Just Cause

'Am I? We'll see. We'll see about that.'

Sullivan lounged about in the hard metal chair, striking a relaxed pose but all the time letting his eyes burrow deeper into Cowart's heart. 'It gets easy, you know.'

'What does?'

'Killing.'

'How?'

'Familiarity. You learn real quick how people die. Some die hard, some die soft. Some fight like the devil, others just go along quietly. Some plead for their lives, some spit in your eye. Some cry, some laugh. Some call out for their mommas, others tell you they'll see you in hell. Some folks'll hang on to life real strong, others just give it up easy. But in the end, everybody's just the same. Getting stiff and cold. You. Me. Everybody's the same at the end.'

'Maybe at the end. But people get there in a lot of different ways.'

Sullivan laughed. 'That's true enough. That's a real Death Row observation, Cowart. That's exactly what some fellow on the Row would say, after about eight years and a hundred appeals and time running out quick. A lot of different ways.'

He drew hard on the cigarette and blew smoke up into the still prison air. For a moment Blair Sullivan's eyes followed the trail of smoke as it slowly dissipated. 'We're all smoke, aren't we? When it comes right down to it. That's what I told those shrinks, but I don't think they wanted to hear that too much.'

'What shrinks?'

'From the FBI. They got this special Behavioral Sciences section that's trying like crazy to figure out what makes mass murderers, so they can do something about this particular American pastime…' He grinned. 'Of course, they ain't having a whole helluva lot of success, 'cause each and every one of us has our own little reasons. Couple of real nice guys, though. They like to come down here, give me Minnesota Multiphasic Personality tests and Thematic Apperception tests and Rorschach tests and I.Q. tests and, Christ knows, they'll probably want to give me the fucking college board exams next time. They like it when I talk about my momma a lot, and when I tell them how much I hated that old bat and especially my stepdaddy. He beat me, you know. Beat me real bad every time I opened my mouth. Used his fists, used his belt, used his prick. Beat me and fucked me, fucked me and beat me. Day in, day out, regular as Sundays. Man, I hated them. Sure do. Still do, yes sir. They're in their seventies now, still living in a little cinder-block bungalow in the Upper Keys with a crucifix on the wall and a full-color picture of Jesus, still thinking that their savior's gonna come right through the door and lift them up into heaven. They cross themselves when they hear my name and say things like, "Well, the boy was always in the devil's thrall," and stuff like that. Those boys from the FBI are sure interested in all that. You interested in that stuff, too, Cowart? Or do you just want to know why I killed all those folks, including some I hardly even knew?'

'Yes.'

He laughed harshly. 'Well, it's an easy enough question to answer: I was just on my way back home and sort of got sidetracked. Distracted, you might say. Never did make it all the way. That makes sense to you?

'Not exactly.'

Sullivan grinned and rolled his eyes. 'Life's a mystery, ain't it?'

'If you say so.'

'That's right. If I say so. Of course you're a bit more interested in another little mystery, aren't you, Cowart? You don't really care about some other folks, do you? That ain't why you're here.'

'No.'

'Tell me why you want to talk to a bad old guy like myself?'

'Robert Earl Ferguson and Pachoula, Florida.'

As best he could, Blair Sullivan threw back his head and bellowed a single sharp laugh that echoed off the prison walls. Cowart saw a number of the corrections officers swing their heads, watch momentarily, then turn back to their tasks.

'Well now, those are interesting subjects, Cowart. Mighty interesting. But we'll have to get to them in a minute.'

'Okay. Why?'

Blair Sullivan pitched forward across the table, bringing his face as close as possible to Cowart's. The chain that linked him to the table rattled and strained with the sudden pressure. A vein stood out on the prisoner's neck and his face flushed suddenly. 'Because you don't know me well enough yet.'

Then he sat back abruptly, reaching for another cigarette, which he lit off the stub of the first. 'Tell me something about yourself, Cowart, then maybe we can talk. I like to know who I'm dealing with.'

'What do you need to know?'

'Got a wife?'

'Ex-wife.'

The prisoner hooted. 'Kids?'

Matthew Cowart hesitated, then replied, 'None.'

'Liar. Live alone or you got a girlfriend?'

'Alone.'

'Apartment or a house?'

'Little apartment.'

'Got any close friends?'

Again, he hesitated. 'Sure.'

'Liar. That's twice and I'm counting. What do you do at night?'

'Sit around. Read. Watch a ball game.'

'Keep to yourself mostly, huh?'

'That's right.'

The eyelid twitched again. 'Have trouble sleeping?'

'No.'

'Liar. That's three times. You ought to be ashamed, lying to a condemned man. Same as Matthew did to Jesus before the cock crowed. Now, do you dream at night?'

'What the hell…'

Blair Sullivan whispered sharply, 'Play the game, Cowart, or else I'll walk out of here without answering any of your frigging questions.'

'Sure. I dream. Everyone dreams.'

'What about?'

'People like you,' Cowart said angrily.

Sullivan laughed again. 'Got me on that one.' He leaned back in his seat and watched Cowart. 'Nightmares, huh? Because that's what we are, aren't we? Nightmares.'

'That's right,' Cowart replied.

'That's what I tried to tell those boys from the FBI, but they weren't listening. That's all we are, smoke and nightmares. We just walk and talk and bring a little bit of darkness and fear to this earth. Gospel according to John: "Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do. He was a murderer from the beginning, and abode not in the truth, because there is no truth in him." Got that? Eighth verse. Now, there might be a bunch of fancy shrink words to describe it all, but, hell, that's just a bunch of medical gobbledygook, right?'

'Right, I guess.'

'You know what? You've got to be a free man to be a good killer. Free, Cowart. Not hung up on all the silly shit that bogs down ordinary lives. A free man.'

Cowart didn't reply.