“Open cell eleven.”

“Opening cell eleven.”

The electronic lock disengages with a clang, and the cell door opens. Fuller eyes the prison guard escorting him; the man is eight inches shorter, with a neck so thin Fuller could strangle him with one hand.

The skinny guard unlocks Fuller’s ankle irons, while the second guard, a fat guy with a face like a bulldog, stands at the ready palming a can of pepper spray.

Keep looking tough, punk. If I wanted to, I could take away that mace and stick it so far up your ass your breath would smell like jalapeños.

“Thanks,” Fuller says instead. He smiles, playing his role. The thin guy takes off his handcuffs, and Fuller enters his cell. It’s tiny, cramped. A lidless steel shitter dominates one corner, next to a steel sink. In the other corner is a steel cot, a two-inch-thick cotton mattress resting on top.

There isn’t enough room in here to do a decent push-up, so Fuller compromises, putting his palms on the cool concrete floor and his feet on the sink.

“One, two, three, four…”

He touches his chin to the floor with each tip, feeling the burn build up in his shoulders and chest. His face begins to turn red, and he smiles.

Jack’s expression was priceless. I practically made her wet her panties.

“Eighteen, nineteen, twenty…”

Fuller looks at the cot. There’s a small slit in the mattress, along a seam, with more pieces of onion and some other things. Things that will produce dramatic court theatrics.

“Thirty-seven, thirty-eight-”

The lie detector tomorrow will be fun too. He still has the staple, secretly liberated from his attorney’s paperwork. A staple is all he needs to pass with flying colors.

“Sixty-five, sixty-six…”

Everything is going his way. His bitch of a wife is dead, finally. He got his lawyer to pass on word to Rushlo to keep quiet – and the little toady will no doubt follow orders. If all goes as planned, Fuller will be back out on the street soon – probably in a few weeks. Then he’ll pay Jack a visit, make good on his promise.

“Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one…”

Only one thing is bothering him. Though the doctors assure him his tumor is completely gone, he’s still getting headaches. They aren’t as sharp as before, but they’ve been increasing in intensity over the past few weeks.

“Hundred twenty, hundred twenty-one…”

So far, aspirin is helping. But he foresees a time when that won’t be enough. He’ll need to kill again. Soon.

“Hundred fifty.”

Fuller’s feet touch the floor and he stands and stretches, knuckles dragging across the ceiling. He’s breathing hard. There’s a metallic taste in his mouth – he’s bitten his tongue.

The taste is arousing.

After a minute’s rest, he puts his feet back on the sink and begins another set of push-ups. His teeth work on the cut in his tongue, making it larger.

“Twenty, twenty-one…”

He closes his eyes, pretending the blood he’s swallowing is Jack’s.

I dialed Libby from Benedict’s car and gave her the short version. The excitement in her voice was obvious.

“I knew he was playing us!”

“We don’t have evidence.”

“But now that we know for sure, we’ll get some. The polygraph examiner we’ve got is the best. He pegged Ted Bundy. He’ll get Fuller too. You did good, Jack.”

“Thanks.”

Except I didn’t feel like I did good. I felt like I’d just gotten my ass kicked.

“You want to be there? Tomorrow?”

“For the lie detector?”

“Sure. It’ll keep him off guard.”

I wanted to say no. I didn’t want to be there. Fuller unearthed feelings I thought I’d buried.

Feelings of fear.

In crisis situations, cops need to have a certain amount of fear. It precedes adrenaline, which makes reactions faster. When I shot Fuller, months ago, I’d been afraid. But the fear worked for me then, heightening senses, forcing me to act automatically, as I’d been trained to do.

Now – the sick feeling in my stomach, the sweaty palms, the dry mouth, the runaway imagination – did me no good at all, other than add to my pile of neuroses.

“Jack? You still there?”

“I just came back to work, Libby. I’m not sure what’s going on tomorrow.”

“The polygraph is at nine A.M., back at Division Eleven. I’ll talk to Bains to clear some time for you.”

“Thanks,” I managed. “See you tomorrow, then.”

Herb stopped at a light, squinted at me.

“Jack? You look sick.”

“I’m fine.”

“You let him get to you. Fuller.”

I tried to smile. “Not a chance. I’m just tired, Herb. Nothing more.”

The light turned green, but Benedict didn’t go.

“I know you, Jack. You’re not yourself.”

Rather than answer, I played the role-reversal card.

“Me? You seem to be having the granddaddy of midlife crises, and refuse to speak a peep.”

Someone behind us honked their horn.

“I’m not having a midlife crisis.”

“Male menopause, then.”

“That’s not the case. Bernice and I are just heading in different directions.”

“Different directions? Herb, you’ve been married for twenty years.”

Herb turned away, facing the road.

“Maybe twenty years is too long.”

Another honk. Herb hit the gas, squealing tires.

I closed my eyes and thought about yesterday, when my only concerns were what kind of pizza to order, when I’d be ready to make love again, and if I was becoming addicted to Ambien. My troubles seemed to have quadrupled overnight. And for the cherry on top, I got to deal with the very real possibility that a psycho would soon be out on the street, killing everyone I knew.

Herb and I didn’t talk the rest of the drive back to the station. I went to my office, stared at the huge mound of paperwork that had grown on my desk during my absence, and then moved it aside to fill out my report.

After an hour of hunt and peck, I dropped off the report, and the recording, with Bains. Then I thought about getting started on my backlog, couldn’t bring myself to do it, and called it a day.

Back at my apartment building, I was annoyed to hear piano music filling the hallway on my floor. Jazz, and someone playing it much too loudly. My mood was just foul enough to start banging on doors and flashing my badge, but when I discovered the source of the noise, I knew my badge wouldn’t do much good.

“Mom?”

When I opened my door, the music hit me like a wind. I never liked jazz – I preferred my music to have structure and balance. I also never liked piano, having been forced into two years of lessons by a mother who thought it built character.

The living room offered more unpleasant surprises. My couch faced a different direction than it had this morning. It now also had three pink throw pillows on it, which matched the new pink curtains on my windows.

I liked pink about as much as jazz piano.

I hit the Off button on the stereo.

“Mom?”

“In the bedroom, dear.”

I took a deep breath, blew it out, and walked into my bedroom. My mother was hanging a painting on my wall – one of those framed prints available at department stores for under twenty bucks. The subject was a tabby cat, with a pink bow on its collar, wrestling with a ball of yarn.

“Hello, Jacqueline. What happened to Midori?”

“Midori?”

“Midori Kawamura. The CD that was playing.”

“It was too loud. The neighbors were complaining.”

“Philistines. She’s one of the greatest jazz pianists on the planet.”

“I don’t like jazz pianists.”

“Perhaps you suffer from pianist envy.”

I was too annoyed to smile at that.

“Mom, why is my sofa turned around?”

“You had it facing the wall. Now it’s facing the windows. Do you like the pillows?”