by Cross, Amy
"I know," she says firmly, interrupting me. "The diary. I know. Believe me, Judge Wentworth was very keen to stress that point over and over again on the phone just now. You have a very persuasive advocate for your needs, Ms. Mason."
"If this new killer has found Sam Gazade's diary," I continue, "we have to know what he wrote. It's no longer an academic discussion. The diary gives the new killer an advantage over us, and if Gazade dies without telling us what we need to know -"
"You can see him," she says, clearly annoyed. "I have no legal powers to stop you, but I need you to give me an undertaking that this process won't interfere in any way with the procedure we have in place. That man is still going to be executed at midnight, and the only gap in the schedule comes when he's having his final meal, which will be..." She checks her watch. "Right about now," she adds, before pausing for a moment. "Is there no other way? Do you really need to disrupt things like this?"
"We don't have any other options right now," Dawson says. "It's a long-shot, but Sam Gazade might tell us what we need to know."
"He's never told anyone anything," Lockley points out.
"He's never been twenty minutes from death before," I reply firmly. "Maybe that kind of realization will change how he sees things. He has to see that there's no point clinging to his final secret."
"A death-bed change of heart?" she replies, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "You of all people should know that Sam Gazade is a singularly loathsome piece of work, Ms. Mason. He's a vile, psychopathic misogynist with a taste for cutting women into pieces. He's a symbol of everything that's wrong with our society, and I have no doubt that he'll very much enjoy taking this so-called secret to his grave."
"We're wasting time," I reply. "Just get me in there for five minutes and let me try talking to him."
"Are you going alone?" she asks.
"No," Dawson says.
"Yes," I add.
"Fine," Dawson replies, taking a seat. He's clearly not happy with the decision, but he knows there's no point arguing with me. Over the years, we've had plenty of 'discussions' about important matters, and I've won almost every time. Besides, I can tell he's worried about me, and he probably doesn't want to push me too far. Dawson knows what I went through twelve years ago, before I managed to get away from Gazade.
"This way," Lockley says.
As we make our way out of her office and along the dark corridor, there's a palpable sense of tension in the air. Frankly, I'm amazed we managed to persuade her, but I guess it helps that I was able to get a couple of local judges to support my case. Lockley has a reputation as a bureaucrat, and she's widely rumored to be planning to enter politics in a couple of years. All she cares about is getting Gazade executed with the minimum amount of fuss, and I was able to make her see that letting me see Gazade would create less fuss than forcing me to seek an official halt to the process. She's nervy, but I've already promised her that if this meeting delivers results, I'll be sure to give her plenty of credit in the media. She can sniff the chance of some glory, and she can't resist.
Reaching into my pocket, I take out a bottle of pills and try to open the lid as discreetly as possible. Unfortunately, as I tip a pill into my hand and then replace the lid, Lockley glances at me, and I can see the curiosity in her eyes.
"You okay?" she asks.
"Fine," I say, swallowing the pill.
"Want some water with that?"
"No."
She smiles.
"Allergies," I mutter, putting the bottle back in my pocket.
"What are you allergic to?" she asks. "Prisons? Bad ideas?"
"Pretty much everything," I mutter, still feeling the pain in my chest as I try to hide my impatience at the fact that the pills don't work faster. "Oxygen. Life itself."
"Tell me this isn't personal," Lockley says suddenly, turning to me as we reached the door to Gazade's holding area. "Tell me that you really need to see him for a case, and that this isn't some bizarre, fucked-up attempt to deal with your own emotional problems, Ms. Mason. Because I swear to God, this prison is not here to serve as a forum for your scars to be battled out, no matter how deep they might be."
I smile, having anticipated some kind of outburst.
"Tell me it isn't personal," she says again.
"It isn't personal," I reply with a hint of a smile.
"Tell me it isn't a waste of time."
"It's not a waste of time."
"Tell me you're telling the truth."
I smile.
