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 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 winning. The answer is in the running. And you know something, Mom? I think you may be right.”
The next day, I got off early retirement and went back to work for the Chicago Police Department.
And I ran on.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So many people to thank…
To fellow writers Raymond Benson, Jay Bonansinga, Doug Borton, David Ellis, Eric Garcia, Rick Hautala, Libby Fischer Hellmann, Warren B. Murphy, Ridley Pearson, James Rollins, Steven Spruill, Andrew Vachss, F. Paul Wilson, David Wiltse, and especially Robert W. Walker, for their words, encouragement, and inspiration.
To my advance readers: Marc Buhmann, Jim Coursey, Laura Konrath, and authors Barry Eisler and Rob Kantner, for their comments, opinions, and assistance in making this book better.
To my family, friends, and those who went the extra mile: Robin Agnew, Lorri Amsden, Chris Bowman, Bonnie Claeson, Latham Conger III, Tom & Melanie Meyers Cushman, George Dailey, Moni Draper, Judy Duhl, Mariel Evens, Dick File, Holly Frakes, Maggie Griffin, Joe Guglielmelli, Maryelizabeth Hart, Jim Huang, Steve Jensen, Jen Johnson, Steve Jurczyk, Edmund and Jeannie Kaufman, Chris Konrath, John Konrath, Talon Konrath, Steve Lukac, Sheldon MacArthur, Otto Penzler, Barbara Peters, Sue Petersen, Terri Smith, Dave Strang, Jim & Gloria Tillez, Chris Wolak, and the many others who have helped out on this journey.
To Officer Jim Doherty for police questions, Jeffrey Evens for law questions, and Mike Konrath, whom I hope one day will embalm me, but not in the manner described in this book. Any technical mistakes in this book are mine, not theirs.
To the publishing folks: Michael Bourrett, Jane Comins, Jane Dystel, Miriam Goderich, Jessica Goldman, Eileen Hutton, Navorn Johnson, Elisa Lee, David Lott, Karin Maake, Joni Rendon, and Leslie Wells, who continues to be the world’s best editor.
And of course, to my rock, Maria. Every day with you is a day worth living.
BLOODY MARY
1 1/2 oz. vodka
4 oz. tomato juice
1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce
Several drops of Tabasco sauce
Shake well over ice and strain into an old-fashioned glass.
Add a celery stalk.
J. A. Konrath
