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June 2005. Bizarre public executions provide mass entertainment. HIV quarantine camps and super-prisons surround Ohio cities. Michael Tucker, haunted by his father's child abuse and Vietnam combat, lives in Cincinnati where he attends weekly VA therapy sessions to discuss how the past changed his life. Michael also has a secret Indiana cabin with black walls and windows and a swinging light above a rocking chair spiked to the plank floor. A place he calls Hell, where a monster rules. You are about to open the door and enter. If you dare. Because once inside, you can't exit alive.

Notes:

In 1995, during the original creative process of writingMichael In Hell , the societal changes in the novel existed only in my mind as one possible future scenario in the United States. Eight years later, some of the changes have happened in other parts of the world. Some may never happen, and others may occur after the year 2005. Michael In Hell, except for some of the Vietnam combat, is total fiction. Names, characters, and other incidents are products of my imagination. When the novel was first published in 2000, a regional rumor claimed the story was true and that I was being investigated in missing person cases. The rumor was false. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Dedicated to all the walking wounded.

I love him who is of a free spirit and a free heart: thus his head is only the bowels of his heart, but his heart drives him to his downfall.

—Friedrich Nietzsche

PART ONE

JUNE 2005

Chapter 1

Thursday

(#57)

Michael Tucker killed at night, in a one-room cabin he owned but did not live in, where the inside walls and window glass had been painted black and the window shutters were closed and locked. Where old congealed blood made the wet air coppery sweet. The cabin contained a sink, a double burner gas stove, a small table with a rotating electric fan, and a rocking chair spiked to the plank floor.

A light dangled above the chair; the bulb enclosed by a green glass hood. A string tied between the fan and the light cord made the light swing back and forth, confusing the alcoholic naked man tied to the chair. His name was Johnny Gomez, and now he was scared sober.

Tucker, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, stared at a glass pot on the stove, his back to Gomez.

“Boiling water lives, Johnny. That's why I always use clear glass so I can watch the water come to life."

Gomez mumbled through the rag in his mouth. The rocking chair creaked. Tucker turned to examine the prey.

The swaying light created shifting long shadow patterns. Gomez whimpered and strained at the ropes, tilting his head up to focus his good brown eye on the bulb. His bloated bronze face was streaked with purple veins. Slick black hair stuck to his forehead. His left eye was a dark slit, closed from Tucker's punch before he was dumped into the car trunk.

Gomez had a large flat nose from years of boxing. At age 32, after three years in jail, his career had ended. Fat protruded over the ropes circling his stomach. His hands dangled behind the chair, tied to the ropes binding his ankles. He now managed to spit the rag to the floor.

Tucker smiled and turned to check the water. Small bubbles streamed upward. Soon the water would be a weapon, and the soul of scumbag #57 just might stream up toward his god.

“I doubt it,” Tucker said. “This soul will go down."

Gomez reacted. “Who the fuck are you? What kind of shit is this?"

Gomez still didn't comprehend the reversed situation. Scumbags seldom did. Their brains blocked the horror until the last moment.

Tucker turned and stripped off his black shirt, exposing pink shrapnel scars on his upper stomach. His aging muscles were hard and stringy, slick with sweat and suntan oil. He imagined his eyes as cold blue flames, casting a wide arc. Rubbing both hands across his chest and stomach, he gathered oil and sweat, smearing his scalp until two thick brown hair clumps stood like short horns above his forehead.

His nostrils flared at a strong ammonia smell. Gomez had wet the chair while failing to cross his legs. Urine pattered the floor.

Tucker growled. He had become the monster.

“Who are you?” Gomez bit his lower lip. “What do you want?"

Tucker inhaled then exhaled a hiss. The light swung back and forth. The fan hummed and the water boiled.

“Why are you doing this to me?"

Tucker glanced back at the stove before he stepped forward to pinch the scumbag's left nipple. Screaming, Gomez tried tipping backwards, but the spikes held the chair legs to the floor.

“Speak some Spanish to me."

“Help. Somebody help me."

“Speak Spanish to me, tough guy."

Gomez stared. “I don't speak Spanish. I never did."

Tucker took two backward steps. “I know that. No one in your family speaks Spanish."

“Help."

“No one can hear you."

“You're crazy, man. You just can't kidnap somebody. Why are you doing this?"

“Have you ever heard of Malacoda, Johnny?"

Gomez strained at the ropes. “Man, I don't know nobody by that name. You got the wrong guy."

Tucker extended his arms toward the ceiling and growled.

“God, somebody help me."

“Malacoda is a demon from hell in a book by Dante called The Inferno. Your convict ass wouldn't know about stuff like that.” Tucker lunged and grabbed Gomez by the chin, squeezing until the man's lips puckered and turned purple. “He boils people, like you did to little Charles.” He spat on Gomez, then released his chin and stepped back.

Gomez worked his jaw from side to side as drool trickled down his chin.

“Oh, man, it was an accident. I didn't mean to hurt him."

“I saw the story in the newspapers a few years ago. Did it make you feel like a big man to torture an eighteen-month-old baby?"

“Man, who the hell are you?"

Tucker stepped forward again and gripped Gomez by the throat. Gomez tried rising, his face beet purple, eyes bulging.

“Answer my question, asshole. Did it make you feel like a big man?"

Gomez shook his head from side to side and Tucker released him. Gomez gagged once, then stared up at the swinging light.

“Then what did you feel like?"

Gomez swallowed hard. “Please, you don't understand."

“Understand what?

“I was shooting up, man. I couldn't work. All he did was cry and scream. Hell, it wasn't even my kid."

“So you punched the baby until all his ribs were broken.” Tucker reached into his jean pocket and removed a pair of thin, white rubber gloves. He put the gloves on, stretching the fingers for a tight fit. “Then when little Charles cried because his bones were broken, you put duct tape across his mouth before you filled the tub with hot water and scalded him to death."

Gomez didn't answer. Probably, the last thing he remembered was stepping outside the bar. Most people did the same things daily. Gomez had been easy to find. The bastard would now plead his case. Scumbags always had excuses for crimes.

Tucker glanced at the stove. Scalding bubbles raged against the glass. Time to begin.

“No one stands up for children. Scum like you torture and kill them, then after a few years in the joint you're back on the street. Life is hard enough without being tortured before you can grow enough to defend yourself. I am the avenger of all those children. To you, I'm Malacoda, and I'm going to boil you alive.”

“Man, please, you can't do that ... Jesus, what are you talking about?"

“There are fifty-six bodies in the woods behind this cabin. You are number fifty-seven."

Gomez vomited bile down his chest. Tucker walked to the stove and opened the oven door. He removed duct tape, a metal soup ladle, a rubber mallet, pliers, and an eight-inch, stainless steel knife. He placed these items on the floor near Gomez. Then, he taped the scumbag's mouth shut.

Gomez made a mewling noise, and a sudden sulfur, rotten egg stink made Tucker angry. Dropping the duct tape, he slapped Gomez.

“You spineless fuck. How many times did that little boy shit when you tortured him?"

Gomez strained at the ropes. Stomach fat quivered when his hips slid sideways.

A tingle raced up Tucker's stomach to his limbs; his internal monster wanted to shred Gomez. Stepping back, Tucker spread his arms and growled until he imagined the cabin shook. The rage subsided and he regained control.

Gomez had stopped squirming but whimpered. Tucker bent and picked up the metal soup ladle, then walked back to the stove. He dipped it in the pot before turning around. The shadows from the swinging light were like silent souls of maimed children.

“This one is for you, baby Charles,” Tucker said. Towering over Gomez, he held the steaming ladle above the man's genitals. “Welcome to hell, Johnny."

Chapter 2

Friday

“So Barbara has been demanding more from your relationship,” Doctor Stahl said. “How does that make you feel?"

Michael Tucker leaned forward in the chair, glancing out the window. He had just come from the Indiana cabin, without stopping at his Cincinnati apartment.

“I don't know. Angry, I guess."

The session had started late because of a long VA staff meeting. Stahl apologized. It had taken a year of therapy before Tucker trusted Stahl enough to discuss war issues.

“You look exhausted today,” Stahl said.

Leaves rustled the black iron fence surrounding the building as rain hammered the street. The air conditioner hummed. A horn blew and brakes squealed. Tucker turned from the window and crushed his cigarette in a coffee cup. Smoking was forbidden in any Veterans Administration hospital, but Doctor Stahl waived the rule.

“I thought you would be ready to give up on me by now. Like all the other doctors."

“I'm not a quitter."

“I need to come and talk. It helps."

Tucker had been in some form of therapy since his 1969 Marine Corps discharge for severecombat fatigue . Rated a psychiatric war casualty, the government paid him 2200 dollars a month. Since 1969, he had held two jobs, both less than a week. He couldn't take orders anymore. Loud noises made him hit the ground. He was a bomb ready to explode. There was no cure.

He had been seeing Martin Stahl for five years, often twice a week. Previous doctors had labeled him incurable. Stahl, an ex-Marine who had served a few years before Vietnam, was a half-Seminole Indian with shoulder length gray hair. He had been the first VA therapist Tucker encountered who seemed concerned about Vietnam veterans. A psychologist, Stahl could not write prescriptions, so Tucker did not take antidepressants to make him a drooling junkie.

Several psychiatrists had ordered medication, but Tucker refused to take the pills, which caused constipation and stomach pain. He couldn't drink alcohol because the monster would rise with a killing urge. Instead, he lived a disciplined life, lifting weights to control internal horrors. Even now, at age 56, he had thick, defined muscles and an athlete's speed.

Stahl claimed Vietnam had implanted reactions into combat veterans that became permanent personality traits. Drugs would suppress the reactions, not create a cure.

“Why do you think Barbara's demands make you angry?"

“Because I can't feel what she feels for me."

“What is that?"

“Love, I guess. I don't know."

“That bothers you, not being able to feel emotional attachment to anyone."

“I don't think about it."

“But do you sometimes?"

“Yes.” Tucker lit a cigarette. His skin felt slimy. These sessions brought out things he tried to forget. “I've seen couples of every shape and size walking hand in hand and I could tell they were in love. They looked happy. This makes me think there is someone for everyone, except me. I feel alone in the world."

“Do you think maybe there is someone for you?"

“No. I've accepted it."

“Then what do you feel for Barbara?"

“I don't know. Holding her at night helps me sleep, and as long as I make love to her, everything is fine. I guess we use each other."

“Is that so bad, Michael?"

Tucker crushed his cigarette in the old coffee cup. “I should quit smoking. I take three drags and put them out. I don't know if my relationship with her is bad. You tell me."

“I think that maybe you do love her."

Tucker shrugged, biting his lip. He shifted in the chair and sipped the coffee he balanced between his legs. He did not want to look Stahl directly in the eyes, finding talking easier if he stared at some imaginary point on the wall.

“I don't know what love is. I can't get close to anyone."

“You've never been in love? Even in high school or before the war?"

“I had girlfriends. Maybe it was love back then. When I think about high school, it's like remembering another person's life. I broke up with the girl I was going with the day before I joined the Marine Corps. I guess something inside me knew where I was going."

“What something? Was it a voice or just a premonition?"

Tucker felt his stomach knot and a cold sweat on his forehead. “I don't know. Just something. Anyway, I was lucky. I saw men get Dear John letters and lose it. I didn't have to worry about that. After I was in Nam for a few months, it seemed like I had always been there. Back home was a dream."

“What about your family?"

“My father was an asshole. You know I hated him."

“What about your mother and sister?"

“They didn't exist anymore. I thought I would die in Nam."

Doctor Stahl shifted in his chair. “Michael, how did you react when your mother died? Did you cry?"

Tucker quickly looked at Stahl and back at the wall. “You know I didn't."

“But you did love her."

“I must not have or I would have cried."

“That's not true. Many combat veterans have trouble showing emotion over the death of a close relative. You had to numb yourself during combat to deal with losing friends. You're protecting yourself."

“But she was my mother, and I didn't feel anything. I wanted to cry."

“Then why didn't you?"

“I guess I accept death in a different way than most people. We've gone over this so many times. I just don't know."

“Well, not crying at your mother's funeral doesn't make you a bad person."

Tucker squirmed, thinking about the monster and the cabin. He glanced over his shoulder at the wall clock.

“I know it's time to go,” Stahl said. “I just want to ask you one more thing. What do you want out of life?"

Tucker looked past the doctor at the wall. “Peace. I want to be happy and to sleep without a gun or without waking up every two hours.” He said it without hope. “I'm tired of fighting myself."

“You want to stop the war inside."

Tucker nodded and finished his cold coffee. Outside, the rain and wind whipped the trees. He stood up. “I would like that."

Stahl walked him to the door. “I'll see you a week from Monday. Call if you need me before then."

“I will."

But he knew he wouldn't.

Chapter 3

Tucker hated the city sweltering beneath the constant gray smog mist. By noon, after the Doctor Stahl session, he returned to his Hanfield Street third floor apartment in a red brick row of buildings built flush against the sidewalk. Called Northside, the Cincinnati neighborhood was a maze of alleys, tenements, filth, and garbage, ruled by youth gangs and crime.

The steel doorplate displayed new scratch marks from a failed attempt with a pry bar. He heard a drunken male cursing in the apartment below. Glass broke and a female yelled back. The couple had moved in two weeks ago, after the previous tenant, an old man with lung cancer, had been found dead in the street. The first floor apartment had been vacant for four weeks, after being trashed during a police drug raid.

Tucker placed the morning newspaper under his arm to unlock the door. As the door swung outward, he eased the stainless .357 magnum from his waist and went from room to room checking the perimeter. The fire escape stopped at the second floor, making forced entry up the side of the building almost impossible. Some idiot could gain entry from the roof by climbing down a rope. Tucker considered every possibility. He checked the closets and the tub behind the shower curtain.

In the kitchen, he turned on the window air conditioner after turning off the frozen bedroom window unit that had run all night. This kept the apartment lukewarm during the summer. When one unit froze, he switched to the other.

With the perimeter secure, he put the gun and the paper on the kitchen table and heated coffee water in the microwave. He removed his black shirt before sitting to read the newspaper.

He thought about Gomez. Johnny had lived alone so it would be a few weeks before the landlord missed the rent. Two months ago, he read a newspaper article about scumbag number 56. Marie Robertson smothered her baby, but had gone free on a technicality. The article listed her as a missing person. It also mentioned a possible pattern of missing child abusers dating back to 1993. Someone had become suspicious. It didn't matter; the monster didn't make mistakes.

The killings began in March of 1993, eight months after his mother died, and three months after his drunken father burned to death while smoking in bed. One night, Tucker had cried while watching a news report about a tortured baby. He often felt like a child with an ancient mind. He needed a reason to live. Maybe the tears were a delayed reaction to his mother's death. He didn't know, but suddenly, mangled children represented the innocence he had lost during combat. No one avenged child victims.

Then, the monster inside growled for the first time since Vietnam and began murdering the murderers.

* * * *

Cool air chilled his back, making the muscles hard and dry. Staring at the newspaper without seeing it, his head drooped forward, but the phone rang and he answered the call.

It was Billy Samuels, another Northside disabled Vietnam veteran. A helicopter crewman, Billy had been blinded and paralyzed after a 1970 crash. Doctors claimed he would never walk again. Two months later, vision returned in his right eye.

After six months, he moved his legs. They retired him from active duty three months later, limping on his own. He returned home with an artificial left eye and the sensation of needles in his left leg. Tucker admired Billy's fight against such odds, counting him as his one true friend.

“What's going on, Billy?"

“You sound tired. Where you been all night?"

“Uh, I stayed with Barbara."

“You're gonna end up getting married."

“She doesn't want to get married."

“Yeah, that's why half my disability went to child support all those years. You're going down to the stadium with me, right? I've got that extra ticket."

“Damn, I forgot all about it,” Tucker said. “I don't know."

“Come on, I feel lucky. Maybe we can win some money. They're chopping Mitchell, that asshole who wiped out his whole family a few years back."

“Yeah, I remember."

“He's the one when they asked him why he killed everybody in the house he said because a demon told him to do it."

I can relate to that, Tucker thought. “How many are they doing tonight?"

“Seven, I think. This chop and roll stuff is really catching on, man."

“Well, I'm not too crazy about being in a stadium with all those drunks."

“Me, neither, but we have good seats. Everything will be cool. It's awesome when you see it live. You can't get the feel of it by watching television and betting through the bookie."

“I don't know if I want to see somebody getting their head chopped off."

“Come on, it's not like they don't deserve it."

“Yeah,” Tucker said. “A lot of people do."

“I hear that. I'll pick you up about six. We'll drink a few beers and make some money. Those heads are gonna roll down that ramp and stop on our numbers."

“Okay, I'll go."

“And I know you crazy-ass marines can't take a shit without a gun, but we have to go through metal detectors."

“I'll leave it in the car."

“Yeah, and maybe we'll meet some women."

“Sure,” Tucker said. “And maybe catch some disease."

“You worry too much, my man."

“I have enough trouble with Barbara."

“That's real sick. You're never too old for that."

“Right."

“And don't worry about it because you saw worse shit in Nam."

“See you at six, Billy."

Naked and on his back in bed, Tucker stared at the ceiling, the gun next to him on the nightstand between the clock and a lamp. His vision went cloudy. His eyes closed, and he dreamed.

* * * *

His first life memory had been the dark, like the Nam night jungle. He lacked human identity, but had intelligence, or possible instinct, and wondered why he floated in a black void. He heard no sound; had no concept of time. One second or years, it could be the same, as if he had blinked into existence.

He saw sudden light, then colors, and he stared at a child sitting on a red floor. The boy wore blue pants, a white shirt, and had sparse yellow hair. His shoulders twitched, moving something between his legs.

Tucker remembered the way he focused on the back of the child's skull: with cold intent, void of morality, or knowledge this was a baby. The child jerked and went stiff, and turned surprised blue eyes his way, as if seeing something beyond understanding.

Tucker remembered concentrating on those eyes. He rode a yellow lightning bolt, or had become the lightning bolt, into those blue eyes, which swelled until everything else faded.

The dark came again, briefly, and when light returned, he had become the child moving a tiny green truck back and forth on the red floor. He heard noise for the first time, and he saw orange shrimp boiling in a glass pot. The water hissed and gurgled. He did not know about shrimp. Yet, he did know. He had entered the world from a void.

Since the child had been sitting in the kitchen of a third floor apartment, Tucker figured he must have been floating outside the window. Maybe he was a demon. No one had ever told him they remembered entering their body.

He finally told his mother about the memory, but she seemed shocked. Good Catholics didn't talk about such things, she had said. He was too young to understand what being a Catholic meant, but her reaction was bad. He never mentioned it again.

He didn't tell his father. His father stayed out at night. He worked and drank whiskey and scraped Tucker's face across his whiskers before leaving again.

He smelled of Old Spice, grease, and alcohol, and he sneezed and coughed every morning. If at home, he was drunk or sleeping or yelling or smacking Tucker's mother. He knew his father as an angry, nasty animal. One who considered his family a burden; a man who beat him for getting in his way.

They lived on the third floor of a coffee factory. During the day, the factory made grinding noises and smelled of fresh ground coffee, but at night it became a creaking tomb of scurrying rats.

A door across from the apartment led to a warehouse stacked with cardboard boxes and old machinery. His father often dragged him to the far corner of the warehouse near dusk, telling him that after dark monsters sprang from the walls to eat children. Tucker would watch his father leave and close the door. He waited for the dark, curled into a ball, expecting monsters.

His mother always came just in time. He would run to her screaming. Many times, when they had returned to the apartment, his angry father made arm motions like a monster. He would curse and yell, telling Tucker that someday his mother wouldn't be around and the warehouse monsters would eat him.

His mother sometimes threw glasses and silverware. Often, she would just cry. No matter what she did, she usually ended up with a black eye before his father went drinking for the night.

Tucker didn't cry at his father's funeral. Neither did his sister. She had hated the old man. All he could think about his father waswhat a wasted life . His father had been right about the monsters. Tucker had one inside trying to devour him...

The air conditioner fan hummed, changing pitch. Tucker jumped up, rubbing his eyes. Doors slammed downstairs. Cars shifted gears and sirens wailed far away. Occasionally, a horn blew, but weekends in the city remained quiet during the day. Skin cancer had become epidemic. Most people stayed in the shade. Public pools were closed, and sporting events were played at night, when the city became a jungle.

Homo sapiens nocturnes, he thought. We are becoming night creatures. Darwin's theory of adaptive radiation, where a species mutated over several hundred generations to survive environment changes, seemed to be happening within a few years. The quality of life and basic sexual pleasure had regressed quickly.

Since the federal quarantine of AIDS patients in January of 2004, camps had been built on county land in and out of the city. A mass incarceration of HIV positive citizens quickly followed, their faces permanently dyed red from the neck up for quick identification.

There had been mass escapes from the camps, and attacks by what came to be known asRed Gangs . The Red Gangs, named for the red marking dye, robbed, raped, and infected other people. Red Gang members were under a police death warrant and shot on sight. It was legal for private citizens to kill Red Gang members, and every lunatic with a gun prowled the streets when news of a camp escape went public.

Green-1, a new venereal virus strain believed to be mutated herpes, caused gangrene and rotted genitals within three months. Incurable, this disease quickly spread to the upper groin, resulting in body wall collapse and death from disembowelment. Victims smelled like putrid meat after onset, but the contagious virus had a three-month incubation and could be transmitted before displaying symptoms.

Tucker thought people would avoid sex, but most just didn't care. He was glad he found Barbara. She was clean, safe, and cared for him. Holding her close after sex, he slept without fear. Sometimes, he wanted to squeeze her until they became one body. He wanted to love her, but that emotion stayed behind a wall; a sealed tomb guarded by the monster.

He needed at least one hour of sleep, but his mind raced. Barbara would start a fight because he hadn't called in three days. If he told her about going to the stadium with Billy, she would hang up. She had probably called all last night, and would accuse him of sleeping around. He wondered how she would react if she knew about the Indiana cabin.

He tried thinking about her face and body, hoping to masturbate and fall asleep. It didn't work. Her image seemed fuzzy, and he kept thinking about Gomez. While he was in the city, the cabin seemed a nightmare. While at the cabin, the apartment became a fantasy.

During a VA sponsored period of college ten years earlier, he discovered he needed to sit with his back to the wall, that his teachers were full of shit, and a college degree wouldn't help him. He had also been shocked to learn until the 17th century slaughtering children was accepted. The Romans put unwanted babies outside to be devoured by animals. Nurses known as death angels murdered infants.

Did scumbags follow some past morality? Wasn't he enforcing his moral standards by torturing them? Did the monster only kill for twisted pleasure?

Tucker hated the monster. The narcotic high of capture and torture caused depression after each victim died. He swore he would stop, but scumbags continued maiming children, and the cycle would begin again.

The phone in the kitchen rang three times before he rolled out of bed. On the fifth ring he answered and said hello.

“Hello yourself, you bastard,” Barbara said.

Chapter 4

At 6:15, Billy Samuels opened his second beer as Tucker stepped from the bedroom wearing jeans and a white muscle shirt.

“How do you do you stay in shape like that?” Billy said.

Tucker opened a beer and sat at the table across from Billy. He had finished working out an hour ago.

“It's discipline. The weights are in my bedroom so I feel guilty if I don't lift."

Billy tapped his cigarette against an ashtray. At age 54, soft flesh jiggled beneath his blue muscle shirt. A green wordAirborne was tattooed on his right forearm. His right eye followed the movement of his cigarette while the glass left eye stared straight ahead.

“I gave up on exercise after Nam. Man, you could meet all kinds of women. I don't understand you."

Tucker lit a cigarette, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “I don't want to end up in some Red Gang."

“It could be worse,” Billy said. “You could be back in Nam or they could be chopping your head off tonight. I could be down there betting on how far your head is gonna roll."

“No way.” Tucker glanced into the bedroom. His secret life flirted with disaster. If caught, his head would roll.

“So Barbara gave you some shit on the phone?"

Tucker flicked ashes. A police siren wailed several blocks away. “Yeah. She's mad because I'm going with you tonight."

Billy finished a beer and opened his third can. Tucker knew his habits. Billy kept three beers in front of him to save a trip to the refrigerator.

“You stayed with her last night, didn't you?"

“Yeah.” Tucker looked away and took a long drink, imagining he still heard Gomez scream.

Billy crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “Then she doesn't have nothing to complain about. Does she think I'm a bad influence or something?"

“She wants me there every night."

“Put a big ring in your nose."

Tucker inhaled. Smoke stung his throat and the beer tasted bitter. “It's not that. Friday night is important to her. She must have been stood up a lot when she was younger. She wanted to talk to me about our relationship."

Billy raised his good eye. “You can talk about your relationship on the phone. She just wants to make sure you don't mess with some other woman."

“I can't blame her."

“Sure, some night you'll show up and five guys will be running a train on her. Yeah, after all the shit she gives you."

Tucker downed his beer. “I have to take a leak."

“Get some more beer out of the refrigerator on the way back."

* * * *

In the hot bathroom, sweat from his hairline tickled his face. He glanced at the gray smoked-glass window over the toilet. The sun formed diamond shapes on the glass. He longed for the innocence he had lost. The innocence that could make wonderful shapes out of something simple like sun reflecting through glass.

When Tucker returned to the kitchen, they popped two beers and Billy smiled.

“Somebody downstairs was fighting. He was mother-fuckering all over the place."

“Make you feel at home?"

“Yeah. Say, how come Barbara never comes here?"

“She's afraid to by herself. What the hell is wrong with you? This neighborhood isn't on any tour guide maps."

“It ain't no worse than Danang in sixty-nine."

“I don't know, Billy. I never made it to Danang in sixty-eight. There was still a war going on."

Billy sat up straight and lit a cigarette. “Oh, here we go with the poor Marine shit. Like you jarheads won the war all by yourself and the Army was on vacation."

“You made it to Danang, didn't you?"

Billy grinned. “Screw you."

Tucker smiled, folding his hands on the table as he watched his friend blow a smoke ring. “Do you ever miss the war, Billy?"

“Yeah, I miss someone trying to kill me."

“I'm serious. Do you ever feel like part of you wants to go back?"

Billy crushed the cigarette he had just lit. “Yeah, I do.” He sipped beer and stared at the table. “Sometimes I wish I would have died there. Nobody cares about us. My leg feels asleep most of the time and this glass eye drives me nuts. This ain't our world, man. We belong in the old world. This shit is crazy."

“I feel the same way,” Tucker said.

“And that's why I take my pills and get fucked up on beer. I can stay in a good mood and I don't have to deal with it. That's why they have executions, for guys like you and me. So we can act like we're chopping heads off those idiots.” Billy pointed a finger. “They're smart."

“Who?"

Billy waved his beer can. “The cops, man. And all those rich pricks running the state. They're losing control and they figure this will help them get it back."

“Like the Roman Empire, huh? Keep the peasants happy so they don't revolt."

