have a certain amount of fear. It precedes adrenaline, which makes reactions faster. When I shot Fuller, months ago, I'd been afraid. But the fear worked for me then, heightening senses, forcing me to act automatically, as I'd been trained to do.
Now -- the sick feeling in my stomach, the sweaty palms, the dry mouth, the runaway imagination -- did me no good at all, other than add to my pile of neuroses.
'Jack? You still there?'
'I just came back to work, Libby. I'm not sure what's going on tomorrow.'
'The polygraph is at nine A.M., back at Division Eleven. I'll talk to Bains to clear some time for you.'
'Thanks,' I managed. 'See you tomorrow, then.'
Herb stopped at a light, squinted at me.
'Jack? You look sick.'
'I'm fine.'
'You let him get to you. Fuller.'
I tried to smile. 'Not a chance. I'm just tired, Herb. Nothing more.'
The light turned green, but Benedict didn't go.
'I know you, Jack. You're not yourself.'
Rather than answer, I played the role-reversal card.
'Me? You seem to be having the granddaddy of midlife crises, and refuse to speak a peep.'
Someone behind us honked their horn.
'I'm not having a midlife crisis.'
'Male menopause, then.'
'That's not the case. Bernice and I are just heading in different directions.'
'Different directions? Herb, you've been married for twenty years.'
Herb turned away, facing the road.
'Maybe twenty years is too long.'
Another honk. Herb hit the gas, squealing tires.
I closed my eyes and thought about yesterday, when my only concerns were what kind of pizza to order, when I'd be ready to make love again, and if I was becoming addicted to Ambien. My troubles seemed to have quadrupled overnight. And for the cherry on top, I got to deal with the very real possibility that a psycho would soon be out on the street, killing everyone I knew.
Herb and I didn't talk the rest of the drive back to the station. I went to my office, stared at the huge mound of paperwork that had grown on my desk during my absence, and then moved it aside to fill out my report.
After an hour of hunt and peck, I dropped off the report, and the recording, with Bains. Then I thought about getting started on my backlog, couldn't bring myself to do it, and called it a day.