"You think I want to look into that man's eyes again?" I continue. "After what he did to me? After what he tried to do to me? I was planning to spend tonight in a bar, drinking a hell of a lot of whiskey, so coming down to your rundown prison really isn't my idea of a good time!"
"I don't give a fuck about looking into his eyes," she replies. "All I care about is a clean and ordered process that delivers that man to the table in..." She checks her watch again. "Seventeen minutes. With five to go, he'll be led through. You haven't got long, Ms. Mason, and I just hope you're not on some kind of personal crusade. Gazade can be tricky, but he's finally accepted his fate. Don't disrupt him. All that matters is that at five minutes past midnight, I've got his dead body on a slab, ready to be taken away, cremated, and tossed in the garbage."
"Does he know I'm coming?" I ask.
She shakes her head.
"Great," I say, taking a deep breath. "I guess it's gonna be a nice surprise for him." I pause for a moment, as I finally realize that I'm about to come face to face once again with the man who killed all those women and then tried to kill me. He came damn close, too, and there's not a day that goes past without my mind wandering onto thoughts of what might have happened if I hadn't been able to get free. "So when can I go in?" I ask, trying to hide my nerves. I'm not sure how I'm going to react when I see his face again, and I want to get that initial moment of shock out of the way.
She stares at me for a moment, and finally a faint smile crosses her lips. I'm pretty sure she's seen past my bluster and she knows that I'm worried. I'm not sure whether that's because I've accidentally let the mask slip, or because she just figures it'd be impossible for someone in my situation not to be scared.
"What are you waiting for?" she asks, taking a step back. "You have fifteen minutes, Detective Mason. Use them wisely, because once they're over, Sam Gazade is going to be unavailable for questioning. Permanently."
Reaching down, I turn the handle and pull the door open. Glancing into the room, it takes a moment for the shadows to become recognizable shapes, and finally I see him, and he slowly turns to me. There's a moment, just a moment, where it seems as if his blank eyes don't recognize me at all; finally, however, his gaze comes alive and I realize that he knows exactly who I am. With a shiver, I realize that he seems pleased to see me.
***
Staring at me from behind the glass screen that separates us, Sam Gazade seems amused by my presence. He doesn't look to have changed much since the last time I saw him; he has that same grin, and those same dark, ringed eyes. Still, at least the fact that he recognizes me means that we don't need to bother with a formal re-introduction.
"I wasn't expecting a visitor," he mutters finally, before cutting off a piece of stake and putting it in his mouth. He chews slowly and thoughtfully for a moment. "You'll forgive me if I continue my meal. Time's a little pressing tonight. I trust your presence doesn't mean that there have been any changes to the schedule? I've become rather accustomed to the current plan, and I abhor uncertainty." He pauses. "You've got a slight limp, Detective Mason. Is that from our last encounter? I didn't think I'd gone deep enough to cause permanent damage."
"We think someone found your diary," I say, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible. "There have been certain... developments that could only have occurred if someone had access to the pages you warned us about. There's already been one death, with all the pieces in place, and it looks likely that there'll be more." I wait for
him to reply. "Obviously it's unlikely to be a coincidence that this has started up on the anniversary of your first attack, and so shortly before your scheduled execution."
He stares at me for a moment. "Huh," he says finally, before eating another mouthful of steak. "And how are you doing these days, Detective Mason? You look good. A little older, but that's only to be expected. Youth's vigor can't last forever, and you have wiser eyes. For a woman, anyway. I'm sure age and gravity have caused some parts of your body to sag a little, though. I hope you don't mind the question, but have you fully recovered from our last encounter? Physically, I mean. Obviously it's impossible to recover mentally. I know I haven't. You're the same, aren't you? You're struggling. You're in pain. By the way, how's your hip?"
"Go fuck yourself," I say, before I can stop myself.
He smiles.
"I need to know where you hid the diary," I tell him, carefully regathering my composure. I just let my mask slip, and I can't afford to do that again. "If we can work out how the new killer found it, maybe we can get some insight into his or her identity."