“Did you ever notice how many cops there are now?” Billy said. “I'll bet there's a cop for every three people. Soon, there gonna be chopping heads off for people just being stupid. They're smart."

“They're not that smart. It's just that some criminals are dumb."

“Right.” Billy downed his beer and stood up. “Look, I'm sorry I started bitching."

“No problem. We're brothers."

Billy smiled and ran his fingers through his gray hair. “Then let's get this show on the road, partner. The night is young."

“And heads are going to roll,” Tucker said.

“You saw that on a commercial."

Television advertisements for public executions showed a young couple collecting money from a betting window. The slogan wasthe night is young and heads are going to roll .

“That's us,” Tucker said. “The night is young and we haven't puked or caught an infectious disease yet."

Billy stood by the door. “If we try real hard we can do both. Isn't life wonderful?"

Chapter 5

Public executions, which began in March of 2005, were a matter of economics. The state of Ohio needed revenue, and each death row prisoner cost $40,000 a year to maintain. Cuts in federal funding hit the state hard. A failing lottery and school system, and a rising crime rate helped to create the radical Chop/Roll Bill. Despite three new prisons and ten private jails, penal system funding could not be offset by higher taxes or program cuts.

The federal government could no longer afford to finance the AIDS camps or make its own payroll. With many states favoring secession, the bankrupt government surrendered more power. Ohio immediately eliminated lengthy appeals for prisoners convicted of capital crimes, forcing rapid execution of death warrants.

By March of 2005, 372 men and 40 women awaited execution in Ohio. The death house at Mansfield held 150. The women's facility at Marysville 40, and Paddock, a former Cincinnati mental hospital converted into a maximum-security prison, held 222 condemned men.

On March 12, 412 names were placed in a drum and one name was drawn on the weekly Saturday lottery show. The name selected was Robert Moran, a convicted murderer, on death row for five years. On Saturday, March 19, at 9:13 P.M., Robert Moran became the first man to have his head severed by an ax at the new stadium in Cincinnati, Ohio.

By May, several hundred wagering parlors, known asheadshops , took public execution bets. An interstate agreement had been signed with 12 horse tracks and 40 casinos to offer execution wagering via closed-circuit satellite television. Tentative agreements had been reached with five states to supply condemned prisoners for execution in Ohio if a shortage should occur. Several foreign markets had bid for television rights.

The public executions combined advertising, theatrics, and a pari-mutuel wagering system. Bettors placed wagers on how far the severed head would roll across a playing field.

A steel chopping block had been constructed on a raised platform. A 30-ft. long, stainless steel ramp extended down one side to a green artificial surface marked with white chalk lines. The bottom of the ramp was 12 inches above the artificial field. The ramp was 3 ft. wide, and looked like a park slide, with the sides of the ramp curving in to keep the head from bouncing off. A 50-degree tilt maintained velocity and roll.

Research had shown the rolling head would be launched at least 6 ft. beyond the end of the ramp before slamming the turf. White chalk lines had been painted on the grass in 2-ft. intervals, 6 ft. beyond the end of the ramp. The chalk lines were numbered 1-2, 3-4, 5-6, on up to 29-30. Bettors could pick the numbered combination where they thought the severed head would stop.

Any distance beyond 30 ft. was considered thefield , as was the 6-ft. interval before the chalk lines began. A bettor could also wager on the field, and won the bet if the head stopped anywhere before or after the numbered combinations.

In a pari-mutuel wagering system, the odds are fixed by the bettors according to how much money is wagered on each combination. The field was always a long shot of at least 100 to 1, because the head rarely stopped beyond or before the white chalk lines. Only once, during the execution of an obese child killer named Max Gilligan, did the head hit the playing surface to stop short of the chalk lines.

The favorite betting combination seemed to be the 9-10 ft. mark. This combination was normally even money or below. For every $2.00 bet on an even money favorite the bettor would receive a $4.00 return. The night of the Gilligan execution the odds on the field were 160 to 1. Bettors who had wagered the field received $322.00 for each $2.00 wager.

The state took no interest in the betting or how far the head rolled. The state took 25% of the total money wagered before the execution. The odds were set after this deduction, based on the remaining 75% returned to the bettors. The admission price, programs, souvenirs, food, alcohol, and parking also figured in the revenue. On interstate wagering, the state took 18% of the money wagered and the televising track or casino received 7%.

There were six executioners, calledhead rollers . Big men chosen for their muscularity and psychological profile from an unknown source classified as top-secret by the state. Each executioner wore a black hood, tight black pants, boots with thick treads, and black leather gloves coated with fine grain silica for a no-slip grip.

They worked bare chested, muscles glistening with oil. The stainless steel ax blade was shaped like a half moon to slice across at an angle to fit the curved wedge of the chopping block. The ax shaft was coated with black rubber and fine grain silica.

An executioner received $600 for each completed death warrant. Executioners became media figures featured in muscle magazines and on television talk shows. Wearing hoods to remain mystery men, they represented dark sexual fantasy for some people, while others called them killers or heroes. They were constantly in the news, and Ohio promoted such coverage, wanting the executions to become as American as apple pie.

The condemned also became media figures. Film profiles of each death warrant prisoner were broadcast after the names were selected by lottery. If the prisoner was a special case, like Erwin Mitchell, who slaughtered his wife and nine children, the profile could last an hour.

The graphic films were slanted to cause shock, anger, and disgust, so the betting public wanted to see heads roll. One executed death warrant a week had escalated to seven each Saturday by June, with plans to add Sundays. Winter executions would be carried out in the enclosed Coliseum next to the stadium. The Coliseum only held 20,000 people, but the state hoped to make up the difference in betting parlors.

By June of 2005, chopping off heads had become big business, and business had never been better.

Chapter 6

Erwin Mitchell was to be the seventh and final execution because butchering his wife and nine children had made him the headliner. Tucker noticed how the six previous executions were preference rated with the most shocking crimes chopped last.

The first two had been rapists. The third and fourth prisoners committed murder during an armed robbery. The fifth had been a paid hit man, and the sixth had killed his child for insurance money. Mitchell would be the explosive climax, offering losing bettors a chance to get even. By the seventh execution, the mob became drunken, self-righteous, screaming animals.

Blood by the gallon had spurted down the ramp and across the numbered combinations on the field. Tucker had been swept along in the frenzy, fascinated more by the savage crowd than by the executions. The sweet blood scent reminded him of the cabin. The one difference between his executions and the state executions was the law. The whole scenario was just as brutal.

“Hey,” Billy said, tugging at his arm. “You okay?"

“Yeah, why?"

“You looked like you were in the ozone."

“I'm fine,” Tucker said. He sipped bitter, flat beer. Coming here had been a bad idea. Paranoid in crowds, he hated people behind him. No matter how much Billy begged he would not come back again.

He couldn't blame Billy for his own reaction. Had this been a baseball game, Billy would have had great tickets, at field level behind the dugout. Now, the best seats were on the playing field, circling the gap at center field near the ramp and chopping platform. A 50-ft. wide, waist high chain-link fence surrounded this cleared area.

Another fenced area 20 ft. wide extended from the stairs leading up to the chopping block and across the field to a tunnel where prisoners emerged from cells below the public entrance. Inside this fence, police and security personnel waited with clubs and pistols to stop attacks on the valuable prisoners.

Tucker saw fights in the crowd. Paper and cups and food rained from the cheap upper level seats. The police worked the stands, clubs thumping flesh, dragging rowdy drunks from seats. The uproar, like a phonograph needle across a record, made conversation difficult.

The scoreboard flashed odds for the final execution, and a separate screen profiled a computer-generated slaughter of Erwin Mitchell's family.Roll, Roll flashed on the scoreboard. The crowd chanted the words and stomped their feet. Between the lights, the heat, and the draft beer, Tucker believed the blood lust had become a living force. The crowd acted like cattle thrashing inside a stall.

He lost two wagers during the six executions, betting just to satisfy Billy. Despite the long window lines, Billy managed to bet on all six executions, hitting the third at 10 to 1 when the head stopped on the 19-20 foot marker. He lost $100 between other bad bets and the cost of beer.

“You need to bet this last one, Tuck. This is our chance to get even."

Tucker started to answer, but the crowd chantedRoll, Roll again. Two sections to the left, a shirtless man was pushed or fell from his seat above a tunnel opening leading to the betting windows. A crowd formed at the tunnel entrance. A blonde turned away, burying her head against a man's shoulder. People in the row where he had been sitting leaned over the railing, and a fat woman with dark hair fainted back into her seat. The chanting trailed off again.

“Hell, Billy, more people get buffed in the crowd than they do on the chopping block."

“No shit, man. These people are idiots. The last time I went up to bet I couldn't get into the bathroom because of a big fight. They're crazy."

A hot dog fragment struck a man in the row below, and he jumped up to face the seats above. “Motherfuckers,” he yelled. “Come down here and do that."

Several people above shouted for him to sit down.

“Go to hell,” the man said.

More food zipped down, and Tucker felt trapped.

“Let's go up and bet, Billy. This is getting out of hand and I have to take a leak."

The chant began again as they moved into a tunnel leading to the betting windows, concession stands, and bathrooms. Lines at each window overlapped, jamming the passage so those not placing bets had to cut through. Whining computers spit tickets. Tucker smelled sweat, hot dogs, and stale beer. His shoes made cracking sounds, the bottoms sticky from spilled soft drinks.

In front of them, a thin man with greasy hair and long sideburns jerked a crying child's arm.

“Shut up, damn ya,” the man yelled. He smacked the child hard across the face and the little boy screamed.

“That bastard,” Tucker said.

“Let it go,” Billy said, grabbing his arm.

The man and the child disappeared into the crowd.

“Go to the bathroom,” Billy said. “I'll bet for us and get some beer and meet you back at the seats."

“Yeah, right."

“Let it go, man. We can't straighten out the world."

“See you back at the seats."

Tucker dodged through the crowd, passing several betting windows and concession stands before finding the wordMEN painted in red on the gray wall.

The monster wanted out. It could go crazy here. He thought he felt it rise, flexing corded muscles. It had a lined, bronze face, fangs dripping saliva, eyes of cold blue fire, and spikes growing from the skull. It was in his stomach, slicing at the muscle, and once an opening had been ripped, it would burst out, leaving him an empty shell.

He could not let it out.

In the bathroom, where the floor was soaked with water and piss, the lines at the wall urinals were five deep. The stalls were occupied. He saw chunky vomit beneath one of the doors. A few drunks without shirts shouted to each other, and they laughed when a wet, farting noise came from a closed stall.

When Tucker stood in line to use a wall urinal, he noticed two black men enter and wait by the entrance. They began extorting money. Perhaps in their middle twenties, they had large, flat noses, big lips, and short hair. The shorter one had a potbelly. His friend, doing most of the talking, was tall and muscular and a half-dollar sized gold earring dangled from his right ear.

Several men surrendered change or dollar bills. The shouting drunks mumbled something as they passed. The shorter black man punched one of them in the stomach. His two partners grabbed him as he doubled over.

“We'll be back,” one of them said.

Tucker, taking his turn at the urinal, hoped they would leave before he finished. The room went quiet, except for someone dry heaving in a stall. When another man left, Tucker heard demands for money. The men reminded him of child molesters, preying on the weak. Pulling up his zipper, he turned to leave. A slender Asian man, wearing thick glasses and plaid shorts, had stopped at the entrance.

“Give me a dollar,” the muscular black said.

“I don't have any money,” the man answered, trying to walk away, but the shorter one grabbed him by the shirt and took his glasses.

“Give us some money. Ain't nobody in here gonna help you."

Tucker wanted to ignore them, but the monster twitched, as if climbing the inside of his washboard stomach.

“Give him his glasses back, asshole,” Tucker said, startled by his own voice, now deep and raspy. “And quit asking people for money."

The black men balked, their dark eyes wide in surprise. They were good, Tucker had to admit. Their shock quickly turned to aggression. They would fight, but like most people, expected to argue first.

“What you gonna do about it, old man?” the muscular black said, his gold earring jiggling. “Check him out, Darnell. He thinks he's bad."

Tucker failed to understand the logic behind men with pierced ears and earrings. This scumbag carried his weak spot on his right ear. Moving fast, Tucker jammed his left index finger through the gold earring loop. He pulled forward and down. The lobe stretched, forcing the head to follow.

“Hey, let go, motherfucker. Darnell, get him off me."

Tucker pulled him toward the stalls. Men in line moved aside. The black man tried swinging upward, but Tucker dodged, keeping the pressure steady, so the head remained tilted down.

By the entrance, Darnell released his victim. The slender man grabbed his glasses and ran.

“Get him off me, Darnell."

The drunks now returned with two more friends.

“There's the son of a bitch that hit me."

Darnell edged along the wall toward the exit. Tucker saw a man kick out. Darnell blocked with his hands, and was chased toward the exit.

“Let me go, you old bastard."

“Your partner is gone,” Tucker said, applying downward pressure.

“Let me go."

A crowd formed. Many who had finished at the urinals stayed to watch. Others took a long time washing their hands. One man entered with a small child, then picked him up and left.

“What's your name?” Tucker said.

“Fuck you."

Tucker pulled on the earring until the man's head bent down by his knees.

“What's your name?"

“James.” The man breathed hard, his face sweaty as he bit his lip.

“Kill him,” somebody yelled.

Tucker glanced at the crowd as he pulled harder. James screamed. He couldn't tell who had yelled. People came and went, their stares blank.

“You shouldn't be in here robbing people."

“We wasn't robbing nobody, motherfucker. I'm gonna kill you."

Tucker pulled upwards until he faced brown-yellow eyes. “You shouldn't threaten people.” He ripped the earring out. It hit the floor, pinging.

James yelped and grabbed his right ear with both hands. Tucker hit him twice in the nose, knocking him back into a stall door, which flew open. James lost his balance and fell inside. His upper back slammed the porcelain toilet. Blood flowed from his ear and nose. Grunting, he tried to rise. Tucker kicked him in the chest and James gasped, collapsing.

“You shouldn't mess with people you don't know anything about,” Tucker said. He grabbed the man by his short hair, tilted his face up, and punched. He seemed to be outside himself watching as the monster used his fists.

Finally, he stopped. The man's eyebrows and both lips were split and bloody. He had two knots on his cheeks and one on the forehead. Pink bubbles popped from his nostrils with each breath.

Tucker backed out of the stall wearing a blood splattered muscle shirt. The spectators stared as if at a dangerous animal. He walked to a sink and washed his hands, avoiding the mirror.

When he raised up, he saw monster eyes, wild and evil blue, his face shiny and blood flecked. He quickly scrubbed his face with cold water and left the bathroom. He removed the shirt, stuffed it into his back pocket, and disappeared into the crowd.

The monster was in control.

Chapter 7

Billy Samuels shifted in his seat, leaning close to Tucker's ear. “Don't worry about it. The cops won't do nothing, especially if that dude was robbing people. They have enough trouble with this mob."

Tucker nodded and sipped beer. Sweat trickled down his upper body as he leaned forward to keep his back from sticking to the seat. He smacked a fly from his shoulder and checked his hands for the third time making sure he didn't have any cuts. James could have been HIV infected.

Billy smiled. “You doing okay?"

“I'll make it."

Blaring trumpets announced the beginning of Erwin Mitchell's execution.Roll, Roll appeared in block letters on the giant television, and the crowd rose chanting. Even Billy stood; his fists clenched and arms moving up and down.

Tucker glanced at the ticket Billy had purchased for him. He had a ten-dollar wager that Mitchell's head would stop rolling at the 12-13 foot mark. The odds board showed that combination at 5 to 1.

After the chanting echoed away and most people sat down, the tunnel door at the end of the fenced area slid open. The hooded executioner stepped out, flexing muscles and waving an ax in circles over his head. The television flashed the name Ajax, and the mob repeated it. Tucker recalled that name from a college literature class. Ajax had been a Greek warrior at the battle of Troy.

“He's the one who does Ajax cleanser commercials,” Billy yelled.

Tucker nodded. He remembered a hooded executioner scrubbing bathroom sinks. So much for trying to relate this shit to college, he thought.

As Ajax flexed toward the chopping platform, bras and underwear marked his path. He snagged several on the ax to wave like flags. Reaching a position next to the chopping block, he spread his arms, holding the ax high in his right hand as he turned in circles. The stadium lights dimmed and a spotlight formed a huge oval on the tunnel entrance.

The door slid open.

Mitchell staggered forward, hands cuffed from behind and in leg shackles, being pushed by two guards carrying short whips and wearing white rubber gloves up to their elbows. His shiny bald head tilted down and away from the spotlight. Naked except for a filthy gray jockstrap, his fish white belly sagged and jiggled. His breasts drooped and his legs were two knobby sticks.

The guards flicked the whips. Mitchell recoiled each time the leather stung his welted back and butt cheeks. The mob surged against the fence while other guards pushed them back.

Mitchell fell and was picked up. On the stadium screen, a camera zoomed on Mitchell's face. His nostrils dripped blood. A fly landed on his forehead and took off. His dark brown eyes were fixed at some distant point.

Tucker figured they had drugged him. Crowd debris rained upon the ramp. Behind Tucker, people yelled,kill the bastard . Their hate energy became an electric hiss, focused toward the man who had slaughtered his family.

Billy smiled and shook his head. “It's unreal, huh?"

“I'd hate to be that guy,” Tucker said.

Mitchell fell again and the guards jerked him up by the jockstrap. What looked like a rock struck Mitchell's left cheek. His blood spurted as the fence guards swung their clubs into the crowd. TheRoll, Roll chant began.

After Mitchell reached the chopping platform and had been dragged up the stairs, he waited slump-shouldered, staring at his feet. Several times, he looked up at the lights and squinted.

SILENCEflashed across the computer screen, and the crowd responded until the noise level dropped. This took several minutes, and Tucker was surprised when the stadium went quiet.

“What's going on, Billy?"

“They always ask a headliner if he wants to say anything."

A voice echoed through the public address system.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls.” The voice reminded Tucker of a circus ringmaster. “The final execution of the evening will be carried out by order of the governor."

The announcer described Mitchell's crime as his family was slaughtered on television again. Sixty thousand people stared at the fat, bleeding murderer.

“Erwin Mitchell, you have been found guilty of the capital crime of murder. Do you have any last words?"

Mitchell stared at his feet. A guard prodded him. The executioner waited, the ax over his right shoulder, both hands gripping the shaft.

“Do you have any last words?” the announcer said again.

The voice echoed off the steel girders in the upper levels. Tucker remembered reading in the newspaper that many headliners cried and swore innocence, as if begging would bring a last minute reprieve. Some cursed the crowd and God. A few recited poems. One had growled, managed to snap the jockstrap elastic, and smiled as he pissed toward the crowd.

Mitchell raised his eyes to the lights as one of the guards held a microphone in front of his mouth.

Mitchell spoke in a deep baritone voice like a stage actor reciting Shakespeare. “The monkey wrapped his tail around the flagpole to see his asshole.” His head drooped as the words echoed away.

The crowd mumbled. Many laughed. Most people looked confused and shook their heads.

“Damn, this guy is loony tunes,” Billy said. “What the hell does that mean?"

Tucker bit his lower lip. “He's drugged to the max. Did you expect some heavy duty statement or something?"

“I don't know, man. This shit gets weirder all the time. They must torture them."

The chantRoll, Roll began, swelling to a foot stomping roar. The guard removed the microphone, and Ajax grabbed the back of Mitchell's neck, forcing him to his knees with his head on the chopping block. A loud buzz over the speakers signaled the betting computers had shut down.

Ajax took his position, his back facing Tucker's side of the stadium. The chopping block was framed by the upside down V formed by his dark spandex legs. His back muscles knotted when he raised the ax. The stainless steel blade reflected the spotlight like the sun in a mirror. The chanting echoed away.

The ax flashed down, followed by a muffled crunch and clanging steel. Sparks flew. Mitchell's head popped forward, bouncing down the ramp. Tucker glimpsed the exposed neck stub. Time froze for that split second; the neck like sliced ham with a bone protruding, and then, thick blood spurts as the body slumped and shivered.

The head tumbled off the ramp, spraying a red mist circle. Those close to the fence cheered or moaned. A ground level camera followed the head as it wobbled, first right and then left, with a loose neck flesh flapping. It stopped face up, leaning slightly to the right, dark eyes wide and milky, staring toward the camera.

The lips moved as if forming words, and this caused some in the crowd to moan in surprise. After a few seconds, the speaking movement stopped.

Tucker reached out with both hands, blocking the image on the screen. The scoreboard flashed the combination 17-18. Mitchell's head would pay 10 to 1, or $22.00 for every $2.00 wager.

“Shit, we lost again,” Billy said. “I had the 14-15 mark. I thought we had it sewed up."

Tucker slowly lowered his hands, shook his head, and blinked several times. He breathed deep and crumbled the wagering ticket, dropping it under his seat. Many people were up and moving toward the exits or the cashing windows. It was over. He could leave. The loudspeakers rambled about the execution card for the next week.

“Are you okay, partner?” Billy said. “You looked like you were freaked out for a few moments."

“That head tried to talk."

“I guess they do that sometime. I was too busy checking my tickets. You sure you're okay?"

“I'm all right. I'm just trying to absorb all this stuff. It's incredible when you think about all the hell that was raised about capital punishment just a few years ago."

“It's a nasty, but no worse than Nam."

Tucker downed his remaining beer. The seats around them were empty. “There isn't much that could be worse than Nam.” He stood. “Let's get out of here."

Outside the stadium, Tucker saw too many police, and worried they might be searching for him. Several cops glanced at him then moved away. Three ambulances pulled from a gate entrance and two more waited with the back doors open.

“Is that how they take out the dead prisoners?"

Paramedics carried two bloody men on stretchers. “I don't know,” Billy said. “There must have been a big fight somewhere."

When they crossed over the pedestrian bridge, traffic on the freeway had stopped. Two police cars and a white ambulance markedContamination Unit had blocked all lanes. A spotlight shined on a body in the speed lane. One leg was off at the hip and a blood smear stretched behind the corpse. The neck and face were dyed red.

“Another Red Gang escapee bites the dust,” Billy said.

“Wonder how he made it this far downtown?” Tucker said.

Two men in white space suits moved forward to retrieve the body.

“How would you like to have that job?” Billy said, while they walked.

“I don't think so."

“I'll bet it pays good."

“Not enough."

“There's a card game tomorrow night. I'm gonna try to get some of this money back I lost. What are you doing?"

“Seeing Barbara."

Billy smiled. “Wear you ear plugs and bring all your guns."

“No, everything is fine. She loves me."

Chapter 8

Saturday

She couldn't stay mad for long...

Tucker picked Barbara up early Saturday morning, and they spent the weekend at the Natural Bridge State Park in Kentucky, three hours south of Cincinnati. Called the Red River Gorge, the park was the western tip of a huge tract named the Daniel Boone National Forest, featuring natural stone arch formations cut by erosion from solid rock to form bridges. Some trails went across the bridge tops and others beneath them.

Walking the trails in the mountainous country, Tucker carried a .38 Special snub nose revolver in his pants pocket. He never went into any wilderness areas without a weapon. Barbara loved the quiet and fresh air. Tucker found the quiet unsettling. In Nam, there had always been booms or pops somewhere. He continually checked the terrain for ambush sites, forever locked into war. He often wondered what it would be like to enjoy a distant treeline or a path for pleasure instead of in defense terms.

From the trails on top of the natural bridges, he could see for miles. Beige, jagged peaks broke the endless green. When viewed from above, the forest green appeared faded, spotted with patches of dark brown; pollution from the cities and fading ozone killed the trees from the tops down.

By August, visitors would have to wear protective clothing and dark glasses or risk skin cancer. Several times, he noticed other hikers on distant peaks. He judged the range, windage, and bullet drop, wondering if he could zap them with a rifle.

That night, they ate dinner in the lodge, surrounded by other couples, some with children. He caught children staring, their eyes wide and innocent. A bald baby in a highchair kept looking at him with huge blue eyes. He smiled and the baby smiled back, putting tiny hands together before turning away as if embarrassed.

The mother and father laughed.

“He likes you,” the mother said.

Tucker smiled and nodded.

“Your baby is so cute,” Barbara said.

The children seemed to recognize their defender. At times, he wished he could have been a father. Barbara didn't want children, and he could never handle the responsibility.

After they returned to their room, Tucker relaxed on the bed while Barbara paged through a magazine. Moments later, she put down the magazine and lit a cigarette.

“You would make a good father,” she said.

Tucker glanced up. “Are you trying to tell me you're pregnant?"

“Not hardly. I was thinking about the way that baby smiled at you."

“Children can see through the bullshit exterior,” Tucker said. “Some people like children and some hate them. They know."

“Well, they like you."

“They know what I am."

Barbara hissed smoke. “Are we on an ego trip here? What are you?"

“No ego trips.” Tucker sat up and stretched. “I'm just a friend."

Barbara touched his chest. “If I smile will you be my friend?"

“I'll be anything you want,” Tucker said, leaning over to kiss her. Sometimes he came so close to telling her. He gently brushed her right nipple. She crushed the cigarette and wrapped her arms around him.

* * * *

They were naked on the hotel room bed, on their backs, staring at the ceiling. Tucker, drained and sleepy, massaged her stomach with his right hand. The cool wet sheets smelled salty.

“I hate you,” Barbara said.

“You cuss at me when you have an orgasm, then you tell me you hate me."

“I hate what you do to me. You make me feel so good and I hate it because I know that you don't love me."

Tucker groaned and sat up, reaching for cigarettes on the bookcase headboard. She ran her fingers along the slick shrapnel scars on his stomach.

“I love you as much as I could love anyone. I just don't know what you want from me."

She continued staring at the ceiling. “I want you to be with me all the time."

“I can't do that."

He lit a cigarette and glanced down at her body. She arched her back as if posing for a centerfold. She had large green eyes, dyed-brown curly hair, and small pouting lips. Her long neck was firm and smooth. The peach-sized, pointy breasts were so sensitive that she trembled if he touched the nipples. She was slim and without scars. In the faint light from the closed blinds, she looked younger than 45.

Tucker knew the man she had been married to for eleven years would make love to her twice a week for thirty seconds. She claimed the guy had cared more about playing baseball. After her divorce, she lived with another man for rent purposes; or so she claimed.

Tucker made her come twice the first time they made love. Now she told him she couldn't get enough of his body. She never really mentioned love except to say she knew he didn't love her. She talked about his muscles and how he made her feel in bed. She never told him she loved him.

“I need somebody to be with me all the time,” she said.

“There are plenty of other men in the world."

“You bastard, I wish I could be with another man. All I do is think about you."

“I told you that I would marry you if that's what you want."

She sat up and lit her own cigarette. “Why do you always put the if that's what you want on the end of everything?"

Tucker exhaled toward the ceiling. “Because I want to do what I can to make you happy."

“You could stop screwing other women."

