Good.
Fuller shoots up, waiting for the warm rush of heroin to flood through him.
The rush doesn’t come.
“What the hell?”
“Barry? Did you say something?”
Fuller grits his teeth, staring at the empty syringe. That little Mexican bastard. What the hell did I just shoot up? Baking soda?
“Barry, I’m going west on Division. Barry?”
“Go right on Clybourn,” Barry growls. He raises the syringe to throw it across the room. But then . . .
Something happens.
It’s a subtle change at first. The kitchen seems to come into sharper focus. Barry stares at his hand, and his stare magnifies his fist until it’s the size of a baked ham.
Barry looks at his feet, and they also seem to grow. He’s ten, fifteen, twenty feet tall. How can he fit in this tiny room? A-ha! The kitchen is growing with him, walls getting longer, wider, stretching out and out.
And as he’s growing, the pain in his head is shrinking. Until it’s a tiny spot—a speck of minor irritation—in the middle of his swollen eye.
Fuller giggles, and the sound echoes through his head deep and slow. He hears someone talking, and notices he’s holding a phone.
“Barry? Are you there, Barry? What’s the address?”
Address? Oh, it’s Jack. She’s coming to the party.
“Twenty-one sixty,” someone says. It’s him. The words feel solid in his mouth, like they’re made of clay and he’s spitting them out rather than saying them.
This is fun.
He spins in a slow circle. The room moves with him, shifting and bending. When he stops, the room keeps moving, because he wills it to. He can control it. He can control everything.
“I’m a god.”
Fuller touches his face, feels the bandage. Gods don’t need bandages. He rips it off, and that causes a spark of pain in his eye.
“No more pain.” His voice is thunder.
He glides over to the drawer, dumps the contents on the table.
A corkscrew.
It only hurts for a moment, and he cries a lot.
No, he’s not crying.
It’s blood.
He hears a car outside. A visitor.
All pain is gone now, replaced with something else.
Anger.
Jack Daniels is here. She’s the one who put him in jail. She’s the one who gave him these headaches.
She’s trying to stop him from being a god.
He wipes some blood off of his cheek and balls his hands into fists.
“I’m in here, Jack.”
CHAPTER 51
“Fuller? Fuller, dammit, are you there?”
There’s no answer. Where was he? Was Benedict still alive? What happened?
I disconnected and dialed 911, giving them the Clybourn address. Then I spun the cylinder on my .38, counted six bullets, and set my jaw.
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 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.
ALSO BY J. A. KONRATH:
Whiskey Sour
Copyright
The Lt. Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels mystery series is not sponsored by, endorsed by, or related to Jack Daniel’s Properties, Inc., makers of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey.
Copyright © 2005 by Joe Konrath.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the Publisher. For information address Hyperion, 77 West 66th Street, New York, New York 10023-6298.
ISBN: 9781401382711
First eBook Edition: JULY 2005
Rusty Nail
A Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels Thriller
Rusty Nail
J. A. Konrath
This book is for Mike Konrath, one of the coolest guys on the planet. I love you like a brother.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Contents
Box Book
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Epilogue
Acknowledgment
Also By
Copyright
RUSTY NAIL
1 oz. Scotch
1 oz. Drambuie
Pour ingredients over ice in an old-fashioned glass.
Stir.
Prologue
Indiana 1976
THE SOUND BEGINS. Again.
Alex, eyes clenched shut, pillow pressed to face, can’t escape the repetitive slap-slap-slap; it penetrates the thin apartment walls and saturates the cotton batting.
The wailing starts, the cry of a sick dog, increasing as the slaps come louder and faster.
Father will call soon.
Alex rolls out of bed and tiptoes through the door, every painful squeak of the floorboards hitting like a blow. Slowly, so very slowly, Alex creeps down the hall.
Beyond Father’s room is the back door. If Alex can make it outside, there’s a chance. Perhaps spending the night in the barn, or at a friend’s house to escape the . . .
“ALEX!”
Alex jumps at the sound, Father’s voice drilling in and pinning feet to floor.
“Alex, get in here!”
No choice now. Run, and Father will hear and get angry. Alex doesn’t want to be the recipient of God’s penance.
The child heads back to Father’s room.
As always, the sight is ghastly. Father is kneeling on the floor, clad in dirty jeans and bare from the w
aist up. His back is glistening with sweat and something else; streaks of blood leaking from angry red welts.
“I’m a sinner, Alex. A terrible sinner.”
Alex stares at Father’s hand, sees he’s using the scourge—a multi-tailed whip with tiny metal barbs on the ends. That one isn’t so bad. Father has implements that are worse. The one Alex fears the most is the old brush handle, the bristles replaced with thin nails, rusty from years of use.
“Take the whip, Alex. Show me God’s wrath.”
Alex hesitates.
“Now!” Father’s eyes burn, promising the threat of Redemption.
The eight-year-old holds out a hand and takes the scourge.
“You are the instrument of God’s vengeance, my child. Give me His penance.” Father’s voice trembles, cracks. “Punish me for my terrible sins.”
Alex swings the whip.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Father’s keening grows in volume, and Alex beats him faster and harder, wanting to get it over with, wanting it to end.
Finally, Father cries out for mercy, and then he pulls Alex next to him, both on their knees, and they both pray and pray and pray to the Lord for forgiveness and salvation and deliverance from evil.
Father’s sobbing eventually softens, then stops.
“Ointment.”
Alex fetches the salve and rubs it into Father’s wounds, coaxing whimpers.
“Reject sin, Alex. Reject Satan’s ways. Don’t end up like me.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Good. Now get the hell out of my room. I don’t want to see your ugly face for the rest of the night.”
Alex runs outside, hands pink with blood, brain awash with terrible feelings of guilt . . . and disgust . . .
. . . and something else.
The night is hot, the sticky summer air smelling like garbage, the field behind their house dark and quiet. The tears erupt, and Alex wails, head in hands.
Jack Daniels Six Pack Page 48