"And how do I know it's really been found?" he replies. "How do I know this isn't just a last-minute attempt to get me to give up its location? I was expecting you to try something long ago, you know. I was certain you wouldn't be able to ignore that last little piece of the mystery. Going to be hard to convince me. Going to be very hard. Going to be impossible, maybe."
"He carved the symbol into his first victim's flesh," I tell him. "The symbol that you told us about. No-one else ever knew it existed, so the only way anyone could replicate it would be if they had the diary."
"Huh," he replies, clearly taken aback for a moment. "I suppose that's rather conclusive, is it not?"
"The body was mutilated in exactly the same way as your first victim," I continue, "apart from the fact that it was more rotten, which we put down to the fact that perhaps the killer got his or her timing wrong. This leads us to believe that she's someone who's unused to killing, perhaps someone who doesn't relish the act itself."
"Her?" he says, raising an eyebrow. "You don't seriously think a woman could do this kind of thing, do you?"
"As a matter of fact," I reply flatly, "I do."
"So I have a protege?" he asks with a faint smile. "How fascinating. It's a shame I won't be able to stick around and watch his work, but at least I can take some comfort from the knowledge that my work will continue." He pauses. "I've come to terms with my imminent demise, Ms. Mason. I've been able to see it as merely a part of the way the natural world works. In fact, I was hoping I might bump into you sometime. I was meaning to ask if you had a similar epiphany all those years ago, when you thought you were about to die. Did you come to terms with your imminent death?" He pauses. "Have you come to terms with it? To know your death is coming? To know the end is here? To know it's all over?"
"It's my belief," I continue, carefully ignoring his attempts to get me riled, "that someone is copying your original murders, but with men this time instead of women. Someone's switching the genders."
"So that's why you think it might be a woman wielding the knives?" he asks, with a hint of curiosity in his voice. "How delightfully reductive."
"It's quite possibly," I reply. "I'm hoping that you might decide to help us find out for sure. Where did this person find your diary?"
"Where I left it, I imagine."
"And where was that?"
"Where do you think?"
"Cut the games," I reply firmly. "In case you've forgotten, you don't have a lot of time left."
"I don't?" he replies, pretending to be shocked for a moment. "Oh, of course. I almost forget."
"So where did you hide the diary?" I continue. "Where did this person find it?"
He smiles, before cutting off another piece of steak and placing it in his mouth. Once again, he chews slowly. "The most disappointing part of life in this prison," he says after a moment, "is that there are so many women working here. When they asked me what I'd like for my final meal, I said I didn't really care, but that I didn't want it cooked by the bitch who normally runs the kitchen. I told them to ditch her for the night and get her male assistant to take over. Can you believe that a man accepted the position of working beneath a woman? He must have some serious self-esteem issues. Either that, or he's after some pussy." He pauses. "Anyway, they accepted my request, and now I have a very well-prepared steak. Cooked by a man, of course. Die with a full stomach. Die satisfied. Die before my next bowel movement."
"Where did you hide your diary?" I ask again, already starting to tire of having to ask that same question so many times.
"I feel as if I'm being studied," he says eventually. "It's quite a compliment, in a way. I feel as if someone is taking an academic interest in my work. To be honest, all those years ago, it never occurred to me to kill a man. As you know, it was women I wanted, and it was women I took. The thought of cutting up a man's body is somewhat disturbing, but I guess it takes all sorts to make a world. If it's truly a woman who has started copying my actions, Detective Mason, you'll have no problem finding her. He'll, she'll probably fuck the whole thing up pretty quickly."
"I have cancer," I say suddenly, surprising myself with my honesty.
He stares at me.
"I'm having a double mastectomy soon," I continue, my voice trembling, "so in a way, twelve years later, the cancer is completing the work you started." I pause for a moment. "The scars have healed," I add eventually, "but they're still there. And now I guess they're going to get opened up again. And yes, sometimes I do have a slight limp, mainly when it's cold. Another reason to fucking hate snow."