“I'm not sleeping with other women."

“Then where do you stay all night when I call and you're never home?” She hissed smoke. “You're going to give me some disease."

Tucker turned and crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “Would you stop it. I'm not sleeping with anybody else.” He tried to kiss her, but she avoided him by reaching for the ashtray.

“I want a relationship. You like your friends more than you do me."

“What friends? I hang with Billy. Besides, you still go out with Ralph. How do I know you're not sleeping with him?"

“You know Ralph doesn't do anything for me. We're just friends."

“Right. You live with the guy for five years and then you throw him out, but you still go out with him and you expect me to believe that you don't sleep with him."

“He takes me to dinner on Fridays, which is what you should be doing."

“Like we've never gone out on Friday night. We can't go out on Sunday or Tuesday?"

“It's my date night."

“You're not in high school, Barbara."

“And you're not still in the war."

Tucker turned away, staring at the fading light from the closed window blinds. She could twist the knife. A woman could have one bad relationship and make every man pay forever. But a man exposed to combat was supposed to forget about it. He stood up and stretched.

“I'm going to take a shower."

“You're mad at me now."

“No, I just don't want to fight."

“Fine,” she said.

He turned away and left the bedroom.

* * * *

They had met in July of 2000. Mark Kidwell, a career criminal Tucker knew since elementary school days, was dating an insurance company secretary named Jenny Meyer. She had asked Mark to find a decent guy for a friend at work. This friend hated her current relationship.

Mark, on parole for armed robbery, contacted Tucker, saying that he fit the nice guy image because he had not done time in the penitentiary. Tucker thought it was ironic that he fit someone's nice guy image. From January to July of 2000, he had murdered one scumbag a month.

He hated blind dates, but agreed to go in an effort to control the monster. Barbara smiled and made comments about his blue eyes. An hour into dinner she began holding his hand.

By their third date, Barbara stayed the night at Tucker's apartment, though she complained about the scattered gunfire and constant sirens. A week later, she told him she had dumped Ralph Jacobs.

Tucker spent the next three months at her apartment. During that time, the monster did not kill. He visited the secluded cabin in St. Leon, Indiana during the day, while she worked, to make a security check. Without definite purpose, he felt uneasy, as if the cabin was haunted.

Back in the city, he increased his weight lifting time to release the inner pressure. He read a newspaper article about a local doctor named Bernard Mesh, who had sexually molested his young daughter. He had kept her chained and starving in the attic until a concerned neighbor reported him. The doctor had been released after posting 10% of a $500,000 cash bond.

In late October, Tucker didn't call or show up at her apartment on a Friday night. They had their first major fight the next evening and Barbara accused him of sleeping with other women.

On Tuesday, he saw a newspaper article stating that Bernard Mesh had either fled or jumped bond. Only Tucker knew that the doctor had become scumbag #43.

Their relationship pattern shifted. He didn't call for several days, or he would cancel dates at the last minute. She retaliated by not answering the phone for a week or hanging up. They continued to double date with Mark and Jenny, but in September of 2001, Mark died by random gunfire while crossing a Northside street. Six months later, Barbara told him Jenny had quit her job and moved to Dallas, Texas, with her sister.

For the past five years, the off and on relationship had followed the pattern of Tucker's new war. Barbara threatened suicide and began what he considered to be psychiatric male bashing therapy.

Nothing changed.

* * * *

He had showered for probably one minute when she stepped inside. He heard the door slide closed and turned, the water hitting his back and steam swirling. Her eyes were wide and bright, her lips slightly parted. Her nipples were erect, and when he kissed her she tasted salty.

Without speaking they soaped each other, rinsed off, and had sex, with him behind her, his legs slightly bent, and both hands on her shoulders. Her face touched the wall beneath the shower faucet, the water streaming down her back, and her palms against the tile.

He thrust into her, and she moaned each time his hips slammed her. His legs cramped and started shaking. He pleaded with her to hurry.

When they finished and he had slipped out, she twisted the faucets off and turned to hold him. They stayed close for several minutes, skin squeaking against skin, warm and so close. He knew she needed him.

“I love you,” she said.

She had finally said it. Tucker couldn't answer. To him, there was no love, only the moment.

Chapter 9

Thursday

(#58)

Capturing Adam Coltrane had been easy. Tucker waited in the park where Coltrane jogged each evening. He pretended to search in the car trunk. When Coltrane passed, Tucker spun, hit him across the face with a short pipe, and flipped him into the trunk. The surprise attack had been quick, without witnesses.

Now, as Tucker leaned against the cabin stove and lit a cigarette, he decided Coltrane would die without the planned torture. The swinging light shifted back and forth slightly above and several inches in front of Coltrane, who dangled naked from the ceiling rafters by ropes under his armpits.

Duct tape sealed his mouth. He had a purple lump above the right eye. His ankles were tied together and his toes barely scraped the floor. Ropes around the upper body kept his arms pinned tight to his sides. He was awake, and like others, he stared at the swinging light, his dark brown eyes wide.

Coltrane was ape hairy, with milky white skin beneath the hair. He had hair all the way up his back. The hair glistened from sweat, matted in some places, standing up in others. His muscular legs showed pink scars from knee surgery. He had a thin waist and decent muscle tone for an animal of 35. Tucker believed this scumbag deserved death.

Coltrane had beat a manslaughter charge in the death of his 12-year-old daughter, Kimberly. After a bitter divorce battle, he apparently decided to release his anger on the girl by forced anal sex during weekend custody visits over a period of three months. The terrified child finally committed suicide, afraid to tell anyone about her nights of horror.

Instead, she wrote letters to herself describing the ordeal. Her traumatized mother gave the parts detailing her continued rape to the press before the case went to the grand jury, making the letters useless in court. The prosecutor, having lost the only evidence, dropped the case.

In dying, she had saved herself from prolonged agony and ruptured internal organs. Coltrane's genitals were coated with powdery medicine hiding crusting green blisters. The bastard had the Green-1 virus.

Tucker had removed the chair from the Gomez killing. Behind Coltrane, he had nailed two boards to the floor and wedged a 20 inch, pointed wooden stake upright between the boards. He smeared huge gobs of Vicks Vaporub along the stake for lubrication, and put Vicks under his nose to smell menthol instead of Coltrane's rotting flesh.

The room was dark and oppressive. Cigarette smoke swirled in the light, and Coltrane's hissing breath and the whirring fan were the only sounds.

It was hotter than Tucker could remember. Leaning against the stove, he wore white jockey shorts and flip-flop shower shoes, his body slick with sweat. He had smeared red and white grease paint in lines and circles across his face and chest, and used styling gel to spike his brown hair straight up in the center. The grease paint was running and the hair gel slowly dissolved in the heat.

Crushing his cigarette on the floor, Tucker walked forward and ripped the tape from the victim's mouth. The man screamed. Tucker smiled when the sticky tape pulled hair from Coltrane's thick mustache.

“Shit,” Coltrane yelled, struggling at the ropes as he worked his mouth from side to side. “Aw, Jesus."

Tucker hoped Coltrane would think he had gone backwards in some time-warp nightmare to face a painted savage. Tonight, the monster was a Shawnee Indian warrior. He walked to the stove then turned around. What he wanted victims to think didn't always work out.

“Damn it, who are you?” Coltrane said. “Where am I?"

Tucker pulled on a pair of clear plastic gloves. “Where you're at doesn't matter.” He put his right hand up to his ear. “Listen real close. Can you hear Kimberly laughing at you?"

Coltrane looked down, as if noticing his nudity for the first time. “Who put you up to this? My wife's father?"

“It doesn't matter."

“I don't know you.” Coltrane moved against the ropes and groaned. “Whatever they're paying you for this I can double it."

“I've often wondered what kind of sickness makes a man fuck his own children."

Coltrane didn't answer. Tucker picked up a knife from the stove and held so light reflected like a sun across the blade. The monster wanted to cut, long and deep; watch Coltrane's eyes when he pulled out slippery rope guts.

No, Tucker thought, turning to place the knife back on the stove. He couldn't risk being splattered with blood. What he had planned would be enough. He faced Coltrane.

“You have Green-1."

“What do you mean?"

“Don't play dumb. You know exactly what I mean."

“It's poison ivy."

“So you screw plants when you're not doing little girls."

Coltrane looked down. “You don't know that."

“I know one thing,” Tucker said. “You've got something ten times worse than people in the camps."

“Cut me down. These ropes hurt."

Tucker frowned. Was there something in scumbag brains that blocked reality? Maybe he didn't have Green-1, and the medicine just made the sores green. He didn't act like a man with a fatal disease. This idiot wasn't even phased by the war paint.

“You're my wife's cousin, aren't you? The crazy Vietnam vet, Tony. She told me about how you used to paint yourself up like an Indian during the war. You're supposed to make me confess. Maybe beat my ass. It won't work, Tony. You'll be charged with kidnapping."

Tucker lit a cigarette, blowing smoke toward the light. Coltrane seemed to be over his fear and was trying to get the upper hand.

“You stupid bastard, are we on the same planet here? You killed your own daughter.” Tucker dropped the cigarette and crushed it into the floor. “I'm not your fucking wife's cousin."

The monster appeared.

Coltrane's eyes widened. Tucker spread his arms and growled as the door to his own personal hell opened. Coltrane jerked, crying out. The monster loved it. Coltrane would know what Kimberly felt as she waited to be violated.

“There are fifty-seven bodies in the woods around this cabin,” the monster said. “You are going to be number fifty-eight."

Coltrane squirmed and his foot bumped one of the boards nailed behind him. He twisted enough to see the pointed stake. His frantic struggles continued until exhaustion stopped him. He gasped for air, slumping forward. The skin around his armpits was cherry red from rope burns.

Tucker waited with his arms folded. This situation went beyond revenge. Kimberly no longer mattered. The monster killed anything Tucker offered. It didn't need a reason. He breathed deep and the menthol Vicks cooled his dry throat. It wanted to mutilate Coltrane the way Indians tortured prisoners. Cut off the eyelids, nose, lips, ears, fingers, and scalp. The survival instinct prevailed. He could not risk contact with Green-1 infected blood. He restrained the mad dog monster.

“I'm thirsty,” Coltrane pleaded.

“You don't need water."

“Please, you've scared me enough. I want to go home."

Tucker clenched his fists, wishing he had a board so he could bust this idiot in the head. “Your home is in the ground."

“Who are you?” Coltrane said.

“I'm a Shawnee warrior and you're my prisoner."

“You're crazy.” Coltrane pushed against the ropes, crying out. “Let me loose, you fucking psycho."

Tucker wiped at his chin. His hand was slick with a mixture of white and red. “My war paint is running."

“Holy shit, cut me down."

“Shut the fuck up. This isn't a game."

Tucker stared into Coltrane's brown eyes. Beyond the fear, he imagined he could read the man's survival plans.

“Checkmate,” Tucker said.

Coltrane stared, the pupils of his eyes black pinpoints beneath the swinging light.

“It's like a chess game you can't win,” Tucker said.

“You can't do this to me."

Tucker smiled. “The Shawnee used this particular form of execution on a white man who raped one of their women. They sat him on a pointed stake, right up his ass. His body weight slowly pushed the stake up through his guts. How long do you think you can hold your weight up?"

Coltrane eyes bulged. “Jesus, I've had enough. Tell my wife or the cops or whoever else is out there I'll tell the truth."

The monster laughed. “It doesn't matter now.” He turned and picked up the knife, then walked behind Coltrane. He sliced the ropes supporting the armpits. Coltrane lost his balance when his feet touched the floor. Tucker grabbed him by the hair to keep him upright.

“Stop, you're hurting me."

“That's probably what Kimberly said.” Tucker pushed forward and down on Coltrane's skull, trying to force him to bend at the waist and spread his legs at the knees. The man refused to bend until Tucker punched him in between his hairy shoulders above the ropes.

Coltrane pleaded as he was lowered upon the stake. The menthol smell made Tucker's eyes water. He missed the first time. Coltrane pissed. He raised and lowered him again. This time a shriek let him know he had found the mark. He held the scumbag balanced in a sitting position, the stake point just inside the rectum.

“You live as long as you can hold your weight up."

Coltrane didn't answer. His face was red and his breathing forced. Tucker released him and Coltrane screamed.

And kept on screaming.

Chapter 10

Monday

“How have things been with Barbara?” Doctor Stahl said.

“I went to the executions a week ago Friday night."

“At the stadium?"

“Yeah, I don't do very well in large crowds."

“I know that."

“Billy Samuels talked me into going."

“Billy is your childhood friend who served in Vietnam?"

“Right. Some of the stuff that bothers me doesn't seem to bother him. He likes the executions."

Doctor Stahl leaned forward in his chair, placing his elbows on his knees. “What is it that bothers you so much about the executions?"

“Being around all those people.” Tucker lit a cigarette. “And the heads talk."

“When do the heads talk?"

He blew smoke sideways toward the window and looked at Stahl. “They don't really talk. Some of them make noise and the lips move."

“Are you sure you didn't think that they made noise?"

Tucker hissed smoke and stared at the floor. “I know they do. That last guy, Mitchell, I saw his lips move. I've seen it happen in Nam."

“You never told me about it before."

“There's a lot I haven't talked about."

“But that's what we're here for, to bring out the repressed fears and deal with them. Tell me what happened."

After several minutes of silence and another cigarette, Tucker inhaled deep. His lungs ached from smoke. He stared at the wall behind the doctor.

“It was the last time I think I really slept in Nam. We were going to pull battalion sized operations up north by the DMZ and we had stopped for the night outside some village near the Cua Viet River. I was part of an S-2 Intelligence Team. We interrogated prisoners captured during firefights and tortured them for information.

“Sometimes, we would kill them and other times we sent them to the rear on choppers so someone else could torture them. I had just come off body detail after spending a month stripping gear and clothes from dead marines. I figured anything we did to get information that would save marines was fine with me.

“There was usually an outer perimeter of grunts and then an inner perimeter where H&S Company would circle the command post. We would have been on the inner perimeter because most of the time we had prisoners, but we didn't have any that day.

“We usually had other men in front of us, and if we took fire we couldn't fire back, but our team overlapped with the outer perimeter and filled a gap in the Delta Company line.

“Word was passed that we should kill anything that moved because there were no friendlies in front of us. So we dug our holes deep and waited.

“I was with some new guy named Bond. He had only been in Nam for a couple of weeks. Hell, I had only been there a few months myself. We were on a fifty-percent alert that night. He would sleep for two hours while I kept watch and then I would sleep for two hours. Only I never did really sleep because I didn't trust anyone to stay awake. Except that night I did sleep."

“Did you trust Bond?” Stahl said.

“No way. My body quit working. We had been humping maybe twelve or fifteen hours a day for a week. He had the midnight watch so I was on my back in the bottom of the hole and I guess I just passed out.

“Something woke me. I remember the hair rising on my body and I tasted blood. I thought I heard moaning far away. It was so dark I couldn't see. I saw the outline of Bond's shoulders but not his helmet. I figured he fell asleep with his head drooping forward and I was pissed off.

“Then I thought it rained because I was soaked and my right hand sunk into mud when I tried to sit up. I felt something heavy shifting between my legs. That was when grenades exploded on the left down the company line and the flare popped above us just as I reached between my legs."

Tucker paused and sipped his coffee. It was cold and sweet.

“Are you all right?"

“I've never talked about that night before."

“Take your time."

“I had seen bodies without heads, but never the head. I saw it in the light from the flare. Bond's head was between my legs, and it was moaning. The lips moved and the head screamed.

“At least, I thought it screamed. Hell, it could have been me screaming. It looked right at me. I got the shivers or something. You know, a chill running up your spine. I freaked out.

“I remember throwing the head out of the hole and it made a thunk even above all the other noise. I couldn't throw it far because it was so slippery.

“I cussed and yelled and grabbed my rifle and fired. When I ran out of ammo I threw grenades, but I saved one grenade in case the gooks came back so I could take a few of them with me. Then I shoved Bond's body outside the hole as a barrier.

“After the firing stopped I yelled to the holes on either side, but those guys were dead. The flares went up all night, and somebody down the line kept crying and calling the gooks motherfuckers.

“We were all crazy by morning. The NVA had crawled from hole to hole armed with hatchets and chopped the heads off of thirty-five sleeping Marines. In some holes, they killed both guys. In others, like mine, they left one man alive, probably to shatter morale.

“It damn sure worked. I guess the Marine Corps covered it up. It doesn't look good when America's finest get wasted while they're sleeping."

“That must have been horrible,” Stahl said.

“The battalion commander made us clean all that shit up, like we were idiot kids being punished. He got blowed away about a week later. Somebody dinged him during a mortar attack. The word was somebody threw a grenade into his hole. He shouldn't have humped us through the boonies until we were half dead."

“You sound real bitter."

“I am bitter. My life was out of my control. That's one reason I can't sleep at night. I can't convince my mind those bastards won't come to kill me or leave another head in my lap. Sometimes, I wish they would have cut my head off and then Bond could be living with it instead of me.

“When I saw Mitchell's lips move at the stadium I flashed back to that night, just for a second. I was back in that hole."

They sat for several silent minutes. Tucker smoked another cigarette. His heart thumped in his temples. Bond would remain with him forever.

“I can understand how something like that would affect your sleep,” Stahl finally said. “I can't really understand what you went through, but I can imagine."

“The newspapers would write about how we were animals and monsters. Those NVA were the monsters."

“There's a monster in each one of us,” Stahl said. “Morality and our fear of punishment keeps it in check. But war is different. It enables us to commit shocking acts beyond the normal range of our experience. War lets our monsters escape."

“And after the war?"

“For most people, the monster goes back inside forever."

“You mean those people who don't have PTSD?"

“Is there something you want to tell me, Michael? I have a feeling you're holding a lot more inside. Maybe you have some unresolved issues we need to cover."

“No,” Tucker said, feeling a cold sweat on his forehead. “I was just wondering.” He glanced at the wall clock, suddenly wanting out of there. He had already said too damn much.

Stahl looked at his watch. “I hate to stop, but our time is up. It helps resolve issues if we bring them out in the open. Don't you agree?"

“I guess,” Tucker said, though he didn't believe it. Therapy often made the depression and nightmares worse.

“I did notice you changed the subject when I asked you how it went with Barbara."

Tucker stood up. “She thinks I would make a good father."

“I'm sure you would."

Tucker felt trapped.

“Maybe we'll talk about it more next week. You hang in there and if you have any problems call me."

He shook Stahl's hand. “I will.” Then, he turned for the door, fighting the urge to run before the walls closed around him.

Chapter 11

After lifting weights for an hour, Tucker remained a coiled spring. The Doctor Stahl sessions helped, but reliving detailed combat caused deep depression. He sat on his bed facing the closed blinds above the headboard. Rain pattered the roof gutters.

The window was door tall, with faint gray light seeping from the corners of the blinds. Like a passage to another dimension or a gate to eternal life, he thought, outlined by the light from the unknown side.

Naked and with the .357 magnum near his right hand, his shoulders slumped forward as he concentrated on the way the blinds folded upon each other like fish scales.

He needed to kill again.

Four days since Adam Coltrane and the monster wanted blood. Maybe he was an alien, born with the thing full blown inside, some twisted parasite twin. He could end it with the gun. One shot through the right temple and the evil would splatter down the opposite wall.

The steady air conditioner throb became a mental chant. The rain increased, the pings and pops against the roof gutters blending in a loud roar. He closed his eyes.

It had rained in Nam at least once a day. The rain came in thick sheets, drenching the marines. Keeping dry had been impossible between the heat, sweat, rain, and the waist high rice paddies. When the rain stopped, steam rose from their stinking jungle fatigues as if the country itself kept sucking their life out as vapor.

He opened his eyes, seeing beyond until the window blinds became a gray-yellow blur. The light seeping around the edges reminded him of being inside the bunker of a Communist village near the DMZ. The deep enemy bunker, built for bomb protection, sloped down at an angle, like looking up at the opening from the bottom of a well.

They had captured a prisoner and Tucker called him Bucky because of his huge buckteeth. He had been carrying a grenade and a small bag of rice when captured by Delta Company. Bucky had short black hair and brown eyes that pointed in toward his nose.

“A cross-eyed gook,” the sergeant said, when he saw the prisoner. “He looks dumber than dog shit."

The team agreed Bucky seemed retarded, as if anyone could have told him to carry a grenade and he would do it. Bucky did not know about marines or the war, but a gook with a grenade had to be interrogated. They tied him with ropes around his chest and arms, sitting him outside against the bunker wall.

They took sniper fire several times that day while outside the bunker. Once, when the naked sergeant attempted to wash himself from a helmet full of water. The team laughed and didn't return fire as they watched the sergeant try to retrieve his clothes. He tripped over the squealing Bucky while bullets snapped into the bunker wall.

The bunker had rats. The rats tittered and slithered among them until Tucker decided to sleep outside and risk sniper fire. He filled empty C-ration cans with pebbles, placing them in a circle around the bunker, hoping the enemy might bump a can and give advance warning.

After dark, the Vietnamese interpreter cried in the bunker because the rats crawled on him, but he refused to go outside. The sergeant told him to be a man and shut up, although the sergeant also wouldn't sleep outside.

Mortar rounds whistled back and forth over the jungle. Small shrapnel flecks pattered against the bunker. The mortars slowed after dark, but the chatter of machine guns and rifle fire broke the silence at intervals.

Bucky began making noise, sayingnook, nook , which was Vietnamese for water. Sanchez, sitting next to Tucker, felt Bucky's face and gave him a drink. Moments later, Bucky mumbled again. Sanchez tried to gag him. Bucky bit his right index finger, drawing blood. Together, they managed to gag him. Sanchez cussed and moaned about his finger, afraid he might get some fatal disease.

The black night blinded them. They sat against the bunker with their rifles pointed forward while Bucky squirmed. The night belonged to the enemy. The heat and the insects made Tucker itch.

A bellowing water buffalo chained to a jungle tree, mixed with the frantic bursts of small arms, gave the silent moments added terror. Tucker felt as if he was floating in that void before his first conscious memory.

Night vision became useless under the triple canopy jungle, and he couldn't use the horizon for reference. Each breath was thunder. Sanchez cracked under the strain, going down into the bunker to sleep with the rats, leaving Tucker alone with the prisoner.

Bucky spit the gag and started talking.

“Shut him up,” the sergeant whispered from the bunker.

Tucker couldn't see so he felt the top of the prisoner's head and bashed his jaw with the M-16 rifle butt. The plastic butt plate didn't stop him. Bucky groaned and mumbled louder.

“He won't shut up,” Tucker whispered down to the sergeant.

“We're between the lines,” the sergeant said. “Do what you have to before he gets us all killed by our own men."

Why don't they come up here and help me, Tucker thought?

Then, he had his bayonet out, reached for Bucky's hair with his left hand, pulled him forwards and stabbed. Bucky made sloshing, sucking noises. The bayonet slid off a rib into the dirt.

He had to kill him fast because Bucky started a shrill whine, and the sergeant kept asking him what the fuck he was doing. A blood gush like a spat from a water gun hit his mouth and the blade crunched against a bone. He kept thinking.... shut up, shut up.

The blood tasted coppery, and when he wiped his mouth with the back of his knife hand he tasted more blood. He spit and slashed until Bucky went slack. He backed away against the bunker wall.

“What's going on?” the sergeant kept whispering.

“I shut him up."

The corpse gurgled and farted several times that night, and he had almost opened fire. Sanchez and Mathis crawled out of the bunker three times to relieve him. He curled up on the ground but didn't sleep. His skin felt slimy and sticky. He wiped at his face and the hair on his arms was matted so he used canteen water to scrub himself.

At dawn, Sanchez remained outside with him and the flies. When light enough to see, Sanchez helped him drag the corpse away. Bucky farted again when they picked him up and something long and stringy dangled out of his body and splattered their boots.

“Damn, gringo,” Sanchez said. “You fucked him up."

“He should have kept quiet."

When the sergeant came out of the bunker, he wanted to know what happened. They pointed to the jungle. The sergeant walked where they had pointed. He came back pale.

“Jesus Christ, Tucker,” he said.

“I shut him up."

A company runner arrived with word to move out in ten minutes. The sergeant ordered the team to gather their gear. He called Tucker aside and their eyes met. The sergeant, a career Korean War veteran, looked sad and old.

“If you make it out of here put all this shit behind you,” he said.

“I did what you told me."

“Just put it behind you."

“Sarge, what are you talking about?"

The sergeant lit a cigarette and shook his head. “Jesus Christ,” he said, and walked away.

* * * *

Tucker blinked and sat up straight. The rain had slowed to drizzle. A fly landed on the window blinds and took off again. He reached down to finger the .357 magnum.

The sergeant had stepped on a mine two weeks later, dying from what the military calledtraumatic amputation of the lower extremities . At least, that would have been the wording in the formal family notification, much kinder than saying that his legs and nuts had been blown off. The sergeant had known what he would become. Somehow, he had seen the future.

Tucker looked into the gun barrel before placing the muzzle against his right temple. One squeeze and he could enter the black void, floating until he found a new body.

This was a fantasy. He wouldn't die by his own hand, not while scumbags needed killing. He lowered the gun and reached for a cigarette.

His stomach twitched, and he sensed, more than heard, the monster laugh from deep inside.

Chapter 12

September 2005

Barbara Thomas lived in an apartment on a hill in a Cincinnati suburb called Green Township. West of the city, eight miles from the Indiana border, the township waited to be absorbed by city violence.

The buildings were red brick and each apartment had a balcony. A high chain-link fence and a security gate circled the complex. Wearing blue uniforms, six armed guards, with keys dangling from their belts, manned the gate 24 hours a day, two guards to each eight-hour shift.

Five miles away, an AIDS camp had been built on a former nature preserve. Last year, two escaped Red Gang members had been shot by police, but most daily living had remained civilized in Green Township.

One night during late summer, after they had eaten fast food, Tucker sat on the second floor balcony with Barbara. The air was cool and they could see stars, which never happened in the city. They held hands and smoked cigarettes.

Tucker felt safe, even smoking on the balcony after dark without hiding the cigarette. This habit of cupping cigarettes stemmed from Vietnam where at night a lit cigarette presented a clear target a mile away.

Faint flares sputtered around the AIDS camp. The light would fade and another flare would light the horizon again. Tucker instantly thought of Vietnam and how the flares were always up after dark at a base camp.

The flares carried little parachutes, floating slowly down while metal hinges holding the flares to the parachute squeaked. When one burned out, he used to pray for another to push back the dark.

“It must be horrible there,” Barbara said.

“What?” Tucker said. He shook his head and crushed the cigarette in an ashtray. “I'm sorry. I was watching those flares."

“I said it must be horrible at those camps."

“Yeah, they pretty much run wild. They give them food and medicine, but I guess they kill and terrorize each other. I imagine it's real bad for children. All the guards do is try to keep them from getting out."

