The corpses have begun to smell, but Fuller won't be here for long. Once Daniels is dead, he's going to make good on his original intent and flee to Mexico.
But first things first.
Upstairs, Fuller fills up a pot with some water, puts it on the stove, and drops in the syringe.
As it boils, Fuller removes a heroin vial from his pocket and shakes out four big chunks. It doesn't look like the black tar he's been using -- it's lighter in color, and crumbles easier. He sniffs it. There's no odor of vinegar, a telltale trait of smack.
What did that kid call it? Hydro? Maybe it's a hybrid -- heroin and coke, or heroin and XTC.
Fuller doesn't care. It could be heroin and rat poison, and he'll inject it just the same. He needs a break from the pain.
There's a fat candle on the kitchen counter that smells like vanilla. Fuller lights it, dumps the boiling water into the sink, and puts the syringe back together.
Placing the granules in a metal tablespoon, he adds a squirt of water and holds the spoon over the candle flame.
With his free hand he removes a cotton ball from the open bag on the table and rolls it between his fingers until it's the size of a pea. When the drugs are fully dissolved, he puts the cotton on the spoon and watches it expand.
The needle goes into the center of the ball, the plunger is slowly pulled back, and all Fuller has to do is pick a vein and the good times will roll.
Not yet, though. First, he has a phone call to make.
Fuller takes out his cell phone and punches in Jack's number. Then he heads down the basement stairs, to wake up Herb.
Chapter 49
My cell phone rang. I ignored it.
Though Mom was nonresponsive to sound and touch, she still had brain activity, so I talked to her.
I talked about a lot of things.
Sometimes I talked about silly stuff, like the weather, or people we used to know. Other times I spilled my guts, apologizing for what happened, begging forgiveness she couldn't give.
Tonight I was in begging mode.
My cell rang, again. I couldn't handle any more condolences. Even from friends. Especially from friends. I finally had to tell Alan to back off, give me room to breathe, or I'd go crazy.
On the positive side, I hadn't taken any sleeping pills in days. I embraced my insomnia.
The phone rang once more. I finally picked it up and shut the damn thing off. I was crying, again, and I didn't want to talk to anybody.
Before I could begin another apology to Mom, the room phone rang.
I let it ring. And ring. And ring. It eventually stopped. Then it started again. Couldn't whoever it was take a hint?
"What?" I answered.
"Hi, Jack."
I almost dropped the phone in surprise. Fuller.
"I was beginning to think you weren't going to pick up. That wouldn't have been good for your friend here. Say hello, Herb."
A male voice screamed.
"Herb's not doing so well. And if you don't follow my directions, he's going to be doing even worse. Here's what I want you to do."
In the background Herb yelled, "It's a trap, Jack! Don't--"
Followed by another scream, even louder than before.
I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry.
"What do you want, Fuller?"
"Turn your cell phone back on and call me on my cell. When you're ready, I'll give you the number."
I powered up my cell phone and punched in what he told me. It rang once, and he picked up.
"Good. Now hang up the hospital phone. Here's the deal. I want you to come over and join our party. We're having fun, right, Herb?"
Another scream.
"I'll be right over." I clenched the phone so tightly it shook. "Want me to stop for beer and pretzels?"
"Funny. What I want you to do is lose the police escort."
"How?"
"Tell them you got a call from me, and I'm in the parking lot. Be convincing. If you try to give them any signals . . ."
Benedict screamed again.
"Stop hurting him."
"Hurting him? You mean like this?"
I shut my eyes while poor Herb wailed in agony.
"I'll do what you say, Barry."
"Good girl. Remember -- I'm listening. Ready . . . go!"
I went into the hallway and yelled at the two cops on duty.
"Fuller just called me! He's in the parking garage!"
They drew weapons and took off down the hall.
"Are they gone?"
"Yes."
"Who's nearby?"
"No one. A nurse."
"Give the nurse the phone."
"Why?"
Mistake. A part of me died inside when I heard Herb's scream.
"Nurse!" I hurried to her. "Someone wants to talk to you."
She gave me a quizzical look. "Who?"
