Bloody Mary

He kneels next to Corlis and speaks above the man’s whimpering.

“Thanks for stopping, buddy. I appreciate it.”

At this close range, the Sig does quite a job on the trooper’s crew cut.

Minding the blood, Fuller takes the wallet and badge, and exits through the opposite doors, the side where the cars are going north. The semi is still there, parked off to the side. Fuller walks over, then uses the side bar to hoist himself onto the ru

The driver is at the wheel, eyes closed and snoring pleasantly. The guy is white, mid-forties, and his brown hair is cut into a mullet.

Haven’t seen one of those in a while, Fuller thinks.

He holds up Robertson’s badge and taps on the window. The guy wakes up, startled.

“What’s going on, Officer?”

“Please step out of the vehicle, sir.”

“What’s going on?”

“I need you to step out of the vehicle, please.”

The man complies. He’s awake now, and copping an attitude. “What’s the problem?”

“No problem. I didn’t want to get your blood in my new truck.”

Two in the chest, and Fuller takes the man’s keys and wallet, hops into the driver’s seat, and starts the engine.

He figures he has a twenty-minute lead. That will be enough to get him to Interstate 80, and from there, he can take back roads and side streets.

Fuller flips on the CB, and switches it to the police frequency. Standard chatter, no mention yet of his little dalliance.

He yanks the Colt out of his pants and sets it on the passenger seat. The Sig he keeps on the dashboard. Fuller pulls out onto the highway.

He’s two miles away from I-80 when the news breaks. Fuller picks up the mike.

“This is car 6620. Suspect is an African American male, five feet ten inches tall, in his mid-thirties, driving a brown sedan. He was last seen heading south on Route 57. Over.”

“Car 6620, what’s your position?”

Fuller smiles, doesn’t answer. That will keep them confused for a few more minutes. He merges onto I-80, squad cars screaming past him. A large green sign reads: CHICAGO 40 MILES.

“Ready or not, Jack. Here I come.”

CHAPTER 44

“You’ve always been like this, since you were a little girl.”

Mom sat on the sofa with Mr. Griffin, who had fallen asleep sitting up, his head tilted back and his mouth open wide enough to drive a car into. She removed the half-finished drink from his hand – I guessed it to be a bloody Mary from the red color and the celery stick – and raised it to her own lips.

“Been like what?” I asked.

“Been moody, when you should be happy. Remember when you won your first medal in tae kwon do?”

“No.”

“You won it for sparring. You must have been eleven or twelve. I think you were eleven, because you were wearing pigtails and on your twelfth birthday you declared yourself a grown-up and that you’d never wear pigtails again.”

“Do all old people ramble on like you?”

Mom smiled at me. “We do. When you turn sixty, you get a license to ramble from the federal government.”

“Mine may come in the mail, in the time it takes you to finish this story.”

Mom sipped the drink and shuddered. “No wonder he’s asleep – he managed to fit a whole bottle of vodka into a ten-ounce glass. Now, what was I saying?”

“You were rambling about my tae kwon do competition.”

“You’ll miss my rambling someday. So anyway, there you were, with all the wi

“I remember now.”

“You always tried too hard to win, but when you did, you never seemed happy.”

“That’s because I was thinking of the next match, and wondering if I’d win that.”

Mr. Friskers hopped onto the sofa and bumped his head into my mother’s thigh, demanding to be petted. She complied, eliciting a deep, throaty purr from the cat.

“You can’t let the uncertainty of tomorrow interfere with the joy of today, Jacqueline. May I offer a little bit of wisdom?”

“I thought that’s what you were doing.”

“You should be taking notes. This is the meaning of life I’m talking about.”

“I’m all ears, Mom.”

My mother took a deep breath, sat up straighter. “Life,” she said, “isn’t a race that can be won. The end of the race is the same for all of us – we die.”

She smiled at me.

“It’s not about wi

That sounded vaguely familiar.

“In other words, it’s not if you win or lose, but how you play the game?” I said.

“I prefer my analogy.”

“How about something simpler? Like, ‘Try to have fun’?”

“That works too.”

I pulled myself out of the rocking chair, destination: kitchen. Alan had his head in the fridge.

“My mom says I need to have fun.”

Alan looked at me. “I’ll agree with that.”

“So maybe we can go do something fun.”

“A movie?”

“I just saw two of them.”

“A few drinks?”

“That’s a possibility. What else?”

“Dancing?”

“Dancing? I haven’t been out dancing since kids were spi

Alan held my arms, drew me close.

“I was thinking something more adult. Something that involved moving slowly to old Motown classics.”

“I’ll get my shoes.”

I kissed Alan on the cheek and went back to the living room. Mom was trying, unsuccessfully, to get Mr. Griffin’s mouth to stay shut. Every time she eased it closed, it yawned back open.

“Alan and I are going out dancing.” I plopped on the sofa and slid on my flats.

“Good. Take your time. I may wake Sal up and do a little dancing of our own.”

I leaned over, reaching for my cell phone on the table.

“Leave it, Jacqueline.”

“My phone?”

“It’s a phone? I’m sorry – I thought it was a leash.”

I left the phone where it sat.

“Fine. See you in about two hours.”

“No sooner. You’re putting a cramp in my love life.”

I pecked her on the forehead. “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you, Jacqueline. And I’m proud of you. I raised a pretty good daughter.”

“The apple never falls far from the tree. See you later.”

From the sofa, Mom waved me and Alan good-bye.

CHAPTER 45

Fuller ditches the truck on the West Side and takes a cab to Jack’s apartment. He pays with Robertson’s cash, and quickly cases the building.

No doorman. The security door is a joke for a guy his size – one solid kick from a size thirteen and the door opens with a bang.

He knows Jack’s apartment number. While in prison, he would recite her address over and over and over again. A mantra.

His patience is about to be rewarded.

Another kick. The apartment door buckles in.

Fuller, gun in hand, strolls into the living room and finds two old people on the couch, holding each other. He laughs.

“Were you just necking?”

The old man, eighty if he was a day, stands up with his fists bunched. Fuller ignores him, walking through the kitchen, finding the bedroom and bathroom empty.

“Get out of here, right now.”

The old man points a finger at him.

Fuller asks, once, “Where’s Jack?”

The man reaches for the phone.

Fuller hits him with the butt of the Sig, busting open the old guy’s head like a piñata. The fossil falls to the ground, twitching and bleeding out.

The old woman is still on the sofa, gnarled hands trying to work a cell phone. Fuller slaps it out of her hands.

“You must be Mom. Jack’s told me so much about you.”

The woman stares at him. Fuller sees fear. But he sees anger too. And a hardness that he’s never seen in prey before.