“Have you ever been to one of those camps?"

“No, they surround them with minefields. I've just read about them in the newspaper. I don't know how anyone manages to escape."

“The image I see in my mind is kind of like the Nazi concentration camps,” Barbara said.

“Probably worse."

Barbara puffed her cigarette. She took short, quick drags and hissed when exhaling. Sometimes the hissing bothered Tucker, especially during an argument.

“I think Green-1 is going to be worse than AIDS,” he said. “Except by the time you're infected real good you can be smelled a mile away."

Barbara crushed her cigarette. “How did things change so fast?"

“I don't know. It seems like everything has gone nuts."

“I read an article the other day about death row. It said that they do horrible things to them."

“What could be worse than getting your head chopped off, Barbara?"

“I mean before that, while they're waiting to die."

“I don't know. I only know what I saw at the stadium that night."

“The article was about the prison here in town. The one called Paddock. It's supposed to be the worst in the state. The warden is some man named Burdeck, and he's supposed to be a real psycho. No one is allowed inside, and prisoners aren't allowed to contact anyone on the outside."

“Why the sudden concern with death row?"

Barbara squeezed his hand. “I don't know. I just get feelings. I saw the article and maybe I'm freaked out by the way things have changed so rapidly."

“Have things changed with us?"

“No, I'll always want you."

Tucker turned, making eye contact. Her face reflected the faint streetlights. “I want you, too."

“Then why don't you move in here with me?"

“I've been thinking about it."

“You really have?"

“Yeah, it's getting bad in the city. Everybody hates one another, and the black and white gangs are out of control. There's going to be an all out race war soon."

“We could be together all the time. I'm frightened without you, and I miss being wrapped around at night."

Tucker had to admit he missed her at night. He slept better and didn't wake up every two hours. He turned to stare at a new flare from the camp perimeter. Living with her wouldn't work, which is why he had decided against the move. He needed to roam. It was easier if he stayed two or three days at a time. They wouldn't fight as much.

A car came up the hill and stopped at the gate.

“One of those guards asked me out again,” Barbara said.

“The same one as before?"

“Yes. The one with the glasses who thinks all the women like him. He keeps telling everybody what a stud he is."

“I know which one you're talking about. He gives me dirty looks when I come in the gate. He probably hasn't been laid in years."

“He always tells me that I have nothing to worry about because he was in the military police during the Persian Gulf and saw a lot of combat."

Tucker grinned. “Yeah, the MP's won that war for sure. He's full of shit.” He wondered how the guard force would react if they were attacked.

“He's a jerk,” Barbara said. “He's come to my door several times now."

Tucker stopped grinning. “What for?"

“Just to see if I was okay. He asked if he could come inside."

“Did you let him?"

“Of course not."

“Well, next time don't answer the door. He might try to rape you."

“I wouldn't have to worry about it if you were here."

Tucker frowned, wondering how much of what she said was a lie so he would move into the apartment. She lit a cigarette and tilted her long neck to blow the smoke straight up. She was gorgeous, and he understood why other men wanted her. He decided she told the truth because the next moment she looked straight in his eyes, and she avoided direct eye contact when telling lies.

“He won't bother you anymore."

“How do you know?"

“I'll have a talk with him."

“But he hasn't really done anything."

“He has as far as I'm concerned. He has to know that we're together. I take that as a personal insult."

“What are you going to do?"

Tucker reached out and removed the cigarette from her hand. He took a long drag and flipped the butt toward the dying flare light. “Right now, I'm going to pick you up and carry you into the bedroom and make love to you.” He brushed her right nipple and her lips curled into a small circle. By then, he had scooped her out of the chair.

“Damn you,” she said.

He kissed her and she wrapped her arms around his neck when he carried her inside.

Chapter 13

Friday, September 16

Tucker, naked from the waist up, and with dark green camouflage paint on his face, wore faded green Vietnam jungle fatigue pants with large thigh pockets. The kitchen table was piled with weapons and ammunition. Barbara had been pleading with him on the phone when Billy Samuels yelled from the hall outside the apartment. Tucker opened the door, saw Billy, and waved three men inside before returning to the phone.

“I have to go,” he said. “I'll be there when I can.” He shrugged and held the receiver away. When she stopped, he put the phone back against his ear. “Look, the riot is moving this way. I've got to stay. This is my home.” He unplugged the cord, ending the conversation.

Billy stood near the table, a beer in one hand and Tucker's .357 magnum in the other.

“Let me make a wild guess,” Billy said. “You were talking to Barbara."

“That's not much of a guess.” Tucker lit a cigarette as he loaded .45 caliber bullets into a magazine.

“Jesus, this place looks like the National Guard Armory here,” Billy said. “I brought Jerry and Don with me. None of us could get home. Our houses are probably gone by now."

Tucker glanced at Jerry Forbes, a 55-year-old Marine Nam vet he had known since childhood. Jerry had been a drug addict for years. Thin and nervous, he had deep brown watery eyes and rotting teeth. He drove a truck for a living, and always wore a blue baseball cap with the wordsMack Truck across the front.

Somehow, Jerry had made it through Marine Corps boot camp. In Vietnam, he had been an aircraft mechanic on a firebase that came under rocket attack at night. Tucker figured Jerry still hit the ground when a car backfired or a door slammed. He shook Jerry's slippery hand.

“Haven't seen you in awhile,” Jerry said.

“I stay home a lot,” Tucker said.

The other man, 19-year-old Donald Smith, was a member of a white street gang calledThe Regulators . He had long brown hair, blue eyes, a beer belly, and at six-foot probably weighed 220 pounds. Tucker knew Smith's gang had a long-standing war with other gangs. His gang dealt in drugs, stolen property, and preyed on the weak. A ratpack, their strength came from an ability to swarm victims.

Smith was the exception. Big and mean, he could probably handle most situations. Smith had big hands and a firm grip. He smiled, showing three chipped teeth. Tucker heard Smith had been shot twice, stabbed once, and served a year in prison. His kind usually died before age 25.

“I like your style, brother,” Smith said. “We gonna fire them motherfuckers up."

“Nobody is burning this building down,” Tucker said, crushing his cigarette. He looked at Billy. “Where you guys been?"

“Down at the corner bar. There's a bunch of people barricaded in the basement, but there's only one door out and they don't have nothing but a few pistols."

“What did you hear was happening?"

“Just what they said on the news. A black gang killed a mailman over in the Cumminsville projects and set his truck on fire. When the cops showed up the whole damn project attacked them. The cops pulled out and now them crazy motherfuckers are moving this way killing every white person they see. Fuck'em."

“Do you have a gun?"

“No."

“Then take my magnum."

“I've got a three-fifty-seven magnum,” Smith said.

“Good,” Tucker said. “There's ammo on the table. Put some in your pocket. You too, Billy. And use the green cammo stick. We're going up on the roof, and we don't need light reflecting off our faces."

“I'm not ready for this,” Jerry said.

“I'm fucking-A ready,” Smith said.

As they worked the green stick into their faces, Tucker went into the bedroom to turn off the air conditioner. He lifted the window blinds. The sky glowed orange to his left and he heard the distant pop of small arms. Several cars pulled away from the curb while people darted in all directions under streetlights.

A moment later, a group of perhaps ten whites dragged a black man under a corner street light, tied him to the pole, and shot him. One of the group jammed a shotgun against the man's temple, and the muffled blast exploded the skull like a water balloon hitting concrete. The group raised their weapons and cheered before they ran down a side street.

Let slip the dogs of war, Tucker thought. He was ready.

* * * *

“This shit is out of control,” Tucker said, when he had returned to the kitchen. He put on a black muscle shirt. The others had smeared on the cammo stick, their faces dark green and sweat shiny. Billy had the magnum in his belt and continued stuffing his pockets with ammunition. Smith examined the Vietnam M-79 grenade launcher; a shotgun style weapon that fired 40-millimeter bullet shaped grenades. Tucker had purchased it a few years back from a thieving National Guard soldier.

They heard shouting, breaking glass, and shots downstairs. The man on the second floor kept firing a large caliber weapon. Jerry flinched with each report and his right eyebrow twitched.

“Sounds like a cannon,” Billy said.

A woman screamed, and begged the man to stop. Tucker walked into the bedroom and peeked through the blinds. A white man lay in the street. He saw people crouched in doorways or hiding next to porch stoops. The man in the street raised up and spit blood. Another shot came from downstairs and the man collapsed. Tucker turned and went to the kitchen.

“That guy is shooting at anyone who moves outside,” he said. “Let's get up on the roof now."

They each made two trips to the roof carrying guns, ammunition, and supplies. Tucker and Jerry Forbes came down for the last load, some bottled water and a case of military MRE ready-to-eat meals Tucker had purchased for an emergency food supply.

As he finished rubbing more dark cammo stick on his face, Tucker noticed Jerry seemed calm in the last fifteen minutes despite scattered shots from downstairs and the distant pops, rumbles, and occasional screams. Tucker handed Jerry a coil of manila rope and a gallon bottle of water.

“That's all of it. Go on up. I'll bring up the food and lock the door."

“We're going to be okay,” Jerry said.

“Yeah, we will.” Tucker picked up the case of food. He reached up and flipped off the lights.

Jerry stepped into the hall outside the apartment.

“Hey,” a voice yelled.

Tucker saw Jerry turn, his profile framed in the doorway. Jerry's eyes opened wide and a shot exploded in the hall. Blood erupted from his right shoulder, splattering the wall. Jerry dropped the rope and the water as a second shot entered his skull. Falling forward, his face thumped the floor. His left arm was twisted behind him at an odd angle. The hole pumped blood and tissue.

Tucker dropped the food and drew the .45 from behind his back as the killer stepped into view. He was a chunky man, perhaps mid-thirties, with fat protruding from the sides of his muscle shirt. The cheeks of his butt stuck out above his jeans, and he had frizzy brown hair and bloodshot green eyes.

Tucker fired three times and the man fell. The blast left a ringing in his ears, and one ejected shell casing bounced off the wall, striking the right side of his face. A burnt metal cordite smell filled the apartment. Like Jerry, the man died while falling.

Tucker stepped into the hall, weapon ready. Billy and Donald Smith stood at the bottom of the roof stairs, their eyes big golf balls in contrast against their dark faces. A heavy, sweet aroma mingled with the bitter gunpowder stink.

“Christ, what happened?” Billy said.

“He killed Jerry."

“Son of a bitch.” Billy walked forward, kicking out at the shooter.

Tucker eased the hammer closed on the .45, slipped it back into the rear waistband, and grabbed Billy by the arms.

“That's enough. He's dead. They're both dead."

Tucker heard footsteps on the stairs and a loud shriek. Outside, sirens wailed amid scattered shots. Smith and Tucker drew their weapons.

A woman stepped into the hall. She had apparently been the wife or girlfriend of the dead man. Probably in her late twenties, she wore bluejean shorts and a sweat soaked white T-shirt. She had large pointed breasts, the brown nipples evident through the shirt. Her hair was long, brown, and frizzy. Purple bruises marred her thin legs and a blood trickle ran from the right corner of her mouth.

“I told him to stop,” she said, slumping to a sitting position.

“Shit,” Tucker said. “Billy, grab the rope and the water bottle. Smith, get that case of MRE rations out of the apartment so I can lock the door."

“What are we doing?” Smith said.

“We'll have to take her up with us,” Tucker said.

Smith went into the apartment as Tucker approached the woman.

“What's your name?"

She looked up, her eyes fixed beyond him. “Nicole."

“Was that your husband?"

She moved her head up and down.

“Well, he's dead and you have to come with us. You're in danger down here. Do you understand?"

“Yes,” she said, tears streaking her cheeks.

Billy had the rope, the water, and the dead man's gun, a nine-millimeter Glock pistol. Smith stepped from the apartment as Tucker helped the girl to stand. Tucker put one arm around her and locked the apartment door with the other hand.

Then, they all climbed the stairs to the roof.

Chapter 14

Tucker figured the tenement had been built early in the last century when art still went into construction. A three-foot high wall enclosed the roof, providing an ideal defense position. Red brick on the roof side, the outer wall facing the street contained a concrete relief sculpture of bearded men in armor and helmets racing chariots to battle.

The gray slate roof dipped enough to drain water to the corners, out spouts in the open mouths of stone lion heads. With a five-foot gap between the buildings on either side, they could escape by jumping from roof to roof.

The woman, Nicole, her face against her knees, sat against the left-hand corner of the outer wall near Tucker's equipment. Billy squatted in the middle, smoking a cigarette. Smith peered over the wall on the right side.

In rear buildings across the alley, Tucker saw people moving through apartments or barricading windows. He tied the rope to a chimney pipe, coiling it near the rear wall. If the building burned, they could climb down to the second floor fire escape, if jumping to adjoining roofs became impossible. A moment later, the electricity blinked out, bringing darkness.

Tucker returned to his equipment. Nicole whimpered. That would be Barbara, he thought, if she were here, only more hysterical. Billy and Smith looked over the wall, their dark faces serious and searching. It was too hot. Tucker felt as if he had just stepped from a shower.

A siren wailed and rifles popped several blocks away. Distant fires made everything orange. A car sped past, swerved by the body in the street and ran the stop sign. Tucker wished he could have moved his car out of the area.

He inserted a 50-shot banana clip into the rifle. The Ruger was a reliable weapon. The .22 caliber rifle came with a ten-round clip, but he had purchased the banana clips for added firepower. He preferred hollow-point ammunition. The slow muzzle velocity damaged tissue but rarely caused instant death without a headshot. Since the bullet could not penetrate both sides of the skull, fragmented lead would ricochet inside, scrambling the brain.

Tucker's guerrilla philosophy relied on disabling the enemy. A wounded man required two people to help him. For every non-fatal wound three enemy were taken out.

Night fighting lacked clear vision, making standard gun sights useless. He would have to use the index finger of his left hand along the stock as a sight. He had at least 1000 loose rounds in a green ammo can, plus five banana clips.

He had 35 rounds for the M-79 grenade launcher, five being close range beehive rounds, filled with inch long steel arrows which buzzed outward in a wide pattern, turning flesh into instant shredded wheat. The frag grenade rounds had a 350-yard maximum range. The shell made nine revolutions out of the barrel before becoming a grenade, protecting the shooter from accidental discharge into a nearby surface. He also had four magazines for the .45 caliber and 40 extra bullets.

Billy carried the magnum and the half-empty Glock pistol taken from the dead man downstairs. The magnum could fire .38 Special rounds, which did not have the power of magnum rounds, but were just as deadly. Without vision in one eye, Billy lacked depth perception, and Tucker knew he would truly be firing blind.

Smith had Tucker's 12-gauge shotgun with about 120 shells, and a pistol. They had enough firepower for an infantry squad.

Rubbing his legs, Billy sat with his back against the wall. The dark camouflage paint softened the lines in his face. He wore a black baseball cap backwards with the brim down between his shoulders. Gray hair protruded from the hat near his ears and fat jiggled at his sides.

Smith watched the street, the shotgun over the edge of the wall. His long brown hair was matted to his forehead, his face sweat slick. Occasionally, he glanced past Tucker toward the woman.

Nicole had stopped crying and raised her bushy head several times to wipe her eyes.

Tucker listened. The orange fire glow cast long, trembling shadows. The block was deserted except for the headless man tied to the corner pole and the dead man in the street. A small dog suddenly appeared from between buildings across the street and ran away, its tail curled between its legs.

Distant pops and booms remained constant like the Fourth of July fireworks he had hated since the war. Three loud booms came from behind the building, perhaps two blocks away. The distant pops suddenly grew intense as if several long strings of firecrackers had been set off. The sound continued for about a minute before trailing off to scattered firing.

“There's a hell of a fight going on somewhere,” Smith said. He lit a cigarette in plain view instead of ducking down behind the wall.

Tucker thought of warning him about smoking at night, but figured Smith wouldn't listen until someone tried to blow his head off.

“I can't believe that guy killed Jerry,” Billy said. “I still can't believe he's gone."

Tucker glanced at his friend. “I'm sorry. I know you two were pretty tight."

“I'm just glad you blew that piece of shit away,” Billy said.

“Don't call him that,” Nicole said, raising her head and punching Tucker in the leg.

Tucker stared at her, startled. Her eyes were closed as she pounded his leg. He reached down, grabbing her right hand.

“Take it easy."

She opened her eyes and looked up. “He was my husband."

Tucker shrugged, holding her hand. She was pretty, and he imagined she had been beautiful before the alcohol and drugs.

“He was a psycho,” Billy said.

“Stop it,” she said.

“Yeah,” Smith said. “A damn drunk psycho."

“Let me go,” Nicole said. She wiggled her small hand until their sweaty palms caused Tucker's hold to slip.

He released her and she fell back against the wall. She quickly jumped up and tried to kick him. He grabbed her right foot and twisted so she lost her balance and fell against the slate roof.

“Knock it off, lady."

“You haven't said a word and she's trying to kick your ass,” Billy said.

She jumped up again, facing them, her breasts jiggling.

“You're all murderers."

“Shut up,” Billy said.

“Sit down, Nicole,” Tucker said. “All hell is going to break loose soon."

“Are you the one who killed my husband?"

“What difference does it make? He was trying to kill us."

“I loved him."

“How could you love someone who beat you up all the time? I live upstairs and I know he beat you all the time."

“He took care of me. He's all I had."

“I'd like to take care of you,” Smith said. “I'll beat your ass and screw your brains out."

“Damn you,” Nicole spat. She lunged toward Tucker's rifle. He pushed the top of her head and she fell backwards on her butt.

“Knock it off, Smith,” Tucker said. He turned toward Nicole. “I don't have time to fight with you, lady. Either sit down and shut up, or get the hell out of here. If you try to grab my weapon again, I'll shoot you myself."

Nicole stood up. “You're animals,” she said.

Billy growled like a dog. Nicole turned away, her back facing the street. There was a loud splat-thud, like a hammer striking meat, followed by the boom of a large caliber weapon.

Nicole dropped. Her face slammed the roof, one arm underneath the body, the other twisted behind her, the wrist bent at an odd angle. Soon, a thick dark stream flowed around her shoes toward the drain.

They faced the street, weapons ready, peeking over the wall toward the opposite buildings.

“Did anybody see anything?” Tucker said.

“I thought I saw a flash in the corner of my eye,” Smith said. “About fifty yards to your left. I think it was the third roof past the corner."

They waited while scattered snaps and pops continued, sometimes rapid and louder and closer. Tucker moved the food and water to the right, away from the blood oozing toward the drain. Nicole gurgled.

Billy sat down with his back against the wall. “Is she still alive?"

“No,” Tucker said. A dark spot on her back had spread to grapefruit size. “It's her body shutting down. From the look of her back it took her heart out."

“Shit,” Billy said.

“We're going to have to move her or the flies will drive us nuts in the morning."

“Where?” Smith said, still peering over the wall.

“Billy can keep watch while we toss her off the back into the alley."

“Right,” Smith said. “And what about the sniper?"

Tucker lit a cigarette. “We'll wait awhile."

A sharp report came from their left, and Tucker dropped the cigarette.

“There he is,” Smith said. “I saw the flash."

“Don't fire,” Tucker said, looking over the wall. The sniper fired again in a different direction, and he saw the muzzle flash. “He's out of shotgun range.” Smith had been close. It was the second roof past the corner. Tucker loaded a 40-millimeter shell into the grenade launcher. “I'll try to get him with the blooper."

He elevated the muzzle at about 70 degrees and fired. The shell came out with a muffled bloop noise. Breaking open the breech, he ejected the spent shell and reloaded.

The grenade exploded against the building front several feet below the roof. Tucker lowered the muzzle slightly; firing again as a man leaned over the roof. The grenade exploded just behind the sniper. He jerked backwards and fell.

“You got that bastard,” Smith said.

Billy smiled. “Man, you dropped that blooper round right on that dude."

Tucker turned and sat against the wall. “This is bad, Billy. People are blowing each other away just for target practice."

“It's a wonderful life,” Billy said.

Tucker noticed that Smith smiled and kept watching the street looking for a target. “Bad to the bone,” he began singing.

Tucker searched for the cigarette he dropped. He saw the filter and a fragment of white in the blood smear near the drain outlet. Taking a deep breath, he stared at Nicole, his stomach queasy with expectation.

The internal monster had uncoiled, to kill. Flies buzzed around its spiked head and from each clawed hand maggots dropped like white rice, ready for the feast yet to come.

Chapter 15

Whether it was planned or accidental, Tucker realized the forward movement of the riot maintained a military formation, with the main force in the center and troops on the right and left flank. Hanfield Street had become the thrust point. Because resistance had been light, the main force moved along Hanfield Street. Heavy fighting so far had occurred on side streets where rioters on the flanks moved forward on their own.

Gunfire now came from streets behind and in front of the building. The main force came into view under the glare of the fire orange sky. Those in the center banged garbage can lids, sticks, guns, and metal baseball bats into a single beat. Others danced around the procession, rolling forward in a wave, destroying cars and setting fires.

“We're screwed,” Billy said.

“Don't fire yet,” Tucker said, loading a grenade round into the M-79 launcher. He had not expected such odds. When the mob crossed into the intersection where the headless corpse was tied to the pole, many rioters rushed into the side streets. Screams and scattered shooting came from some houses. Tucker was almost sorry he had taken out the sniper because now they seemed to have the only firepower.

“Them motherfuckers,” Smith kept saying, aiming the shotgun.

“Don't fire,” Tucker repeated. “We need to hit them hard. Billy, take my rifle. Shoot into the center of that mob and you can't miss."

Billy jammed the magnum into the waist of his pants before taking the rifle and five magazines. His hands shook. “I was always in a chopper,” he said. “I'm not used to this ground level stuff."

“You'll do fine,” Tucker said. “You're locked and loaded. When I fire the blooper, open up and keep shooting.” The grenade round contained a notched, coiled spring. On detonation, the weak points at the notches broke off to buzz outward at high velocity.

He waited until the mob came within 40 yards and fired. A flash and a smoke puff erupted near the leaders. Time seemed to stall.

Three men in the front buckled as two more off to the side staggered, bending at the waist, hands groping their legs. Then, time resumed normal movement and five rioters were on the ground dead or wounded as Tucker ejected the spent shell.

Billy and Smith fired. Billy sprayed five-round bursts into the crowd. The shotgun boomed, accented by Smith cussing each time he worked the slide to load a shell. Tucker fired another grenade, which exploded on the spine of a shirtless man who had turned to retreat. Hunks of meat and blood splattered against porch stoops. One man with long braided hair took a direct shotgun hit to the skull and his hair blew up straight before he dropped.

The street became a cattle stall where black men and women, some barely teens, tried to escape. Mad with fright and ambush shock, they ran into each other, dropping weapons.

Others, though, did not panic. Glass bottles filled with gasoline and lit rags were tossed into buildings and cars. Several armed rioters took cover in doorways across the street and bullets thwacked against the roof wall or snapped over the top. Billy ducked down to insert another magazine. Smith yelled, cussed, and fired the shotgun.

“Take that you bastards,” he screamed, ignoring any return fire.

Tucker had to admit Smith would have made a good marine. Billy was back up shooting as chunks of concrete clattered from the relief sculpture on the outside wall. Tucker fired the blooper at two muzzle flashes in a doorway across the street. The shell hit the top step, blowing the door glass out and wounding several people on the sidewalk. The muzzle flashes stopped, and a rifle bounced down the steps.

When Tucker looked down again, his Oldsmobile was burning. The trunk was open, the interior filled with flames. The corner bar came under attack. He saw three rioters fall down as if shot. Someone inside the bar had a weapon. There were just too many attackers and the riot had spilled into other streets and threatened to envelop them.

When he looked up, Billy had just loaded another magazine into the rifle and raised up to resume firing. Smith was bent at the waist over the wall firing the shotgun straight down. After three rounds, he ducked back, turning toward Tucker.

“They're in the building.” He loaded more shells. “I couldn't stop them."

Tucker jammed a beehive round into the blooper and put another in his pocket along with several grenade rounds.

“I'm going down and try to stop them from getting up here."

Smith gave him a thumbs-up sign before turning toward the street. Billy kept firing, but now he used single shots, trying to hit selective targets. He stopped and looked at Tucker. The green camouflage stick had been rubbed away from under his eyes, exposing the white skin.

“I'm doing better than I thought I would."

“You're doing fine, partner,” Tucker said.

“Do you want me to come with you?"

“No, I'll be back in a few moments."

“I need a cigarette,” Billy said. Two more bullets snapped above them. “I'm gonna nail that bastard."

Tucker squeezed his arm. “Hang in there."

* * * *

He waited in the dark at the bottom of the steps leading down from the roof. Jerry Forbes and the downstairs neighbor were dark lumps in front of him. Outside, he heard snaps, booms, screams, and shouts. He kept waiting for the bodies on the floor to rise up and walk. His eyes played tricks, making him think they were breathing.

Rioters trashed the downstairs apartment, probably stealing money or jewelry. Tucker scratched a bug bite on his face. His back and scalp itched from sweat. He knew if he lasted the night, his life would change forever, having lost his home and car.

Nothing seemed fair anymore. What else could they take from him? All he wanted was to live without torment. First the government tried to kill him in a no-win war, and now society was trying to kill him. The monster didn't care. It would adjust, forcing him to adapt to any situation. If he survived.

He heard them coming. In the faint light from the landing below, he saw a shape move slowly up the stairs, a lighter piece of dark on the landing. Tucker had closed the door to the roof to keep light from framing him with a background.

He sat motionless as the black man with a white T-shirt paused at the top of the landing. The man moved and slipped in blood, but he grabbed the banister.

“Shit,” he said. He ran back down the stairs to the second floor apartment. Tucker heard jabbering and something about a flashlight. Moments later, a light beam swerved up the stairs.

Tucker squeezed into the corner. Billy and Smith were picking shots now, firing slower, although shooting from neighboring streets had increased.

“No way I be coming up here by myself,” a voice said.

Tucker saw three men. The one with the flashlight carried a pistol in his left hand. The second man, the one who first came up the stairs, carried a large kitchen knife. The one with the flashlight mumbled something and called him Leon. The third was a bald, fat man wearing a yellow muscle shirt. He carried a rifle. When the leader shined the light on the bodies, the procession stopped again.

“Shit,” Leon said. “See, I told you I slipped in something."

“What's up?” the fat man said as he reached the landing.

“There's some white motherfuckers got their shit blown away,” the man with the flashlight said, shining it on the apartment door, forcing Tucker deeper against the wall.

The beehive round would take them all out if they stood next to each other and not one behind the other. He worried more about getting a clear shot at the fat man with the rifle because he wouldn't have time to reload the blooper.

As the three men moved around the bodies, Smith's shotgun boomed four times. Several bullets popped into the slate shingles, sending fragments sliding down the roof.

The men froze, glancing toward the stairs to the roof. Tucker figured he would have to shoot then, but the man with the flashlight kept the beam on the apartment door.