"Just tell him whatever he wants to know."
The nurse took the phone. "No. . . . Nope. . . . Nobody." Then she handed it back. "He wanted to know if there were any men outside the door to room 514."
I growled into the cell. "Satisfied?"
"Not yet. But I will be. Get in your car and go north on Lasalle. I want to hear your voice the whole time."
"What if the cell signal goes out?"
Herb screamed again.
"You'd better make sure it doesn't, Jack. Now keep talking. Start with the ABC's."
I recited the alphabet while I hurried through the corridor. Elevator or stairs? Which was better for cell transmission? I picked the stairs, moving as fast as I could. When I made it down to the parking garage, I saw one of the cops ordered to guard me, his gun drawn, creeping around a corner. I threw my back against a wall so he didn't see me.
"Jack? You there?"
". . . Q . . . R . . . S . . . T . . . U . . ."
I paused for a moment, and then made a beeline for my car, stepping lightly so my footsteps didn't echo on the asphalt.
My cell reception became staticky.
"It sounds like I'm losing you, Jack. I hope not, for Herb's sake. Frankly, I don't know how much more he can take."
I made it to my car and fumbled with the keys, beginning the alphabet for the third time. When I opened the door, one of my cops saw me.
"Lieutenant! We can't find him!"
"Uh-oh, Jack," Fuller purred into the phone. "You'd better hurry."
I hopped in the driver's seat, my cell signal getting even weaker. I was yelling the alphabet now, hoping my louder voice got through. Both cops converged on my car. I jammed it into gear and hit the gas.
The exit was up a concrete ramp.
"Jack?" Barry was yelling. "I can't hear you, Jack. Jack--"
The phone went dead.
Chapter 50
Fuller scowls at the dial tone. He hits Redial. Daniels picks up immediately.
"I lost the signal on the exit ramp. I didn't do anything stupid." She sounds anxious, breathless.
"How can I believe you, Jack?"
"Don't hurt him again."
Fuller lifts his foot, ready to stomp on Benedict's dislocated elbow. Herb stares up at him, hate in his eyes.
"We had a deal, Jack."
"If I hear him scream once more, I swear to God, I'm hanging up and throwing my phone out the window."
"How do I know the cops aren't with you?"
"I'm alone. I ditched them in the parking garage."
"Maybe you called for backup, on your radio."
"I didn't have time. If my radio was on, you'd hear it."
Fuller walks away from Herb, takes the Sig out of his belt. He fires a round, up the stairs.
"What did you just do, Barry? Let me talk to Herb."
"That was a warning. If I think you're lying to me, if I think you're bringing more cops, I end Herb Benedict's life. Understand?"
"Let me talk to Herb."
Fuller rolls his eyes. He holds out the phone. "Herb, say something."
Benedict looks awa
y, lips pressed shut.
"Hold on a second, Jack. He's being stoic."
Fuller plays pull'n' bend with Herb's swollen arm until the guy sings like a choir boy.
"Tell her you're okay."
"Jack!" Benedict screams. "Don't come!"
"There, Jack? Satisfied he's still with us?"
"When I get there, Barry . . ."
"Stop it, Jack. You're scaring me. Where are you?"
"Going north on Lasalle."
"When you get to Division Street, take a left. And let's hear that alphabet."
Jack begins the ABC's again, and Fuller goes back upstairs. His head thumps like someone's bouncing a bat off of it, and his eye does its best to compete for the gold medal in the Pain Olympics.
The syringe calls to him from the kitchen table.
One little shot, and the pain will go away.
But Daniels will be here soon. That will also make the pain go away.
The head pain. Not the eye pain. Take the shot.
She's coming armed. It's important to stay alert.
You can handle her. Take the shot.
Fuller lifts the needle. His arms are weight-lifter arms, the veins pushed to the surface by all the muscle. He doesn't need to tie off.
Good.
Fuller shoots up, waiting for the warm rush of heroin to flood through him.
The rush doesn't come.
"What the hell?"
"Barry? Did you say something?"
Fuller grits his teeth, staring at the empty syringe. That little Mexican bastard. What the hell did I just shoot up? Baking soda?
