Bloody Mary

CHAPTER 51

“Fuller? Fuller, dammit, are you there?”

There’s no answer. Where was he? Was Benedict still alive? What happened?

I disco

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 co

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 fu

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 co

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 gripped 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.

Herb was promoted to sergeant, and when he visited, he made me call him Sarge. He traded the Camaro for a Chrysler, and he and Bernice took a two-week vacation in Napa Valley, visiting old friends.

My mother’s condition showed some signs of improving. She wasn’t coming out of the coma yet, but her Glasgow Scales were getting better, if only slightly. I talked to her, every day. Even when I didn’t feel like talking.

“You remember what you told me, Mom? That there are no medals for the completion of a good life? I’ve been thinking about that. About how no one wins. Like you said, it’s impossible to win, because the finish line is death.”

I stroked my mother’s hand.

“So what’s the point? What’s the meaning? Why do we all struggle if we’re in a race we can never, ever win? You said we should still run the best that we can. The answer isn’t in the wi

The next day, I got off early retirement and went back to work for the Chicago Police Department.

And I ran on.