“I smell smoke,” the fat man with the rifle said.

“No shit,” Leon said. “The whole motherfucking block is on fire."

“Not that,” the fat man said. “In here."

Tucker smelled the stinging mix of gasoline and burning rags. The other man turned the flashlight toward the stairwell. Smoke tendrils rose through the light beam.

“We best hurry,” the fat man said.

The man with the flashlight handed it to Leon, and then slammed the door with his right shoulder. Tucker nodded at the futile attempt. The door opened out, and the steel plate would resist a small explosion. Having little room to move unless he stepped into congealed blood, the man pointed his weapon at the door.

Tucker saw his opportunity. Leon leaned in closer with the flashlight, and the fat man stood behind his shoulder; all three heads exposed in line. Tucker thought about movies where the hero or even the bad guy said something likehey,you , giving the enemy a chance to pull weapons before the fight. That shit didn't happen in his world.

He fired the blooper. A pop, a flash, a whining zing, and a rattle like hail hitting a car roof as 100 inch-long, steel arrows perforated the three exposed heads, the walls, and the door. Sparks flew as arrows struck the steel doorplate. The three men dropped like hand puppets with their strings cut.

The flashlight lay on the floor shining against the door, the light framing the left side of the face of the man named Leon. The shafts of six steel arrows protruded from his forehead, the tiny steel feathers visible. Another dozen had penetrated his cheek and eye to disappear inside, leaving small deep holes from which blood welled and seeped in thin lines. Someone had a pierced throat, and air escaped in a high-pitched wheeze.

Tucker ejected the shell and loaded another. A heavy piss aroma cut through the smoke smell. Smith's shotgun boomed three times in between the dull pop of Billy's rifle.

Tucker lit a cigarette and inhaled, feeling electric. Only combat gave him that high, especially after an ambush. Just like the rush he would get moments after he had placed a captured scumbag into the car trunk.

After five drags on the cigarette, he crushed it on the stairs. The whining air from the punctured throat had stopped. The smoke fumes seemed stronger. There would be no more killers jammed into the Oldsmobile trunk. As he started back up the stairs to the roof, he knew the building would be destroyed.

He would lose everything, except the monster...

Chapter 16

By two in the morning, the Hanfield Street battle ended, shifting to other distant streets. The fire in Tucker's building had fizzled before reaching the second floor, but three tenements across the street spit smoke and flames from the upper floors. Hot embers and popping sparks ignited new fires. He knew the entire block would be destroyed without fire department support, which wasn't likely. Across the alley, several buildings burned beyond control. They were centered in a fire ring.

Tucker thought Hanfield Street looked like a medieval nightmare. Bodies covered the pavement, sidewalks, and porch stoops. Many seemed to have fallen asleep, their eyes closed and hands folded across stomachs. Others lay in twisted clumps; their eyes and mouths open in final screams. The wounded flailed, moaned, and cried out. The fires reflected off blood pools and bulging entrails.

Watching the street, Tucker and his two partners leaned against the roof wall. Smith had been shot in the left arm. A through and through wound Tucker had wrapped with a piece of shirt. They had used over half the ammunition.

“Should we shoot those wounded?” Smith said.

“No,” Tucker said. “Save the ammo."

Part of a building near the corner rumbled and collapsed on several moving bodies, raising sparks and a dust cloud.

Billy inhaled and coughed. “I'm burnt out."

Tucker looked at Billy, and Smith frowned, shaking his head. They all laughed.

“I'll bet that's the last thing those people just thought when the building fell on them,” Smith said.

They laughed again, and Tucker sat down with his back against the wall, too tired to stand. Billy and Smith soon followed.

“Hand me your rifle, Billy,” Tucker said. “I need to clean it before it blows up in your face. I'm surprised the barrel didn't melt down."

Tucker field-stripped the weapon as they drank water, which they sweated out just as fast. Occasionally, he smelled burning hair and flesh or a combination of both; a bitter stench clinging to his nostrils already blackened from ash and cordite. The cammo face paint had rubbed off. Their arms and necks were covered with black soot, but their faces were white.

Helicopters flew over. They heard rotors several blocks away and a garbled loudspeaker voice. The rioters had suffered a defeat on Hanfield Street due to panic. Civilians without military experience didn't understand an effective ambush. Had they moved toward cover in the direction of the incoming fire, the outcome could have been different.

Billy had a coughing fit, and Smith cussed his wound. Tucker knew they were all in battle shock, exhausted and feeling silly, while every pore tingled. Surviving against incredible odds had bonded them. Tucker would die for either of his men.

He ran an oil patch down the rifle barrel. “I'm supposed to go to the VA on Monday and talk with my shrink."

“What for?” Smith said.

“To help me forget about war.” Tucker unscrewed the cleaning rod and put it away. “He wants me to be involved in more social activities so I can forget about Vietnam."

Smith stared and Billy grinned.

“I wonder what he's going to say when you tell him about tonight,” Billy said.

Tucker pulled and released the bolt several times before inserting a full magazine into the rifle. “He'll probably say I should try a singles dance."

They laughed, and Billy coughed hard. “This smoke is getting to me."

“We need to leave,” Tucker said.

“Where can we go?"

Tucker didn't know. He had already accepted the loss of his possessions. Without a car, he couldn't salvage his belongings from the apartment. What cash he had was in his pocket. He could carry clothing, but the weapons were more important.

Billy and Smith were in the same position. Their houses were closer to the projects and had probably been destroyed. He couldn't take these two to Barbara's. She wouldn't let them stay. Even if she did, he doubted whether Billy could walk far. Having lost blood, Smith wouldn't make it, either, There was one possible safe place.

“We could try the cemetery,” Tucker said. “It's five blocks away. We could go there until morning and then figure out what to do."

“Yeah, there's that one place where we used to drink beer when we were kids,” Billy said. “We would have good cover and we could see anything coming."

Gunfire seemed to be getting closer. They heard a distant helicopter and the garbled loudspeaker. The chopper flew low over buildings maybe ten blocks away. Red wavy lines shot toward the ground with a whir like a buzz saw being revved up.

“What the hell is that?” Smith said.

“They're using mini-guns,” Tucker said. “We called them Puff the Magic Dragon in Nam. Every fifth bullet is a red tracer and they fire so fast you see a solid red line."

“Yeah, one burst can put a bullet in every inch of ground the size of a football field,” Billy said.

“It was only a matter of time before the military moved in,” Tucker said.

“But they'll kill everybody,” Smith said. “We're the good guys."

Billy frowned at Tucker. “He must think we're in a cowboy movie. Smith, my man, to the people running this state we're all the bad guys."

A building across the alley collapsed in a roar of clattering bricks, splintering wood, and shattered glass, showering the roof with debris and thick smoke.

“We have to get out of here,” Tucker said, pulling off his shirt and holding it to his nose.

Billy coughed and spat. “I can't climb down that rope and I can't jump between these buildings."

“I can't climb down that rope, either,” Smith said, then gagged.

After several minutes, the smoke cleared enough to breathe without covering their faces. They heard rotors, and a helicopter gunship passed quickly above them across the alley. The chopper hovered three blocks away, shining a spotlight toward the ground. This time they understood the words.

“Martial law has been declared. Drop all weapons and immediately clear this area."

Several rifles popped and the chopper raised up sideways before hovering again. Two whirring red lines flicked out toward the ground, each spraying 100 bullets per second.

“Let's get this show on the road,” Billy said. “We can't fuck with the man."

Tucker didn't know if the people firing at the helicopter were brave or stupid. Either way, they were probably dead. The chopper sped away. The buzz-saw whir sounded again as another gunship fired mini-guns. He now heard many sirens in the distance. The forces of law and order were trying to regain control.

“We're screwed unless we get out of here now,” Tucker said. “We can work our way down through the building. The guys I hit with the blooper had a flashlight. I'll go get it while you two gather all the gear you can carry."

“Do we need the damn flashlight?” Billy said.

“Unless you want to slip in blood and feel your way down the stairs."

“No thanks."

“Then let's do it."

* * * *

Holding the blooper, Tucker hesitated, a chill up his back, at the bottom of the roof stairs. The same reaction he often experienced when entering the cabin, as if some living presence remained, watching.

Aromas penetrated his dulled sense of smell. The stink of body fluids and perspiration mixed with the thick, sugary scent of blood and meat going sour.

The flashlight had dimmed but still illuminated Leon's waxy face. Congealed blood made the arrow holes purple. The eyes had begun to flatten inward from fluid loss. A single fly appeared from inside the left nostril, stopping on the upper lip. Maggots would soon attack the flesh.

Tucker stepped forward, each crunching footstep too loud. Outside, Billy and Smith stumbled around the slate roof. Popping gunfire seemed closer. Sirens whooped, and he heard an approaching helicopter. As he reached down for the flashlight, he half expected a hand to grab his wrist. He snatched the light and jumped back toward the stairs, feeling the chill again as he kept the beam pointed up and away, avoiding the bodies in the dark.

What sounded like thousands of hammers striking a metal door tore the slate roof, forcing Tucker into a fetal ball with the flashlight and the blooper held against the top of his head. A noise so loud he feared the entire upper floor would collapse. He heard the buzz-saw whir and the rotors. He knew Billy and Smith were gone.

A smoke fog had settled on the cemetery in the gray minutes before dawn. Tucker sat on a slight hill with his back against a tombstone. The sky glowed orange over Northside, accented by the noise of scattered gunfire, sirens, and helicopters. He had the blooper, the .45 pistol, the flashlight, and the clothes he was wearing. Everything else had been lost.

Billy Samuels and Donald Smith had been standing close together when by the mini-gun burst popped them like melons. Tucker collapsed to a sitting position when he saw the remains.

His internal wall had crumbled during the night, pushing back the monster to allow true feeling for the first time since Vietnam. He had trusted Billy and Smith, and he had almost felt human again. Now they were gone, forever.

Tucker stood and shouldered his weapon. The freeway was beyond the cemetery. He would walk parallel to it, avoiding the road, until he reached a phone to call Barbara. He faced an uncertain future, but one constant remained.

Inside, the monster had quickly rebuilt the wall, and Tucker knew he would pay a price for trying to knock it down.

PART TWO

JANUARY 2006

A wrong-doer is often a man that has left something undone,

not always that he has done something.

—Marcus Aurelius

Chapter 17

In Barbara's apartment, his home for the past four months, Tucker watched the blizzard through the sliding balcony doors.Their home , she liked to say. He did not feel that way.

The wind howled through roof gutters and whipped the hanging porch chimes as blowing snow formed deep drifts against rod-iron chairs. Thick ice coated the lower outside of the door, and he wiped a circle through the fogged glass on the inside. Peering through the clear space, he felt trapped.

He hated snow; hated driving in it. His new vehicle, a black, 1998 Chevy Blazer with four-wheel drive, could handle severe weather. But too many psychos attempted to maintain dry road speeds on icy pavement, and he wanted to avoid being killed by an idiot.

During periods of depression, Tucker would often forget the day of the week. He knew today was Monday, January 16. He had canceled an appointment with Doctor Stahl because he didn't feel like discussing Vietnam.

Also, Barbara had turned 46 on Sunday the 15th. He took her to breakfast at a local restaurant, surprising her with a cake and a new dress. After her depression over being a year older passed, she spent the day wrapped around him on the couch. They screwed twice. She told him she loved him. She seemed to say it every five minutes now. He said he loved her because she wanted to hear it. In his heart, he wished he could love her.

They fell asleep around 8:00, and awoke to the morning blizzard. Needing alone time, he offered to switch vehicles so she wouldn't change her mind about working. She accepted. She loved driving in snow, and he knew the Blazer would be more fun than her Toyota. Without his Blazer, he knew she would trust him to stay home. After she left, he felt too alone, as if he did not belong anywhere. Then, the monster would dominate his thoughts.

Before the storm hit, he planned to begin stalking Karl Hauser, a middle-aged, balding teacher. He had been accused of forcing intercourse and oral sex upon three young girls in his fourth grade class at the Chase School in Northside.

Grand jury evidence had been presented before the September riot. Hauser had posted bond after being indicted. Not only had the school burned down during the riot, but the three girls, one black and two white, and their entire families, had been killed. The case against Hauser collapsed.

Tucker imagined the pervert in the suburbs smiling at his good luck. He was even teaching at another school. The public had forgotten the crime, but Tucker remembered.

Hauser would be #59.

He stepped away from the balcony doors to sit on the couch. The apartment was filled with plants and books and paintings. Barbara spent her free time reading or watching television, and she had him doing the same, as if taming a wild beast.

He knew she considered him dangerous. That was part of the attraction. Ralph Jacobs, her former lover, had been a sensitive, rose-buying, door-opening, gourmet cook. The kind of guy who usually gets dumped because he offered security but no challenge. Barbara, like other women Tucker had known, thrived on excitement and fantasy. They wanted to fall madly in love, have great sex, and then fight to hold on to a man. Tucker understood. This was her form of combat.

* * * *

She had been shocked at his physical condition that morning at a phone booth. She called in sick at work and came to get him. Naked to the waist and filthy, he was blood splattered, stinking, carrying weapons, and had collapsed across the rear seat.

“God, what happened to you,” she said. “I was so worried."

“Can't talk about it now,” he answered, then closed his eyes.

He remembered stopping for traffic lights, and bouncing over a speed bump as the guards waved her past the apartment complex gate. Then, he was naked in the bathroom and she bathed him before he fell into bed.

He awoke in the late afternoon, wearing one of her extra long nightshirts as they ate sandwiches and watched television riot reports. From an aerial view, most of Northside and the South Cumminsville projects were burning.

They saw live coverage from outside the riot area: interviews with survivors, police officials, and National Guard officers. They saw dazed, crying people stumble in front of destroyed homes and stores. Skid mounted cameras showed helicopters firing mini-guns into streets littered with dead. By then, the force of the riot had passed and the military and police had gained control as firemen fought hundreds of fires.

“Did you see your street on television?” Barbara asked.

“No, but I'm sure it's gone."

He told her about Billy Samuels being killed and she frowned as if she didn't believe him. She asked the question Tucker knew would be coming.

“Did you kill anyone?"

“Maybe fifty."

Her mouth had dropped open. “What?"

She needed a reality dose. He could deny it later. Anyone who could have seen him had died.

“I said that I killed maybe fifty people.” Her eyes flared excitement.

“You did that?"

“Believe me, that's a drop in the bucket."

He had been right. Four months later bodies were being pulled from the rubble. The known dead as of January totaled 3,216 blacks, 2,412 whites, 226 police and firemen, and 75 National Guard troops. Including sprains and broken bones, another 8,000 had been wounded. Four helicopter gunships and two news helicopters had either been shot down or crashed.

Historically, this casualty rate had dwarfed all other American riots, sending shock waves from Los Angeles to New York. Several minor riots erupted in other large cities, but the police stopped them quickly.

Tucker had returned to the neighborhood several times during the past four months. Entire streets had been leveled to create a red brick rubble wasteland amid stubs of leaning telephone poles. At least 40,000 former residents had been forced out, and no attempts had been made to rebuild. Hanfield Street was a memory; with the cracked sidewalks the only indication buildings had existed.

More prepared than most former residents, Tucker had $12,000 in the bank saved from VA electronic deposits and $1,000 in his pocket the night of the riot. He lost several thousand dollars in property but could replace it.

He had phoned his hysterical sister in San Francisco the day after the riot. Lindsey begged him to move west. He lied and said he would think about it, but he couldn't leave the Indiana killing ground.

He considered finding another apartment. Living at the cabin was not an option. That belonged to the monster. He could deal with his own private cemetery, but only the monster could face the powerful anguish inside the cabin. To stalk prey, he needed the city.

Marine Corps training had given him the ability to adapt to any living condition, but moving would be stupid because he had it easy with Barbara. The spare bedroom contained a new set of weights and his weapons.

Barbara insisted the guns be kept hidden in the closet. He was pampered, fed, and loved. The one thing missing was freedom of movement, which stopped him from punishing child molesters.

The monster, however, worked him like a puppet, pulling and tugging, demanding he punish scumbags. Despite a life of leisure, he was trapped within himself. He countered with workouts, releasing aggression triggered by the urgent monster. His muscles appeared cut from chiseled stone.

* * * *

Tucker smoked a cigarette and stared at the plants for awhile before standing to look out the balcony doors. The snow blew hard, forming deeper drifts on the porch, and filling in fresh tire tracks on the street. He thought about the AIDS camp on the horizon, imagining the horror winter would bring to the place. He kept seeing children painted red from the neck up standing naked in the snow, crying and shivering until they died or were beaten and raped by older victims.

Leaning his forehead against the cold glass, he closed his eyes and tried to reject the vivid images. The monster kept them coming, and a voice in his head told him to kill.

The doorbell rang, startling him. He reacted by reaching for a weapon before the thought registered he probably was safe. He moved quietly to the door, turning sideways to make a narrow target as he looked through the peephole. He saw part of a uniform under a heavy blue coat. Then, he saw the face of the security guard who had hassled Barbara. The braggart who kept telling her he had seen heavy combat in the Persian Gulf.

His name was Lester Moore, and he had stopped coming to the door since Tucker's arrival. Instead, he confined his remarks to times when Barbara passed the guard shack. He would grunt and groan, often asking her out as he boasted about being a stud.

In his mid-thirties, he had probably been one of thousands forced out of the military due to spending cuts after the Persian Gulf War. He did have big arms, but had a bigger stomach he tried to conceal by sucking it in and pushing out his chest. When he walked, he appeared to have a board strapped to his back.

Barbara complained to Tucker several times about Moore. He told her he would take care of the problem, but he wanted to talk to the guard alone so no one knew their business. He actually wanted to confront Moore without witnesses, but the guard was smart. He worked days, always in the company of other guards, except when he tried to gain entry to the apartment because he knew Barbara was alone.

If Tucker passed the guard shack, Moore stared without speaking. In the rearview mirror, he would see Moore raising a fist at him, saying something that made other guards laugh.

Now, Moore kept pushing his glasses up against his nose. Folding up the earflaps of a blue hat, he removed it to straighten his flattened brown hair. He rang the bell again.

Tucker knew what had happened. Moore must have seen the Blazer leave and figured Tucker had been driving. Since Barbara's car was in the lot, he could catch her alone.

As Tucker reached for the door, he heard jiggling keys and stopped. The guards kept emergency keys for all apartments, and Moore was going to enter under some false pretense, hoping to catch Barbara in bed. Tucker moved quickly through the kitchen and entered a walk-in closet in the dining room, leaving the door open enough to see. He hoped the guard would go straight to the bedroom.

Moore did, and cursed when he realized Barbara was gone. Dresser drawers opened and closed. The bed squeaked. Easing out of the closet, Tucker moved along the carpeted hall to the bedroom. Moore sat on the edge of the bed with his head tilted back, masturbating with his right hand. His left hand gripped a pair of Barbara's green silk panties, held against his nose.

Tucker stepped forward. “Having fun, asshole."

His eyes wide, Moore dropped the panties and squealed. Tucker punched the bridge of his nose, snapping his glasses in the middle and knocking him back onto the bed. Moore pissed a thin stream straight up as Tucker jerked him from the bed and took his nine-millimeter pistol from the holster. He dragged the man down the hall, and dropped him on the dining room floor. Straddling him, he pinned the guard's shoulders with both knees. Moore pleaded as blood from his nose ran down his cheeks.

“Are you a tough guy?” Tucker said, jamming the pistol between Moore's eyes.

“Please, there's a round in the chamber."

Tucker smacked him across the right cheek with the gun barrel, raising a red welt. “I asked if you are a tough guy."

“No, please."

“You must be or you wouldn't be messing with people you don't know."

“I didn't mean nothing."

“Is that right? You've been trying to screw my woman, and now you break in and beat off to her underwear. Is that what you call not meaning nothing?"

“God, I'm sorry."

Tucker pulled back the hammer and forced the gun barrel into Moore's mouth. The guard gagged.

“I should blow your brains out.” He saw terror in those dark eyes, and felt pleasure in such control. If this had been the cabin, Moore would die. Tucker slowly withdrew the gun. “But I won't kill you.” He stood up.

Moore pissed on the rug.

“You are going to disappear today. Quit your job and never come back."

Moore sat up, coughing as he scooted back toward the wall. “I will."

“Now get up and take all your clothes off."

“Huh?"

Tucker stepped forward and kicked Moore in the shin, making him squeal again.

“You are going to strip naked and clean the piss off the rugs and the bed and then you're going to walk out the door."

“But what about the blizzard?"

“I'm going to throw your clothes off the balcony. All you have to do is trot around the building and pick them up."

“That's crazy."

“You're through here, asshole. I wouldn't call the police. I wouldn't call anybody. Unless you want the world to know you pissed your pants when you got caught beating off to underwear. I'm sure there are other places you can harass people. Now, get up."

* * * *

Tucker watched Moore fumble his clothes in the deep snow beyond the balcony. He had allowed him to tape his broken glasses, and Moore made good time trotting around the building. Tucker figured Moore had enough fat to keep him alive long enough to retrieve the clothes.

After pushing him out the door, Tucker emptied the gun and removed Barbara's key from the guard's keyring. He wrote down Moore's address off his drivers’ license and the business address from a health club identification card. He returned the wallet and keys to the pants before dumping everything off the balcony.

If for some reason the pervert caused trouble, Tucker knew where to find him. He would take Moore to the cabin in St. Leon to meet a real monster.

Chapter 18

Tucker, dressed as a monk in a hooded brown robe, smoked cigarettes on the cabin porch as he waited for night. It had been a bright February Friday, the temperature reaching 55 degrees during what should have been the middle of winter. The snow had melted, except for the yellowed, pitted remains of drifts wedged against the cabin logs. A bush next to the cabin had sprouted green buds. The ground was mud, and bare trees in his graveyard dropped water and twigs onto wet brown leaves.

Inside the cabin, Karl Hauser, #59, unconscious and perhaps with a mild skull fracture, was tied naked to the rocking chair, which had been nailed to the floor with spikes. On Hauser's size 9 feet, Tucker had placed size 12 leather knee boots. Those boots would be Hauser's start on a slide to hell. The monster was pure evil.

Hauser taught as a substitute at a prison reform school for juvenile boys 20 miles north of Cincinnati. This was probably the only job available after the accusations of molesting young girls.

Tucker stalked him for nine days, Monday through Friday the first week, and Monday through Thursday the second week. He followed Hauser to work at 8:00 in the morning and returned just before 3:30 to trail him home.

Hauser went straight to work and home except on Wednesday and Friday. On Wednesdays, he made a detour to an elementary school where he stopped as if a waiting parent. He stayed in the car watching young girls. Tucker knew he should attack before Hauser attempted to rape a child.

On the first Friday, Hauser stopped at a nude dancer bar, the Beaver Inn, for two hours after work, probably to feed his fantasy while waiting for the opportunity to strike.

On the second Friday, the tenth day of stalking, Tucker planned to capture him in the parking lot behind the bar where a dirt road crossed a barren field to a county road. Tucker could enter and leave without using the main highway front entrance. The bar opened at 4:30 and business was slow until at least 5:00.

The bar lacked rear windows, just a dirty tan wall with a delivery entrance. There had been safer captures, but Hauser spent little time away from home. To attempt to take him from his house could mean being spotted, making the parking lot the logical choice.

The one stopper could be if another patron entered the lot, or if Hauser decided not to show. Knowing Hauser to be a creature of pattern, Tucker believed he would come.

When Hauser arrived in his Datsun, Tucker opened the rear hatch of the Blazer and removed a tire tool. Three other cars were in the lot, probably employees, and the teacher had parked in a spot next to Tucker.

Hauser wore brown dress pants, a white shirt, and a brown leather coat. When he stepped from the car, Tucker smiled at the shorter man.

“Say, you don't have a set of jumper cables, do you?"

“No, I don't,” Hauser said, adjusting his glasses. He balked as if afraid to pass.

Tucker smiled again. “This damn thing won't start and the old lady is going to be pissed if I have to call her down here to jump me. Thanks, anyway."

Hauser seemed to relax, and Tucker turned sideways to let him pass. The teacher was down a moment later, his glasses several feet away in the dirt. Stunned, his feet jerked as if trying to gain footing in the gravel.

Tucker hit him again, then tied his hands and feet and taped his mouth. He picked up the glasses, tossed Hauser into the Blazer, covered him with a blanket, and slammed the hatch. An hour later, he was at the cabin waiting for sunset.

Barbara would be angry. He had left a note, the first since moving in, saying he would return on Saturday. Her fragile security bubble would burst. She would be sure he was with another woman, and she might even ask him to leave.

Tucker couldn't worry about that now. He took a final drag from a cigarette. The sun had disappeared. It was dark and cold. The time of the monster had come again, after waiting almost five months. Reaching back, he pulled up the brown hood, covering his face. He turned toward the cabin door, exhaling a thick mist of smoke and steamy breath.

Hell was in session.

* * * *

The teacher whimpered. A long, purple bruise had marred his left cheek. He had a huge red knot just above his forehead, inside the thinning hairline. Tucker ripped away the mouth tape and placed the glasses on Hauser's nose, wanting him to see clearly.

The light swung back and forth across the chair, accenting Hauser's pale, naked body. The slender teacher lacked muscle tone, just straight up and down white skin, like a child a few years before puberty. He had thick, brown pubic hair and small genitals. Maybe that was why he liked young girls, Tucker figured. Maybe he thought he couldn't please a woman.

Hauser's toes wiggled inside the large boots, and Tucker knew this pervert didn't know why the boots were on his feet. On the stove behind Tucker, boiling vegetable oil gurgled in a glass pot. The glowing red tips of two pair of pliers lay across another burner.

Tucker studied his victim from beneath the hooded robe, his arms folded across his chest, hands concealed by the baggy sleeves. Tonight, the monster had taken the identity of a maniac from the 16th century, an Inquisition torturer.

“You have been accused of being a witch."

“A what?” Hauser said, his voice nasal. “What is going on here? You hurt me."

Tucker laughed. His stomach tingled and the monster wanted to rip at Hauser.

“It works like this. I torture you until you confess guilt and then you die."

“Die?"

“Silence,” Tucker shouted. “If I torture you and you don't confess, that is also an admission of guilt because the devil is giving you strength to keep from confessing. So you also die. It's a foolproof system."

“God, where am I?” Hauser said. “Who are you?"

“I'll ask the questions, asshole,” Tucker said. Flipping back the hood, he growled, raising his arms toward the ceiling. Tears ran down Hauser's cheeks. The monster stared.

“Did those young girls cry like that when you raped them?"

“I didn't."

“How dare you speak such blasphemy, witch."

“God, help me."

“And since you are a child fornicator, it is enough to prove that you are a witch."

“I didn't do that."

“You are claiming innocence?"

“These ropes hurt.” Hauser snorted, swallowing. “Please, let me go."