He continues to stare at me, and slowly a smile spread across his lips. "How wonderful," he says eventually. "It's as if the world itself wants my work to continue. Perhaps your body was excited by the prospect of my knife, and has found... other, more respectable ways to get the job done. I assume the surgery is something you've chosen, Ms. Mason? No-one's going to tie you down and force it upon you, are they?"
"It's the only chance to stop the cancer spreading."
"And you want to stop the cancer spreading?"
"I'd rather not die."
"Everyone dies," he says with a smile. "As I'm very, very aware right now."
"Not of cancer," I point out. "Not rake-thin with yellow skin in a hospital bed, eaten away on the inside. I'd rather -"
He waits for me to finish. "Rather what?" he asks eventually.
"I'd rather find your diary," I say firmly.
"So the surgery is your choice," he says. "My God, do you realize what that means? If you'd just let me cut off your breasts twelve years ago, and then got free, I'd basically have saved your life. How's that for irony?" He pauses. "Damn it, I can't help wishing tonight's events could be postponed. If it were possible, would you have let me see them after they'd been removed? Your breasts, I mean. I'd like to see them on a slab. Would you have let me have that honor. I'd like to -"
"Where did you hide the diary?"
"What's wrong?" he replies. "Can't your female brain work it out? Bitch of a puzzle, huh? Bitch of a trick. Bitch of a game."
"Where did you hide the diary?"
"Are you okay, Detective Mason?" he asks, leaning a little closer. "You look rather green around the gills."
"I'm fine," I say firmly. "The point is..." I pause. Moments ago, I felt as if I had a perfectly good reason to tell Gazade about my cancer, and about my upcoming operation. Suddenly those reasons have dissipated and I feel as if I made a terrible mistake. I guess the pill I took is finally kicking in, but as well as taking away the pain, the drugs have also clouded my judgment. It's getting harder and harder to think straight. "The point is," I continue slowly, "I can't force you to help me, but I hope you might see that you have one final chance to show that you're sorry for everything happened."
"I'm not sorry," he replies. "This copycat, or whatever it is, doesn't interest me very much. You interest me, though, especiall
y now that -"
"This isn't about me," I say firmly, interrupting him. I swore I wouldn't let him get under my skin, but right now I feel as if I'm losing control. The problem is, this fog in my mind is causing me to get frustrated, and I need to find some way to calm down. I should never have taken that pill. I was weak. I should have just accepted the pain and kept my mind clear. "This is about saving lives."
"Since when did I ever give a damn about saving lives?" he asks. "Face it. You can't give me one good reason to help you." He glances up at the clock. "I'm going to be taken out of here in a few minutes' time and executed, and there's nothing you can offer me that could ever make me give you any information. I want to die, Ms. Mason. I'm happy with it." He smiles. "What about you? You must be thinking about your own mortality, mustn't you? Have you achieved the comfort that I've achieved?" He stands up and walks over to me, stopping just a few inches away on the other side of the glass. "Do you envy me?"
"Please help me," I reply, aware that this meeting isn't going too well. Without the cancer drugs in my system, I'd be able to think better, but I feel as if I'm struggling to remain coherent. "You killed those women because you thought they were beneath you," I continue. "You killed them because you wanted to prove your superiority. Now there's a woman out there. A weak, pathetic woman, with your diary in her hands, and she's using it to kill men. Doesn't that make you sick, Sam? Doesn't it make you sick to your stomach to think that a woman is going around, killing men? It should be the other way, shouldn't it? It's an abomination of nature, so why don't you help me stop it?"
He stares at me, and for a moment it looks as if I'm getting through to him.
"What drugs have they got you on?" he asks eventually. "For the cancer, I mean. Your pupils are very small right now, Ms. Mason. Whatever you're taking, it looks to be affecting you mentally."
"It doesn't matter."
"Doesn't it?" He smiles. "You used to have such a strong reputation. I've kept up with your career, you know. I spotted your name in newspapers now and then, and I always got the impression that you were regarded by your peers as something of a genius. I doubt your faculties are able to withstand a generous dose of chemotherapy, though, and those pupils look awfully small."