"Barry, I'm going west on Division. Barry?"
"Go right on Clybourn," Barry growls. He raises the syringe to throw it across the room. But then . . .
Something happens.
It's a subtle change at first. The kitchen seems to come into sharper focus. Barry stares at his hand, and his stare magnifies his fist until it's the size of a baked ham.
Barry looks at his feet, and they also seem to grow. He's ten, fifteen, twenty feet tall. How can he fit in this tiny room? A-ha! The kitchen is growing with him, walls getting longer, wider, stretching out and out.
And as he's growing, the pain in his head is shrinking. Until it's a tiny spot -- a speck of minor irritation -- in the middle of his swollen eye.
Fuller giggles, and the sound echoes through his head deep and slow. He hears someone talking, and notices he's holding a phone.
"Barry? Are you there, Barry? What's the address?"
Address? Oh, it's Jack. She's coming to the party.
"Twenty-one sixty," someone says. It's him. The words feel solid in his mouth, like they're made of clay and he's spitting them out rather than saying them.
This is fun.
He spins in a slow circle. The room moves with him, shifting and bending. When he stops, the room keeps moving, because he wills it to. He can control it. He can control everything.
"I'm a god."
Fuller touches his face, feels the bandage. Gods don't need bandages. He rips it off, and that causes a spark of pain in his eye.
"No more pain." His voice is thunder.
He glides over to the drawer, dumps the contents on the table.
A corkscrew.
It only hurts for a moment, and he cries a lot.
No, he's not crying.
It's blood.
He hears a car outside. A visitor.
All pain is gone now, replaced with something else.
Anger.
Jack Daniels is here. She's the one who put him in jail. She's the one who gave him these headaches.
She's trying to stop him from being a god.
He wipes some blood off of his cheek and balls his hands into fists.
"I'm in here, Jack."
Chapter 51
"Fuller? Fuller, dammit, are you there?"
There's no answer. Where was he? Was Benedict still alive? What happened?
I disconnected and dialed 911, giving them the Clybourn address. Then I spun the cylinder on my .38, counted six bullets, and set my jaw.
Fear, anxiety, and all of my other neuroses be damned; I was going to go save my best friend.
I was three steps up the porch stairs when the door swung open.
Fuller filled the doorway, arms stretching out as if offering me a hug. His face was awash with blood, a gaping hole where his left eye used to be.
Training took over. I brought up my gun and grouped three shots in the midsection.
Rather than fall back, Fuller did something unexpected.
He lunged.
I caught him in the shoulder with the fourth shot, and then he was on me, knocking me backward, onto the 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 gri
pped 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."
He left his brown bomber jacket on the cot.
A nurse came in, tried to give me a shot of Demerol for the pain.
I declined.
"Is Detective Benedict out of surgery yet?"
"Not yet."
I lay back on my cot and stared at the ceiling.
Cops came, wanting to debrief me. I told them all to go to hell. Captain Bains stopped by. He told me there would always be a spot on the force for me, if I decided to come back.
I laughed in his face.
Five hours later, Benedict was wheeled into recovery. I sat in his room with him until he woke up.
"Hi, Jack." His voice was hoarse, a symptom of a bruised larynx.
"Hi, Herb. They told me your surgery went well. You'll get full use of your arm back."
"Are we okay?"
My eyes teared up.
"We're okay, buddy."
"You're my partner, Jack. You're supposed to tell me when I'm acting like an idiot."
"Maybe we were both acting like idiots."
He nodded. "Can you do me a favor?"
"Sure, Herb."
"Can you call my wife, tell her I'm done being an idiot?"
I smiled through the tears. "I think I can do that."
"Tell her to bring doughnuts."
"I will."
"Two boxes."
"I will."
Chapter 53
I spent my days in the hospital, keeping vigil over Mom. Nights I spent at home, alone, staring at the ceiling.
Christmas came. New Year's Eve. Valentine's Day.
Bains refused to accept my resignation, and I got a modest biweekly pension check. I had very few needs. I made do.
Bloody Mary (2005) Page 23