“You are a sorry fucking excuse for a man,” the monster said. “Since you deny bewitching children, torture must begin. Perhaps, you are wondering why you're wearing those big boots."

Tucker turned and walked to the stove. Opening the oven door, he removed a soup ladle. Dipping it into the glass pot, he filled the ladle, then moved toward Hauser, holding the scalding liquid over the wide brim of the boots.

“Think for a few seconds. Enjoy your last moments on this earth without pain. Think about what it's going to feel like when this boiling oil fills your boots."

“Don't.” Hauser squirmed in the chair. “You can't."

“Welcome to hell, Karl."

Chapter 19

It was the Monday after Hauser's execution, another bright, unusually warm February day, and Tucker's first session with Doctor Stahl in several weeks because the therapist took a vacation.

Tucker knew he looked bad. He had a two-day beard and dark circles under his eyes. He also had a sore throat, aching thighs, and a temperature. The lack of sleep, heavy smoking, and pressure from Barbara had weakened his immune system. Losing the freedom to come and go had altered his discipline. Having last lifted weights on Friday, he believed his muscles sagged like wet sponges.

He stared out the office window at traffic. The bare tree branches looked foreign, as if stuck in the wrong season.Just as he seemed to be .

* * * *

Hauser had screamed so loud that Tucker taped his mouth again. The scalding oil created a slobbering lunatic with such strength he nearly ripped the rocking chair from the floor. After pinching Hauser's nose off with the hot pliers, the nasal passages cauterized, and he removed the tape so the teacher could breathe.

Hauser went into shock. After Tucker seared off his nipples with the hot pliers, leaving charred, oozing holes, Hauser twitched and babbled about his mother.

For the first time during an execution, Tucker controlled the monster by ending the mutilation. He considered replacing the tape to suffocate Hauser, but he removed a claw hammer from the oven. Turning the hammer sideways, he struck Hauser's forehead above the left eye, caving in the skull. The torment had lasted less than two hours. For the first time, Tucker allowed a victim to escape full torture.

He untied the corpse, placing it flat on the floor with the arms folded across the chest. This way, he could loop a noose around the neck and drag Hauser without snagging every root and boulder. This was also the first time he worried about death posture. With others, he had forced the body into the narrow grave, snapping bones if necessary.

He turned off the stove and spent the night on the porch with a .357 magnum by his right leg. He sat with his back against the log wall, or curled into a fetal ball on his side, using the monk robe like a tortoise shell.

He stayed awake because he was outside and exposed. His brain sorted night sounds for danger, as he questioned his existence. Had remorse pushed back the monster? He didn't understand. He did know he was sick of slaughter. The euphoria and sense of justice were missing. Was he now just killing?

Several times during the night, he raised the gun against his right temple. The monster stopped him. He felt it beneath the skin, matching his contours, a forged iron evil, laughing.

So, Tucker sat against the logs seeing images from the past. He had been named Michael after his grandfather on his father's side. His grandfather had been a Kentucky farmer, and Tucker's father, Edwin, had escaped to Cincinnati after a year of building roads in the Civil Conservation Corps in 1932. His grandfather had died before Tucker was born, and he figured the man must have tortured Edwin to make him turn into a drunken psycho.

As a child, Tucker hated his last name. The first day in Northside, after they moved from the coffee factory downtown, a fat kid named Phillip had called himFucker Tucker . They fought and Tucker lost the only fight of his life. The next day, he came back and whipped Fat Phillip while learning an important lesson. Size didn't mean a thing without guts. He had been intimidated by size the first day, and quickly realized Fat Phillip didn't have the guts to risk it all. Once the Northside tough kids learned Tucker would fight until he won, no one fought him.

Rock fights had been the major thing. Terrible battles with a dozen people on a side throwing rocks like bullets to settle disputes. Tucker had received several head wounds.

A doctor examining his skull during a routine physical said he had at least five scars that should have had stitches. Tucker had smiled, proud of his wounds. The doctor said he was lucky. Blows to the skull could often cause permanent brain damage...

Hauser had permanent brain damage. Part of it rested in his lap, having slipped from the crushed skull. The teacher had been unlucky.

He dragged the corpse, face up with a rope around the neck, to the woods just before dawn. The heels of the leather boots left streaks in the mud. When he forced the body into the narrow hole the backside was purple and slick with mud and matted leaves. He poured gasoline into the grave. A loud whoosh erupted when he threw a match. He swore his eyebrows had been seared, but in the bathroom mirror saw he still had them. The stink had been Hauser's hair igniting.

Hauser had $400, which Tucker kept. Everything else, including the brown robe, went into the hole. By ten in the morning, any physical trace of Karl Hauser had vanished.

* * * *

“You look tired,” Doctor Stahl said, handing Tucker his standard coffee with cream and no sugar. “How have you been sleeping?"

Tucker placed the cup between his legs and lit a cigarette. “No worse than I ever did. I've been remembering what I dream."

“You don't usually recall dreams?"

“No, but sometimes I'll remember everything."

Doctor Stahl sipped his own coffee then crossed his legs. “Well, losing your home was a trauma. You had to fight and your friends were killed. It was like experiencing Vietnam again. Maybe that's why you have recall."

“I don't know,” Tucker said, exhaling smoke toward the window, watching it swirl and roll in the light. “I've been dreaming about finding Barbara dead.” He crushed the cigarette in the old cup ashtray, then glanced out the window.It was a lie . He never dreamed about her being dead.

“Has this ever happened before?"

He turned, making eye contact. “No, I don't recall ever dreaming about Barbara."

“Where do you find her?"

“I'm not sure. She's naked and tied to a chair and there's a light swinging above her head.”The monster was making him talk. This had never happened before.

“And she's dead?"

“Her skull is crushed and her left eye is bright red. There are big holes where her breasts should have been."

Doctor Stahl leaned back, taking a deep breath. This had gone far enough. Stahl might try to put him on the psych ward. Back off, he thought. He sensed the monster inside, leering.

“Then I wake up."

Doctor Stahl leaned forward. “You wake up?"

“Nothing else happens. I think the shock of finding her wakes me up."

“And it's not you who killed her?"

Tucker lit another cigarette. “No, not that I remember in the dream."

“How are things going with you and Barbara?"

“I almost moved out over the weekend."

“You've been fighting with her?"

“I didn't come home Friday night. I drove to Kentucky and stayed at a motel. I left her a note."

“And she accused you of being with another woman?"

“Right. I didn't even argue with her. I just started packing my clothes."

“Where did you plan to go?"

“Probably to a motel until I found an apartment."

“Then what happened?"

“She begged me to stay."

Doctor Stahl leaned back. “Can you understand why she would be angry? Would you be upset if she stayed out all night?"

“I probably would. I think she's afraid to be alone right now or she wouldn't have begged me."

“Why is she afraid?"

“Because of the letter."

Doctor Stahl sat up straight. “What letter?"

Tucker crushed his cigarette. “She got a note in the mail Saturday. The words were cut out of a magazine and pasted on paper."

“What was in the letter?"

“Just one sentence. I'm going to rip your cunt out."

“No wonder she's frightened. Does she know who sent it?"

“No."

“Do you?"

“No."

Doctor Stahl fumbled with papers on his desk. “I want you think about something, Michael. I'm not trying to pressure you, but you should think about going into the hospital for a few days."

Tucker's stomach dropped. Their relationship had entered a new stage.

“What about Barbara? I shouldn't leave her alone."

“Then, let me refer you to someone for medication."

“I'll think about it."

“Maybe you can let me know next Monday. Or sooner."

Tucker stood. “Sure, I'll let you know."

Stahl glanced at his watch. “We still have time left."

“I'm running a fever. I was wondering if we could break off early."

“We can. Michael, think about what I said."

“I will.” Tucker shook Stahl's hand.

* * * *

He drove home angry because the monster had altered his therapy. The lie about the Barbara dreams had made the truth about the threat letter point in his direction. Stahl knew he often lost track of days. He could have sent the note and not remembered doing it.

That was bullshit. Cutting up magazines was not his style, and the monster was too aggressive to send notes. He would find out who sent the letter, and he would skip therapy until he could control the monster. Hospital medication would collapse his internal wall, setting free the true face of his evil.

Chapter 20

The mail came late Friday, minutes before Barbara returned from work: a letter from the VA and another threat note to Barbara. Her name had been spelled in capital letters, as if a child addressed the white envelope. This note repeated the format of the first one, with different colored large and small letters cut from magazine pages.

Hearing the key in the door, Tucker hid the note in his pocket. The first letter had scared her, and since she was still angry about his staying out all night last Friday, he didn't want to ruin the weekend. He waited near the door then kissed her hard, reaching under her skirt with his right hand, making her tremble and grind against his fingers.

If she was angry, he could break her defenses this way. She claimed some chemical mixing in nature forced her to want sex when he touched her. He didn't believe it had anything to do with chemical reactions. He could satisfy her. That was the attraction.

He had been able to please other women just as easily, without understanding why. He didn't do what other men couldn't do. Maybe it was his self-discipline of allowing the women to orgasm first.

Barbara enjoyed being pinned down with her arms over her head, and then she would curse, moan, and plead with him to stop making her feel so good. She often called him a bastard, as if hating what he was doing. Tucker figured her internal monster rose to the surface during sex. There was no other way to explain her animal side.

After they made love, he massaged her back. He kissed her neck and lightly bit her shoulders until she was breathing hard and he was erect again.

“No,” she pleaded as he turned her over. “I don't think...” She gasped when he entered her and she kissed him hard, biting his lip. “You bastard,” she said. “You're going to kill me."

* * * *

It was night when they finished taking showers. Wearing robes, they sat at the dining room table, their hair wet and stringy. They ate sandwiches and potato salad and Barbara made coffee. They smoked cigarettes and smiled at each other as Barbara read the newspaper comics. She seldom read the news, saying it was too depressing.

“I just thought of something,” she said. She folded the paper and sipped coffee.

“What's that?” Tucker said.

“I haven't seen that guard who used to hassle me. Have you seen him lately?"

“I sure haven't."

“Did you ever have a talk with him?"

“No, I haven't seen him. Maybe he quit."

“I doubt it. He's probably on vacation. He's creepy."

“Let's hope he's gone,” Tucker said. “It would save us a lot of trouble."

“Did we get any mail today?"

“Like what?"

“Bills, or another one of those letters."

“That was probably just a prank,” Tucker said.

“It's a sick prank then. I don't like the thought of someone threatening me."

“Nobody will ever hurt you while I'm here."

“I know. I would probably be scared to death if you weren't here."

“I got a letter from the VA today."

“What about?” She lit a cigarette and hissed smoke.

“Doctor Stahl thinks I should go into the hospital for a few days so I have to go talk to another shrink."

“Why does he think that?"

“Because of my nightmares, I guess. He thinks I should take pills to sleep. It's standard procedure for people drawing a hundred percent disability."

Barbara rubbed the cigarette tip against an ashtray. “I know you've talked to other doctors, but they didn't want you to go into the hospital."

“I'm not going into the hospital."

“Can they force you?"

Tucker lit a cigarette and fingered his chin. “They can say I'm refusing treatment and try to cut my disability."

“Can they do that?"

“No. I've been drawing a hundred percent for thirty years. After twenty years they can't change your rating. All they can do is threaten me."

“Is something going on that you're not telling me?"

Barbara hissed smoke and stared straight into his eyes. She was trying to catch him in a lie. He smiled, blowing smoke toward her face. He stood up and went into the kitchen and returned with the VA letter.

“See for yourself."

She crushed her cigarette as she read the letter.

“They probably don't have any open beds on the psych ward, anyway,” he said. “Doctor Stahl just mentioned it Monday. I've never heard from the VA this fast."

Barbara seemed to relax now that she had seen the letter. “I'm sorry."

He stood behind her, massaging her shoulders. “You've got to learn to trust me. I always tell you the truth."

Her right cheek rested against his hand. “I just need you so much."

Tucker breathed deep. The situation had become too complicated. He needed operating room, but he also needed the passion and security Barbara provided. Even if he could not return love.

As he leaned down to kiss her neck, he heard a sharp pop outside, a hollow crack of glass, and a loud thud against the living room wall. He pulled Barbara to the floor and at the same time flipped off the dining room light. She knocked over her cup going down and cold coffee dripped from the table edge on to his left hand.

“Stay down,” he said.

“What was that?"

“Just stay down.” He ran to the spare bedroom, grabbed a pistol from the shelf, and peeked out the window. He saw taillights fade in the distance, but he waited, watching the woods across the road. The car could have just been passing when the shot had been fired.

“What's going on?” Barbara kept saying.

Satisfied the shooter had been in the car, Tucker returned to the dining room and helped Barbara up.

“What was that? Why are you holding a gun?"

“We've just been shot at?"

“What?"

Tucker placed the pistol on the dining room table and grabbed her shoulder. “Take it easy. It was probably a stray shot. Maybe a bullet came this far from the AIDS camp."

“But you don't think that, do you?"

“I'm not sure."

“God,” she said, then sat down at the table.

She pushed the magnum away across the table. Her eyes were huge and green, reminding Tucker of a trapped fawn. He could read her thoughts from facial expressions and the way she leaned with shoulders slumped forward and her hands folded in her lap. Bored most of the time and craving adventure, she loved his danger aura. Now, with a gun on the table and shots fired, he knew it wasn't so appealing.

Welcome to the real world, he thought.

“I'm going to check the balcony door,” he said, picking up the magnum. “Just relax. Everything is fine. Why don't you pour us some coffee."

She lit a cigarette and her hands shook. “I'll have to make some."

Tucker peeked through the drapes into a black void. There were no streetlights and the road appeared as a salt stained ribbon. A flare from the AIDS camp faded on the horizon, dipping between bare tree branches. He found the hole, a half-inch in diameter and perfectly round. The glass around it had not cracked so he knew it had been a high velocity rifle bullet, striking so hard and fast the glass had not shattered. That ruled out a stray bullet.

“Shouldn't we call the police?” Barbara said from the kitchen.

“No, there isn't anything they can do."

He found another hole, high above the television. A big plaster chunk had been gouged from the wall, the gray inside exposed and a flap hanging. He went into the kitchen, checking the wall above the refrigerator as Barbara poured water into the coffeepot.

The bullet must have hit a joist or it would have probably gone through to the kitchen. From the high strike angle, he knew it had been fired up from the car. He opened a drawer and found a roll of duct tape, then covered the window hole. When he returned to the kitchen, Barbara stood near the coffeepot. She had calmed down.

“It was fired from a car,” Tucker said. “Probably some punks out to prove their manhood by shooting at total strangers."

“Then you don't think that someone was trying to shoot us?"

“No, I doubt it."

“Nothing like this has ever happened before."

“You mean before I came."

“I didn't say that."

He reached into her robe and gently stroked her nipples. Her lips formed a pouting circle and she began breathing hard. Then, she led him out of the kitchen.

* * * *

At five on Saturday morning, Tucker made coffee and retrieved the newspaper from the hall. Barbara would sleep until nine or ten, so he could examine the newspaper without interruption. He had been waiting all week for an article about Hauser. He found it on page two of the metro news, in the lower right hand corner, under the heading:Local Teacher Missing .

Hauser's mother had called police on Monday when she could not reach him at home or at work. His car had been found on Thursday after being towed out of the Beaver Inn parking lot. Without a body or obvious signs of violence, the police would consider Hauser a missing person. His mother and maybe a few relatives or friends would worry, but Tucker knew the report would be filed and Hauser would soon be forgotten.

The big news story had been the Friday night riot at the executions. Twenty spectators and five police had been crushed to death against the fence surrounding the chopping platform. The angry mob had surged forward in an attempt to reach the headliner, Bernard Resnick, known as the Butcher of Cleveland, who had raped and mutilated fourteen old women during house robberies. Resnick had been beaten to death by the mob before his execution, and it had taken hours to clear the stadium.

Several side articles covered the causes of the stadium riot, ranging from racial motivation and the frenzy created during executions, to the high profile court trials, and liability claims for spectator deaths. There were articles about two shootings and four rapes in the city during the night.

A lengthy article gave detailed accounts of how five Red Gang members had been shot in the past two days. On Thursday, sixteen had escaped from a camp east of Cincinnati along the Ohio River. Eleven had been killed in minefields, and the last one had been shot late Friday night.

Tucker poured more coffee, lit a cigarette, and pushed the paper away as he remembered the note in his pants pocket. He straightened the envelope and removed the letter. It was the same as the first one, with red, green, and black capital letters taken from magazines and glued to heavy white bond. This time the note read:GOING TO DOG FUCK YOU, BITCH.

The words were staggered down the page instead of in a straight line. When Tucker held the note up to the light, he saw faint printing beneath the wordsGOING TO . He soaked the paper in hot water, wiped it with a dishrag, and then pried up the letters in theGOING TO .

He saw the words Westwood Health Club printed in Italics. The health club where Lester Moore was a member. Moore was either too cheap to buy his own paper, or just stupid. Moore had probably fired the shot through the window.

Ripping the letter into tiny pieces, Tucker scattered it in the bottom of a garbage bag. Barbara didn't need to know. He wanted her to think the note she did see had been a one time random event, like the gunshot. Even if the bullet had been random, Tucker had found Moore guilty of crossing the line into his personal space one time too many.

As he sat down at the table, his stomach tingled with that roller coaster dip sensation. The monster seemed to stretch and smile while running its pointed nails along the inside of his stomach.

Moore, the fucking pervert, had mailed his own death warrant.

Chapter 21

With people jammed in every available space, the lobby of the Cincinnati VA Hospital reminded Tucker of an international airport during Christmas. He parked a half mile away and was ten minutes late for his 8:30 reporting time; twenty minutes by the time he waited in line at the check-in desk and a clerk verified his appointment. Being late didn't mean a damn thing. It would be hours before he would see Doctor Prentiss, the Head of Psychiatry.

He found an empty seat in a row of chairs along the wall to the left of the check-in desk, opposite the main row of chairs facing forward. The squeaky, plastic chairs, bolted to the floor in strips of ten, were either red or green, and uncomfortable. The rows facing forward formed a large U behind the check-in station. Metal racks of tattered magazines had been placed against the walls. The lobby stank of perspiration, old paper, and musty clothing.

Four generations of warriors waited like zombies. Veterans from World War Two, Korea, and Vietnam mingled with the new generation of younger quick-in and quick-out conflict veterans. The latest police action had been Nicaragua in 2003; two weeks of intense bombing and a mop up operation costing 56 American dead and thousands of jungle fever and stress casualties.

At the bottom of the U, the chairs faced a pharmacy where patients waited quietly; watching television screens for their name so they could pick up prescription drugs. Several shriveled, gray-skinned old men with eyes like empty holes were wheeled past on squeaking portable beds, trailing fluid bottles held by bored attendants. Some came here to die because they had no place else to go. Many with diseases not diagnosed as service-connected were forced out when insurance benefits no longer covered their care. The hydraulic, sliding main entrance doors kept hissing open and closed as people went outside to smoke or entered for appointments.

Tucker noticed an old, light-skinned black man, who was at least age 80 and probably a World War Two veteran. The man mumbled to himself in a loud, clear baritone voice. He had a handsome face and neatly combed gray hair. As a young man, he had probably been an athlete. Now, he shook and leaned at the waist. Every few minutes he stood up to look around before speaking.

“It's innocuous and ambiguous,” he said, before sitting back down; his voice clear and the words pronounced with such emphasis he sounded like a scholar. Tucker liked this old man spouting adjectives few in the room could spell or understand. The words were familiar to Tucker, but their actual dictionary meaning meant little. He took them to mean the entire VA system was a waste. He smiled each time the man spoke, while others stared with sad eyes, some shaking their heads.

One time, the old man stood up and said, “Where's my fucking medicine? I want to see the doctor."

A fat security guard came and told him to be quiet. As soon as the guard left the old man stood up and said, “It's innocuous and ambiguous."

Two hours passed. The old man had disappeared during one of Tucker's outside cigarette breaks, and the crowd had thinned, leaving several rows of empty chairs. He took a seat against the wall again, with no one on either side, and slid down in the chair. His dry skin made the shrapnel scars on his stomach pull and itch when he stretched his legs. So he sat up straight, scratching his stomach through the flannel shirt. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

The main door hissed open and shut. Chairs squeaked and patients coughed, making wet, slurping noises, and clearing throats. A computer printer at the counter whined and tapped. The door hissed open again. Someone tried to start a car outside. The starter whined, the engine caught, then stalled with a dull pop from the exhaust pipe. The pop had sounded like a mortar round leaving a tube...

* * * *

They had been pulling an operation up North, below the DMZ, near the coast where the land lay flat and hard without rice paddies. An operation calledBallistic Charge in an area named Happy Valley or some shit like that. At least, that was the rumor. No one ever knew where they were for sure, but the place wasn't happy.

Humping the bush under a noon sun, a Marine battalion in filthy green fatigues, sweating and stinking so bad they wouldn't have been able to stand each other if they hadn't smelled the same.

They passed through patches of thick woods, perhaps a hundred yards across, and into fields of high brown grass spotted with open spaces of dried, cracked mud. Leaves shimmered in the heat and the grass swished. Alpha Company was on the right, Bravo on the left, and Charlie Company had the point while Delta Company had the rear. Tucker's S-2 interrogation team moved with H&S Company in the middle. A big square of strangers in a strange land trying to kill anyone who fucked with them.

Tucker caught glimpses of other marines moving through tall grass to his left as he entered another patch of woods. Something wasn't right, and though the trees provided little cover, he felt more secure under them than in the open. It was too quiet. Sanchez walked directly behind him, keeping a wide interval.

To his right, a Prick-25 radio crackled static as the operator rattled call signs. The plastic on his black M-16 rifle was warm and slippery. He had rigged a jungle sling, tying the web sling to the front barrel just behind the sight and then around the rear stock near the butt plate. This way, the sling rested on his shoulder and the rifle pointed forward, steadied by his right hand and ready to fire, leaving his left hand free to smoke or drink water.

As he came out of the trees to another field of tall grass, something exploded 50 yards ahead, trailing a column of gray smoke. He saw a marine fly up and to the right.

“Land mine,” someone yelled.

“Keep moving,” another voice ordered from behind.

When Tucker passed, a corpsman unwrapped field bandages over the wounded man. Blood and meat turned the grass red. Slick internal organs had slipped out the rip in his side, picking up dirt and broken grass stalks. Tucker knew the wound was fatal. The dying man looked at Tucker asking an unspoken question.Why me? Why not you?

Dull, thumping pops came from the front. Seconds later, four explosions crumped ahead of Tucker. It had not been a mine.

“Mortars,” someone yelled.

More pops, five or six in rapid succession. The gooks had let Charlie Company on the point walk through the kill zone. The first explosion had been a marker round, and now the NVA had them bracketed, with H&S Company the target as they attempted to kill officers and disrupt the chain of command.

Tucker knew they were moving too fast. There was no way to check the terrain at such a rapid pace. They were in a world of shit with the NVA probably a half a mile away and no way to strike back until air support arrived.

“Keep moving,” a lifer behind him yelled. “Keep moving forward."

Tucker, fighting the urge to seek cover, reached another group of trees. Unless mortar rounds passed overhead, there was no way to hear them.

“Keep moving,” the voice said again.

More explosions on the left, and distant pops were also coming from the rear. The enemy had come up behind Delta Company. They were taking mortars from both ends. Tucker couldn't hear anything except the shouting voice. Sanchez caught up with him. They looked at each other, standing less than three feet apart, when something with tail fins pinged through the trees and stuck in the ground between them.

“Fuck, do you see that?” Sanchez said.

“Yeah, I see it,” Tucker said.

It was a dud mortar. More pops in the distance.

“Move,” Tucker said. “Get away from it."

“Shouldn't we tell somebody?” Sanchez said.

“Who the fuck we going to tell. Just move."

“Keep moving,” the lifer sergeant said again, catching up to them. His face was old and lined and his voice steady.

“Gunny, there's a dud mortar here,” Sanchez said.

“Let it be. Just keep moving."

Tucker stepped out of the trees into a clearing. Another marine appeared from his left moving forward. Without warning, a smoke cloud erupted between them. Tucker was knocked sideways and down to one knee, his right hand gripping the top of his helmet. He felt something strike his left leg. The leg felt wet, warm, and tingling, but when he looked down, expecting to see blood, he saw nothing. The other marine knelt with both hands on his helmet. The explosion didn't make noise.

“Are you okay?” Tucker said, helping the other marine to stand.

The guy looked confused. “Yeah, I guess."

The round must have hit at an angle so all the shrapnel went straight into the ground. Tucker had been no more than five feet from the detonation and it had landed damn near on top of the other man.

“Christ,” Tucker said.

“Yeah,” the other marine said, then hurried away.

“I thought you was hit,” Sanchez said, catching up.

“We're screwed,” Tucker said.

Sanchez squatted to remove something from his right boot. The ground erupted again and Tucker was down, staring at the sky, a wet stinging sensation in the stomach and a high pitch ringing in the ears. His right arm was underneath his back, still gripping the rifle, the barrel poking against his spine. His helmet was gone.

Reaching down with his left hand, he touched wet mush and tasted copper. Not wanting to look, he turned his head sideways. Sanchez was several feet away, dead, on his side facing Tucker. His right ear was gone and blood seeped down the folds of his neck and across his face into the open mouth. Both eyes were blown, the whites bright red. At the bridge of his nose, a jagged, smoking spear of gray-black shrapnel protruded like a horn. Tucker heard someone shout for a corpsman, felt hands grab him and a needle prick his left arm; while far off, he still heard the pop of mortars leaving tubes...

* * * *

Doctor Prentiss, the Head of Psychiatry, was a short, slender man with white hair and a white mustache. He smelled of musk oil and soap and had severe bags under his blue eyes. He wore a white smock with several red pens in the breast pocket. He motioned Tucker to a chair and then sat behind a desk piled with brown case files. Putting on reading glasses, he removed Tucker's phone book thick folder from the stack.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Tucker?"

“The same as always."

“Have I talked with you before?"

“No. I've been seeing Doctor Stahl for the past five years. The last time I was over here I think Doctor Meyer was in charge."

“Yes,” Doctor Prentiss said, flipping pages. “He's been gone for six years.” The phone buzzed and he picked it up, listening. “I'm with a patient. Get the phone number and I'll call him back.” He hung up, removed his glasses, and folded his hands across the open file. “You are rated at a permanent hundred-percent for PTSD, Mr. Tucker?"

“Yes."

“Have you ever been on the PTSD ward here at the hospital?"

“No, that's why I see Doctor Stahl every week so I can stay out of the hospital."

“What did you do in the war?"

Tucker squirmed in the chair. “What the hell does that have to do with anything? I'm just here to get medicine."

Doctor Prentiss arched an eyebrow. “Doctor Stahl thinks you should be in the hospital."

“Like that's going to do me any good. A few days in the hospital and all this shit in my head will go away."

Prentiss seemed suddenly nervous, as if expecting violence. Tucker figured the security alarm button was under the desk edge.

“Doctor Stahl feels that you may be having blackouts and don't remember what you do from day to day."

“That's not true."

“You lost your home in the riot last year?"

“Look, I don't want to go into the hospital. I've been rated at a hundred-percent damn near since I was a kid. Doctor Stahl said that I could just get some medicine."

Doctor Prentiss scribbled on a pad. “We don't have any open beds anyway. And you're right, I don't think that it would do you much good."

Tucker relaxed.Just give me the medicine .

“I'm going to give you a couple of prescriptions,” Prentiss said. The phone buzzed again. He wrote as he listened. “I'll be there in a moment.” He hung up the phone and tore two pages from a prescription pad. “This should help you. Just follow the directions."

“Thanks,” Tucker said, standing. “If I thought it would do me any good I would go on the ward."

“Right,” Doctor Prentiss said. “Call if you have any problems with the medication."

“I will,” Tucker said, taking the prescriptions and folding them in his left hand.

“Have a good day, Mr. Tucker."

“Thanks for seeing things my way."

Prentiss waved, already looking at another file as Tucker went out the door.

Near the pharmacy, he looked at the scripts. There was one for chloral hydrate, an addictive sleeping pill which made him rest, but left him feeling like he had a hangover. The other one he couldn't read. To get the medicine, he had to pull a numbered strip of paper from a machine by the pharmacy and wait until his number came up on an electronic wall sign before he could see the pharmacist. The next paper number sticking from the machine was 112. The sign on the wall showed the number now being served was 76. Another two hour wait to see a pharmacist, and another hour to pick up the medicine.

Tucker turned and walked toward the exit. He wouldn't take the shit anyway. Outside, he dropped the prescriptions into a garbage can. He had important things to do, and he didn't need drugs altering the path.

Chapter 22

For the first time, Tucker would risk killing in a public place. At noon on Friday, March 17, he waited for Lester Moore in the Westwood Health Club parking lot. The lot, down a long driveway with woods on both sides, could not be seen from the main road. After backing into a space next to a van, he counted 30 vehicles.

He had intercepted three additional notes before Barbara could check the mail; all with the same pasted capital letters cut from magazines. The last one had read:SUCK ME OFF YOU BITCH .

There had been several late night phone calls, and Barbara had a tire slashed while working downtown. Counting the bullet through the balcony window, Tucker figured Moore had stalked them enough.

He followed the man for a month, and like Hauser, Moore's routine made a safe capture difficult. He was a night guard at the General Electric jet engine plant off the I-75 interstate. Tucker couldn't enter the GE perimeter without attracting attention. Moore's apartment complex also had a guard force. Visitors signed in and out, so he couldn't take him at home.

Moore didn't keep an exact routine. He might eat breakfast, picking random restaurants. Often, he went straight home, and unless it was a workout day, stayed home until due back at work. Moore did only one thing in a routine fashion. Every other day at noon, he went to the Westwood Health Club.

Disguised as a blond, Tucker had gone to the club several times on days when Moore stayed home. Wearing a fake mustache and a curly wig the color of wheat beneath a blue wool stretch cap, he used the name Raymond Mills. He paid a ten-dollar guest fee, claiming to be an out of town visitor on business. Since he was muscular, the club instructors believed his story and didn't give instructions or a membership sales pitch.

Something had changed deep inside. He didn't consider taking Moore to the cabin. Torturing the guard would bring little satisfaction. He knew on the first day that he was not stalking to capture. He wanted to kill Moore fast.

He considered shooting him, but that would be too easy. He wanted to risk discovery, without knowing why. It had to do with his feelings after Hauser. The monster needed new stimulation, as if role-playing and torture had become boring. Or could it be that he wanted to be caught so he could stop the internal torment?

Seeking revenge for children kept him functioning at a dedication level beyond remorse. Yet, he understood that his genetic past had ingrained the sum total of centuries old morality deep in his conscience. That moral guilt had come back to face the monster in what society called the struggle between good and evil. That was why he couldn't torture Hauser. He had felt remorse.

In the end, he would probably kill himself, or place himself in a position to be killed, which was why he would risk slaughtering Moore in a public place. The euphoria of the perfect crime had become total depression. The monster didn't care about power struggles or his depression. It would kill at any time and place.

Cars entered and left the lot. Women with wild, tangled manes of what Barbara called foo hair, came in pairs, wearing black spandex pants, leg warmers, and inch thick make-up. Several men, some in business suits, entered carrying gym bags. A woman with long black hair parked a rusting green Toyota and remained in her car, fussing with her hair and face. Moments later, a man driving a sedan stopped behind her car. She got out and locked her car, then entered the sedan and kissed the driver before they drove away.

Tucker lit a cigarette, shaking his head. He didn't understand why married people had affairs when a divorce would solve their problems. People lied and cheated instead of changing their miserable lives. He frowned and shook his head again.

“You're a good one to give advice,” he said, staring at the ash on his cigarette, wondering what Doctor Stahl might say about this situation.

Now, let's see, Michael. A man and a woman meet in a gym parking lot to have an affair, and you're waiting in a gym parking lot to murder someone. You want to know which situation I think is more acceptable?

Tucker flipped the cigarette out the window. His muscles were hard and tense. He tapped his right foot on the floorboard. Moore was late and might not even show. That meant waiting until Monday because he wouldn't be able to leave Barbara on the weekend.

Moore arrived at 12:20, parking his Datsun in a handicapped space. He opened the door, glanced around, then put a plastic blue sign on his dash. Tucker slid down, his eyes level with the top of the steering wheel. Moore removed a red bag from the front seat, locked his car, and trotted to the main entrance.

It figures, Tucker thought, the jerk had a false handicap sticker. He glued on his blond mustache, put on the wig and hat, and waited another twenty minutes before entering the building. He wore gymshoes, black sweat pants, and a long sleeve, black sweatshirt. The young blonde behind the counter had a portable phone against her ear, arguing with a restaurant manager about a lunch order.

“Out of town guest,” he said.

She handed him a pink form and a pen. Signing Raymond Mills, he placed a ten-dollar bill on top of the form. She gave him a fake smile, waving him toward the gym. Turning away, she preened her hair with her free hand, her head shaking like some skittish bird.

“No, we ordered two and you gave us one,” she yelled into the phone.

Good, Tucker thought. Chances are she wouldn't remember more than a general description. The real test would be Moore. If the pervert recognized him, the game was over. Since Moore felt secure in his surroundings, he probably wouldn't expect an ambush.

The Westwood Health Club was divided into two large exercise halls. The main room of wall to wall mirrors had been cut in half, with Nautilus equipment on one side and exercise mats on the other. This way, men could use the Nautilus machines while watching the women perform aerobics. The other large room contained free weights and a circular jogging path. A third smaller room, between the dressing rooms, contained a whirlpool bath.

The male dressing room was shaped like a capital T, with a long row of lockers, the showers on the left, and the bathroom on the right. The bathroom had four wall urinals and six stalls with doors opening outward. The walls, floors, ceiling, and stall doors were glossy white. He planned to kill Moore inside one of the bathroom stalls.

Tucker bit his lip as he secured a combination lock to the locker holding the gym bag. Outside factors could interfere. Catching Moore alone might be impossible. Suppose someone entered the area during the execution? He couldn't leave a witness, but he did not want to kill civilians. He imagined a vivid picture of bodies piling up. He should lift weights and leave, but his choice had been made.

He stopped to watch the aerobics class. Moore and seven other men pretended to concentrate on Nautilus machines as the women moved to jungle music, led by a young brunette with muscular legs and small, pointy breasts. Twenty women in tights, on their backs with knees bent, their hips grinding up, reflected in mirrors.

A few men made eye contact with him, smiling and shaking their heads, assuming he shared their lust. Tucker smiled back or nodded as he concentrated on Moore's reflection in the mirror. The guard sat on a stomach crunch machine, constantly pushing a new pair of thick glasses up his nose as his eyes shifted back and forth to every thrusting pelvis. He wore black military boots, red sweat pants, and a tight T-shirt that accented the fat on his sides. He seemed interested in the brunette instructor, and had probably hassled her before. Standing up to lead the class through a set of jumping jacks, she frowned at Moore before turning toward the mirror instead of the class.

Moments later, Moore stood and Tucker noted the bulge in his sweat pants.That bastard has a hard-on , he thought. The guard hurried past him heading toward the locker room. Was he about to masturbate in the bathroom?

Tucker followed, his stomach tingling. He walked through the locker room and glanced into the showers, finding both empty. As he worked the combination on the locker, his hands trembled in deep rage. He had Moore cornered, and could sense the monster rising through his limbs.

Dropping the combination lock into the bag, he put on clear plastic gloves and removed a machete, carrying the weapon forward in his right hand, the bag in his left. He glanced around again. No one in sight.

He entered the bathroom quietly, noting all the swinging stall doors were partially open except the one on the far end. Bending at the waist, he saw the black military boots. He rose and entered the stall next to Moore. He dropped the bag, then gripped the sidewall and pulled himself up and over in one quick motion, landing feet first on Moore's shoulders.

Startled by the bag hitting the floor, and caught with his pants around the ankles as he tried to rise, Moore's back slammed the stainless steel flushing apparatus as his skull thumped the wall. His thick glasses popped off, shattering on the floor, as he gasped for air. Tucker gripped Moore's throat with his left hand as he stepped to solid footing on the floor. Moore's eyes bulged in sudden recognition as he began making a shrill, squealing noise.

“Remember me?” Tucker whispered. “I'm the last thing you'll see in this life."

He pounded Moore several times on the left temple with the machete handle. Stunned, the guard stopped squealing, his eyes milky blank. Tucker was vaguely aware he was growling as he placed the machete on the toilet paper holder. He turned Moore over, straddling his wide buttocks, then gripped the slippery brown hair and jammed the man's head down in the toilet bowl to expose the neck.

Picking up the machete, he slashed, but the blade gashed the toilet seat and Moore's head was only half severed. The head flopped forward like a broken doll, dangling into the toilet bowl, and for a moment, there was no blood.

“Shit,” Tucker mumbled. He backed out of the stall and slammed the door just as a finger thick blood gush hit the back wall. Moore's feet whipped under the stall door, his jerking boots leaving black streaks on the white floor.

Tucker opened the next stall and dropped the machete into the gym bag. A blood river seeped under the partition along the back wall. The corpse gurgled and one leg twitched as Tucker backed out of the stall. Switching the bag to his left hand, he checked his dark clothes for blood.

Go, he kept thinking.Get out of here .

Suddenly, he heard shower shoes flapping and quickly backed up against the wall next to the bathroom entrance. Blood had streamed from the stall toward the row of sinks. The intruder, a tall, muscular man wearing only a white towel around the waist, froze.

“Jesus,” he said.

Tucker stepped forward and punched his left jaw. The man dropped, his skull thumped a sink, and he landed face first on the floor, exposing his bare ass. Moore's blood pooled against his extended left hand to flow around it.

Looking in all directions, Tucker saw no one. He stepped out of the bathroom, tearing off the plastic gloves and dropping them in the gym bag. Moments later, he passed the front desk. The girl had left her station. No one saw him walk across the parking lot to the Blazer.

In less than one minute he was clear, heading toward the Big Miami River to dump the weapon.

Chapter 23

Stalking, three weeks after the health club murder. The monster would not let him stop...

The expected had not happened with Moore. Two days later, the newspaper Metro section contained a small article about a man, unidentified pending notification of relatives, found dead at the Westwood Health Club. The police were investigating. There had been no massive public outrage or extended news coverage. Tucker figured either the club owners could smother publicity, or the riot and public executions made incidents without high body counts less newsworthy.

In a society where people paid money to see heads chopped off, a beheading in a health club toilet wasn't a big deal. Still, Tucker's survival instincts forced him to believe something was wrong. It had been too easy. He couldn't stop thinking he had made a mistake.

Six days after the killing, Barbara came home with news.

“My sister called me at work today. She entered a contest two months ago and won two tickets for a week on Sanibel Island in Florida. She wants me to go."

“When?"

“Not this weekend, but the next one. I've always wanted to go there."

“Then you should go,” Tucker said.

“We would leave on Sunday morning. I'd have to take off work but that shouldn't be a problem. We'll be back the next Sunday night."

“I can take care of the place while you're gone."

Barbara took a deep breath. “You won't be out looking for another woman?"

“I think I can go a week without sex.” He would have to sleep with the lights on and a gun next to him. “What about you? You might meet some young stud on the beach and never come back."

“Don't be ridiculous. Would you take us to the airport and pick us up?"

“No problem."

“Then I'll go,” she said. “If I can call you while I'm there."

“I want you to call me. I'll miss you."

“I want to believe you so bad."

“You can,” Tucker said, kissing her gently on the forehead. “I made some coffee. Do you want some?"

“Sure."

When he returned with the coffee, they sat at the dining room table as Barbara tried to find cigarettes in her suitcase size purse.

“Oh, do you remember that guard who used to hassle all the women?"

“Which one?"

“You know, the one you were going to tell to leave me alone."

“Yeah, what about him? I haven't seen him around."

“He's dead,” Barbara said, as she found her cigarettes and sipped coffee.

“You're kidding. Who told you that?"

“One of the gate guards. It's all over the complex. He was killed at some health club last week. There were two detectives here today asking questions about him."

“What did he do, drop a weight on his chest?

Barbara shook her head as she lit a cigarette and hissed smoke. “No. The guard told me somebody murdered him. He didn't know how, though. The police didn't tell him."

“Jesus,” Tucker said.

“He quit his job here back in the winter."

“No wonder we haven't seen him. What else did the guard say?"

“That the detectives just wanted to know why he quit here or if he had any enemies?"

“Why did he quit?"

“The guard told me that he was working at General Electric. He probably made more money there. He told the police that the guy was always bragging about beating people up, but they never saw him argue or fight with anyone here."

“I guess it's a good thing I didn't have a talk with him. They would be up here questioning us. He probably hassled someone's wife at that health club."

“The guard said that they just asked a few questions and left. I would have thought a murder would have been all over the news."

“Yeah, I would think that, too,” Tucker said.

They had no idea who had killed Moore, but he hated the police being close. He had covered his tracks, but someone could remember the Blazer. There were also several signed guest forms with the phony name. Could those forms possibly lead to him? Only if he became a suspect and they wanted a handwriting sample. He knew he was being paranoid; he didn't make mistakes.

* * * *

Tucker had never experienced such rage as he did on the Monday morning following Barbara's departure. The morning newspaper contained an article entitledProject Move: Protecting The Rights Of Criminals.

In 2002, California and Ohio had renewed an agreement to relocate paroled felons considered to be at risk in their own communities. The story mentioned a scumbag named Daryl Poindexter. Tucker threw the paper across the room and sat with his fists balled, shaking with anger.

Released after serving ten years of a 40-year sentence for the rape and mutilation of a four-year-old girl, Poindexter had been relocated to the Cincinnati suburb of Terrace Park from his former home in Santa Cruz, California. After the rape, he beat the child until her eyes had swollen shut. Then, he hacked off her right hand, leaving her to die among the redwoods in the Santa Cruz Mountains. A hunter found her alive while tracking deer.

The people of Santa Cruz and the neighboring town of Ben Lomond, where the child had been kidnapped, threatened vigilante retribution if Poindexter made parole. He had been relocated to Ohio. For the past year, using the name Charles Adams, he worked the afternoon shift at a Dairy Mart convenience store in Terrace Park.

The information on Poindexter, according to the agreement of Project Move, was supposed to be kept secret. A reporter retrieved the file while testing Internet computer access codes, and the story was published before the leak could be traced.

Tucker paced the dining room. Sharp pain knotted his stomach, and he imagined the child with large blue eyes and long black hair to be inside of him. His own daughter if life had been different. She stood near his slobbering monster, raising the bloody stump of her hand, demanding revenge.

He picked the paper off the floor and read the article again. The monster power coursed through him. He knew this self-torment would continue forever because of an endless supply of child abusers. He would kill until he filled his cemetery, then he would stack the bodies like fucking catacombs. Poindexter had to die.

Beneath the rage, he recognized a deep sadness, a longing for the normal, finding horror in the slaughter he must inflict. That sadness would stay hidden; he was truly beyond self-control.

* * * *

Terrace Park, a quiet suburb east of Cincinnati with large older houses and spacious yards, had one main highway through town. The small police force had the reputation of strictly enforcing a 35 mile-per-hour speed limit, and not much else. There was old money here, and little crime. The locals must have been shocked to discover Poindexter lurking in the shadows. Tucker knew he had to move fast before the people in Terrace Park raised hell and the animal lost his job or skipped town.

The Dairy Mart opened at seven in the morning and closed at eleven at night. Poindexter worked from three in the afternoon until closing. For three nights, from ten o'clock until eleven, Tucker parked in an auto repair garage lot across from the store, slipping in between vehicles so the Blazer appeared to be a repair job. He sat low in the seat, watching through binoculars. No more than four cars entered the store lot after ten o'clock each night. He didn't see the local police, and except for light traffic, Terrace Park remained deserted.

Poindexter, or Charles Adams, seemed much younger than Tucker imagined. Tall and skinny, he had light auburn hair, a long nose, and a scraggly mustache. Through the binoculars, he appeared to be about age 30.

A fucking weasel, Tucker thought. He wanted to hurt this one, but didn't know if he could torture him. He might kill him fast like Hauser. The monster grinned up at him while making chopping motions, demanding a hard and terrible death.

Poindexter emptied trash in a dumpster on the left side of the store at exactly ten minutes to eleven. Tucker decided to capture him on Thursday, the night before payday for most people, when there would be less chance of last minute beer purchases. So far, no one seemed to notice the Blazer. A white police car cruised the main road every few hours. The cop stared straight ahead, not even glancing at the Dairy Mart.

The streets remained deserted, particularly between ten and eleven, the people either sleeping or staring at flickering televisions. He had expected some public display after the newspaper article. Outraged residents picketing the store or something. People just didn't seem to care. When he drove out of town after the store closed, he didn't see any traffic, not even the cop.

The capture went smooth. He waited until Poindexter carried two garbage bags out the door, then he angled the Blazer in the store lot so the rear end faced the dumpster, just as the clerk tossed the bags.

“Excuse me,” Tucker said, a tire iron concealed behind his right leg. “I'm trying to find Terrace Park. I think I'm lost."

Poindexter frowned. “You're standing in the middle of it."

“You're kidding.” He slammed Poindexter across the skull as if driving a stake into the ground, stunning him, the tire iron making a dull ringing noise. The victim dropped as if shot.

Jerking open the rear hatch, Tucker tossed Poindexter inside; quickly taped his mouth and tied his hands. He slammed the hatch and drove out of the lot, not seeing another car until he was several miles away.

Now, bound naked to the cabin chair with his arms suspended straight out from his sides, each wrist secured by a rope tied to a roof beam, Poindexter appeared to be crucified. Tucker saw dried blood matted in the scalp as he inserted a blade into the electric carving knife. The scumbag groaned, opening his eyes. Tucker plugged in the knife and flipped the switch. A whir filled the cabin. He would sever the right wrist first.

Poindexter was aware now, his eyes wide.

“I've got something for you,” Tucker said, his voice guttural.

“Hurry,” Poindexter said. “Fucking hurry."

Tucker froze. The scumbag had talked to someone. And then he saw the object in Poindexter's right ear, partially covered by stringy hair.

A hearing aid?No, it was a damn microphone . The door burst open, and Tucker spun around, bright lights blinding him.

“Drop the knife, now,” a voice said.

Two needle pricks hit his chest and he felt a huge arc of electricity jolt his body. He dropped the knife. Some object struck him hard in the skull. As he collapsed, he saw the cabin swarmed by police wearing blue bulletproof vests.

PART THREE

THE WHIRLPOOL

He passed the stages of his age and youth

Entering the whirlpool

—The Waste Land, T. S. Eliot

Chapter 24

July 2006

After the first month of refusing to talk to anyone, Tucker discovered what had happened bit by bit through conversations with guards, who seemed to know everything. He had been, and was still isolated, on the top floor of the Hamilton County Justice Center in downtown Cincinnati. A place the prisoners on cellblocks several floors below did not know existed, except as gossip. This top floor held the special prisoners winding through the system toward execution; those about to enter something called thewhirlpool .

No one knew when or where the term whirlpool originated. The source no longer mattered. The name was generic, used by criminals, police, and the media to describe the nightmare of an Ohio death warrant.

That night in the cabin, the police had zapped him with an electric Taser gun and clubbed him down. He remembered waking up in a chair with his hands cuffed behind him and a uniformed cop on either side. Detective Jarvis, wearing a white shirt and tie, read his Miranda rights. He kicked Jarvis in the balls, and the detective dropped as if dead. The uniformed cops then beat him with clubs, but he stared at them without flinching. Jarvis stood up with a gun, and another detective had to restrain him. They beat him some more, and somebody in a white smock jabbed a needle in his arm and he blacked out.

Only one person knew where he was, or thought she knew, the guards told him. They had swarmed the apartment the following Monday, surprising Barbara, her anger at Tucker for not showing up at the airport on Sunday apparently forgotten as they took his weapons and clothes. She had cried and demanded answers. They threatened her into silence. She had remained under constant surveillance. All she knew was that he had been charged with the attempted murder of an undercover police officer.

It had been a trap. Daryl Poindexter and the little girl with the severed hand did not exist. A guard told Tucker that Jarvis had a theory about someone killing convicted child molesters. He had finally been given several thousand dollars to either prove his theory or shut up. No one had expected results.

Charles Adams was the store clerk's real name, an undercover cop. He almost paid with his life; had come so close he now had a probable disability retirement. He also received extensive plastic surgery on his skull and forehead where the tire tool crushed the bone.

They all feared Tucker. At night, he screamed his rage, beating the walls and door, his voice like some nocturnal beast trapped in a swamp. Five other prisoners on the top floor complained, frightened he would escape. He appeared to be a psycho with a grudge against store clerks.

Then, analysis of scrapings from cracks in the cabin floor came back as several different blood types, and Tucker became very important. Although, Tucker later learned that in the first month, the police didn't realize Jarvis was about to prove his theory.

* * * *

By July, all 59 bodies had been excavated from his cemetery. Tucker figured the detectives realized they had captured one of the worst mass murderers in United States history. Still, they could not break him.

Jarvis and another detective, Richard Haskell, grilled Tucker each day since May when he finally agreed to talk to his public defenders. They used every trick in their arsenal including the good cop-bad cop routine, with Jarvis playing the bad cop.

Tucker figured this wasn't an act, since he had damn near ruined sex for Jarvis after kicking him. They tried psychology, preying on his ego by praising the skill he used in avoiding detection. How they believed he was right in killing people, and if the situation had been reversed, they would have done the same.

They brought him to the Peach Room on the top floor of the Justice Center at odd hours, sometimes in the middle of the night. This didn't bother Tucker; he didn't sleep much. His public defenders were absent, which also didn't matter because Tucker refused to talk about the crimes. On one occasion, Jarvis had Tucker secured to a chair, slapped his face, and had a doctor inject a drug. The monster appeared and scared Jarvis and Haskell, damn near tearing free of the restraints. They hadn't tried drugs since.

Tucker found out they had interviewed Barbara several times. Jarvis and Haskell were convinced she knew nothing about his crimes. Still, they kept her under surveillance.

Doctor Stahl refused to discuss their doctor-patient relationship unless ordered by the court. He assured the police that nothing in his records indicated anything about murders. His requests to see Tucker were denied.

From the moment of his capture until July, Tucker was held without bond for the attack on Adams, and as the single suspect in 59 murders. The media and the public assumed that he had filled those graves. Reports of weird costumes, and mutilated corpses leaked to the press and television.

St. Leon, Indiana residents were shocked to learn of the monster in their community, but the horrified whispers became smiles when thousands of tourists arrived. Tucker's neighbors offered little information. They used to see him on the road. No one in St. Leon had ever talked to him. Some cynic erected a sign just outside the city limits to chastise the new economic boost.

ST. LEON

HOME OF AMERICA'S BEST KILLER

Indiana claimed jurisdiction since the murders had been committed in St. Leon, arguing that Cincinnati and state police had crossed their borders without permission. Indiana filed extradition papers to obtain custody. The Ohio governor issued a statement from the capitol in Columbus. Police had pursued Tucker into Indiana to rescue one of their own. Ohio would keep the prisoner.

On Monday, July 17, Tucker was formally charged with 59 counts of first degree murder. The preliminary hearing process took three days as Tucker heard the names of every scumbag, and pleaded not guilty on each count.

Federal kidnapping charges and crossing state lines in the commission of a felony were pending. Those indictments would be a formality. The FBI operated on too limited a budget to pursue prosecution for such a massive crime, and the state charges would put Tucker on the chopping block. The FBI helped with forensics.

In the three months since his arrest, Tucker became notorious. Virtually everyone in the United States and half the world knew his name. He became the most famous prisoner at the Justice Center, receiving more publicity than movie stars. Letters arrived by the thousands. Men wanted to look like him. Women proposed marriage or considered him a sexual fantasy.

When asked for an opinion, a majority of people supported Tucker, claiming his crimes were justified. Most believed that if the system worked, the criminals he killed would have been off the street. Television shows were denied live interviews.

Lindsey, his sister, appeared on talk shows, claiming he was framed. On national television, psychologists, sociologists, and various experts gave their professional diagnosis on the inner workings of his mind as they tried to plug their books. He was tagged as brain damaged from the war, a psycho, a sociopath, a sexual deviate, a vigilante, or a hero.

Tucker adapted to solitary confinement after a period of extreme depression and panic. He managed to keep the monster dormant, spending hours doing pushups, sit-ups,and jogging in place. He hadn't smoked in three months. Mentally prepared to spend long periods in confinement, he found it similar to Marine Corps boot camp.

Guards spoke to him through the food slot in the door three times a day, telling him of letters piled in the Justice Center basement. Movie producers and crime authors wanted his story. His sister demanded to see him, but her requests were denied. One guard slipped him a pencil to sign an autograph, and was later fired when word got back to Jarvis and Haskell.

During this period, Tucker had no outside contact other than guards or interrogations. He considered himself a prisoner of war. He missed sex with Barbara, but she became a vague memory. Something in the food repressed his sex drive. Barbara, Lindsey, and even the murders were part of the past. They would convict him if it took years. Reality was prison and the stainless steel ax.

Would there be any point in prolonging it? Once inside the prison system, he might have a slim chance to escape. Here, escape remained impossible...

* * * *

On July 24, Tucker gave a guard a message for Jarvis. He would talk about the murders if allowed concessions. At 8:00 that night, he was taken to the Peach Room where Jarvis and Haskell waited with notebooks and a tape-recorder. A guard stood in each corner. Tucker, in his stocking feet, wore light blue cotton pants and a white muscle shirt. The muscles in his arms and chest rippled as he folded his hands on the table.

Tucker had learned that Jarvis, a tall, barrel-chested man in his early forties, was an ex-Marine. His thinning, brown hair was gray at the temples, and he had bags under both eyes and a thick beard shadow. His hands were huge, the knuckles like walnuts, and his brown suit, a brown tie folded into the lapel pocket, seemed too small.

Jarvis leaned forward, his elbows on the table, a cigarette in those giant hands. His eyes were dark brown and full of hate, but Tucker sensed a desire to end this situation.

Haskell, in his early thirties, could have passed for a college student. He had short, yellow hair, bright blue eyes, and pink, unblemished skin. His fingers were long and delicate, like his body, and he still wore what looked like a high school graduation ring. He wore a pullover dark blue sweater and a gray sport coat. His shirt collar was light blue. Tapping the hand holding a cigarette on the table, he met Tucker's stare, and then quickly turned away.

“You wanted to talk?” Jarvis said.

“Yes."

“Without legal representation present?” Haskell said.

“Does that matter? I want a deal."

Jarvis crushed his cigarette. “You're not in the position to make any deals, you sick fuck."

Tucker smiled, staring Jarvis in the eyes. “How's your balls?"

Jarvis pushed away from the table, automatically reaching for his empty holster. Firearms were forbidden in the interrogation room.

Haskell grabbed Jarvis by the arm. “Take it easy."

Jarvis took deep breaths, his face red, as he shook off Haskell's hand. The guards in the corners moved forward, clubs raised, but Jarvis motioned them back.

“I'm okay,” he said to Haskell, then looked at Tucker. “I hate bastards like you."

Tucker tapped the table with his right index finger. “Because I do your job for you?"

Jarvis lit a cigarette, coughing lightly. “Don't even try to say you did our work."

“You smoke too much,” Tucker said. “You're going to have a heart attack."

“Fuck you,” Jarvis said.

“Tom, take it easy,” Haskell said.

“Yeah, Tom,” Tucker said. “You know, I didn't even know your first name until now."

“You don't need to know my first name. You're a criminal."

Tucker folded his hands on the table. “And what about those scumbags in the ground? What about all the children they tortured and killed? If you people did your job they wouldn't have been on the street."

“We're not a judge and jury,” Haskell said.

“I was."

Jarvis crushed his cigarette, the beet color fading from his face. “Look, Tucker, I might agree with you on some of the things you say. Some, maybe all of those people deserved to die, but you can't take the law into your own hands."

“Right,” Tucker said. “Like your people don't do it every day."

“What is it you want?” Jarvis said.

“First of all, I want one of those cigarettes. It's been three months."

Jarvis shrugged and gave Tucker a cigarette.

“You might have a heart attack,” Haskell said.

Tucker lit up and inhaled, suddenly feeling dizzy. “It's a little late to worry now."

The room went quiet. One of the guards coughed. Jarvis and Haskell waited.

“I want to be able to lift weights."

“I don't know about that,” Jarvis said.

“I also want to get mail and have visitors."

“We'll have to see about that,” Jarvis said.

“And I want unlimited cigarettes, reading material, and some beer."

Jarvis shifted in his seat. “What the fuck do you think this is, Club Med? Why should we give you anything? We've got you by the balls."

“You've got circumstantial evidence."

“Right,” Haskell said. “We have fifty-nine bodies chopped to shit. We've got you, pal."

“And millions of dollars in trial time,” Tucker said. “I'll enter a guilty plea in exchange for a life sentence. Then, I'll give you the details about those scumbags."

Jarvis and Haskell glanced at each other.

“You'll save the state millions of dollars. You can say your brilliant procedure got me to talk. They'll probably be books and shit. You'll be stars."

“Don't be a smart ass,” Jarvis said.

Tucker crushed the cigarette and reached for the pack on the table. Jarvis watched him without moving.

“Do we have a deal?” Tucker said, smiling.

“We'll let you know,” Jarvis said.

Chapter 25

September 2006

The party had ended. Tucker sat at a table in the crowded courtroom flanked by his public defenders, on what would be the last day of his sentencing hearing: a live broadcast entering millions of homes through the cable television Court Channel and satellite. Since they had judged him sane on the prior 58 counts, and not eligible for a state mental hospital, he was sure of their findings on this last count of murder. He would be taken from court to the prison named Paddock to begin a life sentence without parole.

The prosecutor droned on, questioning the state medical examiner, who answered in a monotone when asked to relate his findings as to the deaths of Tucker's victims. Someone coughed. A chair creaked and papers crackled.

“Could you give your professional opinion as to the cause of death of victim number fifty-nine, Randall Raymond Parker?"

They had used dogs to find the corpses. As it turned out, the oldest graves had turned up last. Randall Parker was actually number six, a scumbag on parole for drowning his infant daughter in a bathtub. He had been in the ground since 1993. The monster wasn't too creative in those early days. He beat Parker to death with a hammer.

“Severe anterior and posterior skeletal fracturing,” the medical examiner said, pausing to clear his throat.

Tucker fingered his chin, staring directly into a camera. Being on television didn't bother him anymore. He accepted it as he had confinement. He had become a media figure, either hated or loved. Blacks screamed racism, but their case was weak because only 14 out of 59 victims had been black. They completely ignored the fact his black victims were slaughtered for killing black children. Several scumbags had been homosexual, and the gay community claimed that by killing them he had violated their civil rights.

Tucker's supporters countered that children also had civil rights. They were all outside the Justice Center shouting back and forth, each group trying to dominate the media coverage. Tucker didn't care. He had pleaded guilty to 59 murders and no protest could change it.

He had actually pleaded guilty to 60 murders. He gave them Moore after Haskell discovered Moore had worked at Barbara's apartment complex. The health club guest forms he signed had been destroyed. No one remembered seeing him. Haskell didn't have a case, but Tucker confessed with all the details, figuring one more murder wouldn't matter.

Jarvis and Haskell had seemed shocked as Tucker detailed the why and how of Moore's murder, as if explaining a stroll in the park. He regretted injuring the man who had stumbled into the bathroom, but it couldn't be avoided.

“Shit happens,” he said to the detectives.

“Are you sure there aren't any other murders you want to discuss?” Jarvis said.

“Yeah, two more,” Tucker said.

Haskell and Jarvis exchanged glances. Haskell quickly turned pages in his notes finding a blank page. Tucker could imagine their thoughts. They had a Hitler here. There would be promotions, commendations, and additional national television news coverage. Everyone would know their names.

“I shot Abe Lincoln and murdered Jimmy Hoffa."

“Damn you,” Haskell said, slamming his pen down.

“Got you,” Tucker said.

Jarvis shook his head and rubbed at his eyes. The three of them had developed a strange relationship over the past few months, due to spending so much time together. They had set up a weight room in an unused holding cell at the end of the hall, allowing Tucker to pump iron each day at five in the morning. He would be locked in the cell for an hour and stripped searched after each session.

They also granted his request for mail and visitors. Three times a week he would be taken to a lower floor to talk with Lindsey, Barbara, or Doctor Stahl through a glass enclosure. All requests by the media for interviews were denied.

Tucker found his fan mail amusing. People either loved or hated him. Many women offered marriage or sex; some sent nude pictures. There were nuts that either wanted to break into jail to kill him or help him to escape. He didn't write to anyone, and once he read the letters they were destroyed, except for several nude pictures he gave to the detectives.

Jarvis sometimes brought a six-pack of beer to the Peach Room, which Tucker drank as he talked. Once they passed the initial anger stage, the three of them discovered they had a lot in common. Tucker talked to Jarvis about the Marine Corps and Vietnam. He discussed weapons and weight training with Haskell.

“You have kids,” Tucker once asked Jarvis. “What would you do if someone fucked them in the ass and murdered them?"

“I would let the law handle it."

“Yeah, but what would you really do?” Tucker said. “Would you forgive them and let God pass judgment like some of these lame bastards do when their kids are murdered?"

Jarvis stared Tucker in the eyes. “Probably what you did. I would kill them, but I would have a reason. They were my kids."

“Every child in this world is one of my kids."

Slowly, he convinced the detectives he was a warrior in a battle to protect children, and that maybe he wasn't the psychotic animal they had first encountered. Sometimes, they ignored their purpose for being in the Peach Room. Jarvis seemed to relax, telling Tucker that he was no longer angry about the groin kick. If the situation could have been different, they might have become good friends. But the guards in each corner always brought back reality. The ultimate goal was to put Tucker away forever.

“Cephalic area shows massive fragmentation due to blunt instrument trauma,” the medical examiner said. “It is my opinion that the victim died from a crushed skull."

That's right, Tucker thought. He had hit Parker so hard the hammer broke.

“Thank you,” the prosecutor said. “You may step down."

They would call Jarvis next to read the transcript of their conversations involving Parker. Tucker looked past the bright lights aimed at the table, toward the public gallery where guards flanked the perimeter to keep distraught relatives from seeking revenge. A collage of faces, mixing victim family members, reporters, curious spectators, and the few people whom had known him. Many had watery red eyes, while others stared unblinking, their jaws flexed in anger. Some were alert, their eyes bright and shifting, whispering to each other and smiling.

A few tabloid writers studied him as an object, scribbling notes. There had already been published stories about him involving satanic possession, ritual sacrifice, and how Vietnam made him a war psycho. One story claimed he was 300 years old and came from a blue planet behind the sun.

Thinking about the alien story, Tucker smiled, bringing a murmur from the crowd. Even a few months ago such close scrutiny would have made him react violently. He no longer cared. These people wanted the monster to appear, having heard about it through court testimony.

Once the jail doctors stopped injecting sedatives, he controlled the monster, mentally forcing it to remain a tight ball in his stomach. This confused the doctors. Drugs were supposed to calm the savage beast, not release it. They failed to understand years of iron discipline kept the monster in check. As Jarvis took the stand, Tucker wondered how the crowd would react if he suddenly stood up and growled.

* * * *

Jarvis adjusted his reading glasses and cleared his throat each time he turned a page in the notes. “And he stated that he did cause the death of Randall Raymond Parker on the night of Friday, June 8, 1993 at a cabin in the township of St. Leon, Indiana."

“And how did he state that he caused the death of Raymond Parker?” the prosecutor said.

“By beating him with a hammer."

Tucker saw Doctor Stahl first. Their eyes met briefly and Tucker felt the agony. Stahl blamed himself for missing what was hidden inside his patient. He must have sensed the possibility of violence when he asked Tucker to consider going into the hospital. Tucker assured him during jail visits that it was not his fault.

“You did wonders for me,” Tucker told him. “You couldn't have known about what I didn't tell you. You probably kept me from taking out more of those scumbags."

He could tell Stahl retained a massive sense of guilt. He told Tucker he was considering retirement, convinced that psychiatry did nothing to help patients.

“They were like gooks,” he had told Stahl. “You have to understand that. They were objects, not human."

It had been three weeks since he spoke to Stahl, but the doctor attended each day of the sentencing hearing.Torturing himself , Tucker thought. He truly hoped Stahl would remain active because other war veterans had problems.

“Then tied him to the chair,” Jarvis continued. “He stated that he crushed the kneecaps first, which would coincide with the FBI forensic report..."

He saw his sister, Lindsey, obviously confused and hurt, her large brown eyes streaked red. At age 47, she still looked no older than 30. Her life was an endless odyssey of health spas, trips abroad, and houses in Santa Rosa, California and Hawaii.

Her husband, Jim Malcolm, kept his arm around her shoulder. Tucker didn't like Malcolm. Born into old money from the Knob Hill section of San Francisco, Malcolm treated most people as peasants. Tucker's size and obvious dislike of the upper class had intimidated him. He had also been scared when Tucker stared straight in his eyes and warned him not to abuse Lindsey. Tucker knew if he had moved to San Francisco, he would have ended up beating Malcolm's ass.

Lindsey seemed lost now, beyond her husband's reach. Tucker had protected her as a baby, taking the brunt of their father's abuse upon himself. At age 4, she made the mistake of walking into the kitchen to ask her mother a question as their father spoke on the phone. The old man kicked her with steel-toe work boots in the small of the back.

After school, Tucker found them crying on the living room couch; his mother hugging Lindsey, stroking a large purple-black bruise on her lower back. When his mother told him what had happened, Tucker charged into the kitchen where his father sat at the table drinking whiskey straight from a bottle.

“You think you're a man now, boy?” his father had said. “Get out of here."

“Don't touch my sister again."

“Go to hell,” his father said, beginning to rise from the chair. He must have seen something in Tucker's eyes or realized he was too drunk because he sat back down. “Leave me alone."

So at age 14, barely weighing 130 pounds, Tucker sat with his mother and sister on the couch, willing to die to protect them from that 250 pound drunken asshole in the kitchen. Finally, his mumbling father staggered into the room. Lindsey began crying again, and Tucker stood to meet the attack. His father swayed from side to side, made a gargling sound to clear his throat, and spit on Tucker. He said “shit” before stumbling down the hall to his bedroom.

Tucker had decided to kill him later that night. Gripping a large hunting knife, he crept into his father's room, raising the blade several times, aiming for the heart through the back. He knew he would go to prison until at least age 21, or maybe for life. His mother would have had a stroke if she knew what he planned to do.

Tucker stood over his father for an hour, weighing his options before deciding to let him live. It wasn't prison or concern over his mother's feelings. He could survive in jail, and his mother could meet someone who would treat her human. He wanted a chance to escape. He would have to steal the old man's car, a 56 Ford with a manual transmission, and he didn't know how to drive a stick shift.

My life could have been different, Tucker thought, as he stared at Lindsey and her husband, if the old man hadn't been such a cheap bastard. I would have been in jail for murder. I would avoided the Marine Corps and Vietnam, and all those scumbags would still be torturing children. All because my father wouldn't waste drinking money on an automatic transmission.

He pictured himself waiting near the chopping block at the stadium, 60,000 gamblers staring as the loudspeaker voice asked if he had any last words. He would make about as much sense as Erwin Mitchell's rambling about a monkey wrapping his tail around a flagpole to see his asshole.

I did it because I couldn't drive a stick shift. Let them figure that one out.

He smiled at the thought, and the spectators mumbled, probably thinking he was enjoying the way Jarvis described Parker's murder. Lindsey sobbed into her husband's shoulder. Haskell stood next to a cop in the rear of the room. The young detective wouldn't make eye contact, and turned away, shaking his head.

“He then struck Parker on the crown of the skull,” Jarvis continued. “Hitting him so hard that the skull split in half and the hammer broke."

* * * *

Barbara didn't come for this final day. They said good-by late last night, speaking through a small mesh opening in the glass enclosure. They placed their palms against the glass, pretending to touch hands. Tucker did it to please her, thinking it to be a futile gesture.

“I know you're a good person,” she said. “No matter what anybody says. I love you."

“I love you, too.” He thought maybe he did now, since he couldn't have her.

“I'll never make love to another man."

“If you say so."

Barbara suddenly jumped up. She wiped at her eyes and lit a cigarette.

“Damn you, I'll never see you again. I'm never going to be with you again. What am I going to do?"

Tucker lit his own cigarette. A guard opened the door to the room.

“Time's up,” the guard said.

Barbara hissed smoke. “I'll kill myself."

“You will not."

“I will. I swear. I can't live without you."

Her eyes were wild, streaked with red, black eyeliner rivulets on her cheeks.

“Barbara, you can make it without me. I never tried to make you depend on me to live."

“I'll kill myself,” she kept saying as the guards led him from the room.

Glancing back, he did not see a beautiful woman, but a crazy person hissing smoke and screaming about killing herself.

* * * *

One of his public defenders poked him, and he stood, barely hearing words that were months in coming.

“Such acts of barbarism cannot be tolerated,” the judge rambled in a self-righteous voice. “I have considered the plea bargain submitted by the prosecutor, and I find it to be an insult. I have decided to impose the death sentence."

Tucker stared at Jarvis and Haskell. They both looked away.

“Michael Tucker, you will be confined in the death house at Paddock until such time as chosen by lottery for public execution."

Time to pay the piper...

Chapter 26

“It's too bad,” the young deputy said, peering through the screen between the front and back of the van. “I don't think you did anything wrong."

Tucker, his legs shackled and hands cuffed behind him, nodded as he glanced out the tinted side window. Rain fell in a fine mist. The windshield wipers clicked and the air conditioner fan roared. They were the center of a slow, three vehicle convoy in the right hand lane on North I-75, with a white police cruiser in the front and one behind, blue lights flashing the way toward the Paddock Correctional Facility.

In the left lanes, huge trucks and cars sped past, tires whining and throwing water spray. The passengers stared, unable to see through the dark van windows. The cool air didn't reach the back seat. Sweat tickled Tucker's face and the handcuffs dug into his wrist bones. He glanced at the shiny nose and pimply cheeks of the young deputy.

“Anyway, you're screwed now,” the deputy said. “I wouldn't want to be you for a million fucking dollars."

The driver, an older man with gray hair and a double chin, glanced back at Tucker.

“Nah, they won't treat Tucker so bad. He's worth too much betting money."

“Yeah, you could be right,” the young deputy said, picking a bump on his face. “But why do they call it a correctional facility when nothing gets corrected? Anybody who goes in there never comes out again. Not alive, anyway."

“Public relations,” the driver said. “It sounds better than calling it a slaughter house."

The young deputy frowned, wiping whatever he had picked off his face onto his trousers. “Yeah, it's the lifers and the nut cases who are really fucked. The judge did you a favor."

At first, Tucker figured they were harassing him, but from their expressions, he could tell they didn't understand what waited behind the walls at Paddock. Curious, and fearing the place they had taken so many prisoners, the deputies were probably trying to justify their jobs.

“Like I'm not fucked,” Tucker said.

“You are, but it could be worse,” the driver said. “You're worth more than a Kentucky Derby winner. Until they chop your head off."

“You guys ever been inside?"

“No,” the young one said. “We just hear things."

“Like what?"

The young deputy looked at the driver, who shrugged.

“Tell him,” the driver said. “What difference does it make?"

“It's supposed to be worse than shit that happened with those Nazi doctors and the Jews,” the kid said. “Like when somebody needs an organ donor, they just use a lifer. If they need an arm or a leg, they just take it. We heard there are maybe a hundred lifers with limbs missing in there. And after the arms and legs are gone, they take the eyes or heart or kidneys. Maybe even your dick, and if they can't, they just kill you."

“Yeah,” the driver said. “There are supposed to be whole sections of prisoners without arms or legs but with good hearts. They keep them alive until they can take their hearts for a transplant. The state makes a fortune selling the parts. It's some creepy shit."

“And you know it's true?” Tucker said.

“That's just what we hear,” the kid added. “Nobody knows for sure except the people who work there, and they don't talk about it."

“Yeah,” the driver said. “They have to sign a secret form or some bullshit. I knew a guy who tried to get a job there, and it says right on the application that you can get life without parole for talking about the job after you're hired."

“I never did believe that stuff,” the young deputy said.

“You just haven't been watching close enough,” the driver said. “Nobody messes with Paddock. Warden Burdeck makes sure of that. Reporters won't go near the place. Too many have disappeared."

“I don't believe that,” the kid said. He turned toward Tucker and smiled. “He's fucking with me.” He frowned and turned red, and Tucker knew that for a moment the deputy forgot he was talking to a prisoner.

“Then why do they call it the whirlpool?” Tucker said.

Traffic had slowed almost to a halt, and the driver shifted to low gear. “It's like when you empty a tub of water,” he said. “The water makes whirlpools that get sucked down the drain. That's how it is there. Paddock is like a big drain and your life gets sucked right down it."

The young deputy shook his head. “Tell him the rest."

The driver eased the van forward and cleared his throat. “There's also a rumor about a machine, like a giant blender, with big sharp blades, and they destroy bodies with it. It's supposed to grind them into liquid. Then, when they open the trap at the bottom of the machine it empties into the sewer system. They say it's so powerful that one guard fell into the vat and got sucked down in the whirlpool when the shit went through the opening. That's what they say. So the name whirlpool came from that big blender."

“I say that's a lot of crap,” the young deputy said.

“Then what do they do with the bodies?” the driver said. “They never come out."

“Hell, I don't know,” the kid said, scratching at another pimple. “I know they can't transplant no dicks."

“Sure they can,” the driver said. “They just can't do the balls."

“Right,” the kid said, spreading his fingers in front of the air conditioner vent on his side. “And who is they?"

“Huh?” the driver said. They saw a wreck ahead, around a slight curve. Two cars smashed together in the speed lane. “People can't drive."

“Who is the they that spreads all these stories?"

“How do I know?” the driver said.

Tucker saw two cops. One taking statements and the other directing traffic as an ambulance waited with open doors while medics worked on a fat woman on the ground. The cops waved at the van.

“That cop right over there told me about Paddock,” the driver said.

“Ah, bullshit,” the young deputy said.

Tucker, craving a cigarette, leaned back in the seat as the deputies talked. He blocked out their voices, no longer concerned about rumors. The monster wanted out, and he didn't know how much longer he could hold it. All those months since his capture he had been a spectator. The monster had killed those scumbags, except for Moore. That was personal. Or had that been the monster, too? He didn't know if he confessed to killing Lester Moore out of remorse or to just give his time in the Justice Center meaning.

It was ancient history now. He would end his days a victim instead of a torturer. But he had decided months ago that they were not going to chop off his head.

No fucking way.

* * * *

The rain had stopped, and the two escort vehicles left as the van entered the main gate in the concrete outer wall at Paddock and continued toward a second concrete wall and gate. Tucker noted the high chain-link fence topped with coiled concertina wire flanking the road on either side. Beyond the fence, he saw what looked like a 100-yard wide sand beach between the walls. He figured this was a minefield. The van passed through the second gate, stopping in front of a red brick building. The deputies pulled him from the van, and he waited as two pot-bellied, white guards in beige uniforms signed release forms. The deputies returned to the van.

“Good luck, Tucker,” the young one said, as he closed the door. The van turned around and went out the gate.

Tucker stared after them, then looked at his new keepers. The fat guards wore nametags. One was Spencer and the other Tracy.

“Spencer fucking Tracy,” Tucker mumbled.

“He's a big one,” Tracy said, fingering his baton.

“Yeah, well, give him a few days,” Spencer said, spitting on the ground. “He won't feel so big.” He pointed to a sign that readTunnel Entrance above a door in the building. “Let's go, Tucker. Walk this way."

* * * *

His knotted back muscles ached from the pressure of the handcuffs as he shuffled, restricted by leg shackles, along the underground corridor. The guard named Spencer kept prodding him between the shoulder blades with the baton, twisting the end of the club so it pulled skin. The guard named Tracy went ahead, waiting in front of stainless steel bars. Spencer kept talking to Tucker as he poked him with the baton.

“You're a real badass, huh?"

Tucker felt adrenaline surge up his stomach and to his arms.

“A big man, huh? Chopping people to pieces. A real psycho fuck."

The thing inside uncurled, snarling. It wanted to kill this fat bastard.

“I'm a badass, too,” Spencer said. “I've handled plenty of assholes like you."

They reached a cross-corridor where Tracy waited in front of steel bars. A small wall sign readHolding Cells . Tucker felt his scalp pinch as Spencer tugged his hair.

“Stop here, prisoner."

Tucker noticed the words painted in large, blue block letters on the white wall above the steel bars.

ABANDON ALL HOPE YOU WHO ENTER HERE

He remembered those words fromThe Inferno , a warning written above the entrance to Hell, and how the monster had taken the form of Malacoda, one of the demons from that hell, to kill Johnny Gomez.

Tracy stood to his left and Spencer to his right. He saw four guards approaching from inside the steel bars.

“Who had that put up there?” Tucker said to Tracy.

Tracy looked up and smiled, showing crooked, yellow teeth. “Warden Burdeck,” he said.

“Shut up,” Spencer said, poking Tucker in the right side with the stick. “You don't talk unless ordered to talk."

Tucker's iron discipline snapped. Forced back, now a spectator, the monster flexed against the handcuffs. It looked at floor and smiled. Tucker did not look either right or left because it did not want the guards to see death.

“Got a package,” Spencer announced to the guards beyond the steel bars.

A button clicked, and the steel bars whirred on tracks.

“Door opening,” a guard said.

Tucker shuffled through, the steel bars closing behind him. He saw a 12-inch wide red line on the floor. He did not look up. They shouldn't see its eyes. Not yet.

“This here is Michael Tucker, the mass murderer,” Spencer said.

“Well, no shit,” one of the guards said. “Old Burdeck is gonna have fun with this one."

“He won't be here long enough,” one of the other voices said.

“He's a big boy,” Spencer said. “But it's a little different when he don't have someone tied to a chair."

Spencer drove the stick into Tucker's groin. He collapsed to his knees, still staring at the red line.

“He does have some balls down there,” Spencer said.

The other guards laughed.

“Take it easy,” Tracy said. “He wasn't doing nothing."

“I think you're losing your guts for this kind of work,” Spencer said.

“And I think you enjoy it too much,” Tracy said.

“Fuck you, Tracy. Just shut up."

The stick tapped Tucker's shoulder.

“This is what we call a red line holding cell,” Spencer said. “You will follow the red line without stepping outside it. Do you understand? You will stay inside the red line."

Tucker stared at the red line, taking short breaths to control the pain cramps in his lower stomach. Several hands jerked him upright. The thing inside raged just beneath the skin.

“Christ,” a voice said. “This guy's muscles have muscles."

“Walk,” Spencer said.

Tucker felt the baton prod his upper spine as he staggered forward, bent at the waist, the leg irons forcing him to take short, clanking steps. Twice, he stumbled off the line and received solid blows between the shoulder blades.

“Stay on the line, asshole,” Spencer said.

Tucker sensed the others had moved ahead. He heard keys turning a lock, and glanced up briefly to see fat Tracy and the four other guards waiting by an open, solid steel gray door some 40 feet away. He was alone with Spencer, so the monster stopped walking.

“What the hell you doing?” Spencer said, poking him hard between the shoulder blades. “Move out."

“Fuck you,” the monster said, in that deep, guttural voice Tucker knew so well. No one beat on him like this and lived. Jarvis had beaten him, but Tucker had control then, not the monster. Spencer enjoyed inflicting pain. The fat guard would have done well torturing people in the cabin, and Tucker hated him, as much as any scumbag, because this bastard was all he despised in himself.

Spencer hit him again, but the monster stood still. Tucker felt the baton under his chin pulling his head up.

“This prick wants to be a tough guy,” Spencer announced in a loud voice.

The monster stared into the guard's eyes and smiled. Spencer froze, the color drained from his face. In those seconds, Tucker merged with the monster, feeding on the raw fear of allowing the victim to see death. Power and hate uniting. God or devil, it was all the same. The fear was the drug.

Tucker lunged upward, burying his face into Spencer's neck. The guard screamed and fell backwards with the monster on top. Blood gushed from Spencer's severed jugular vein as Tucker gripped the neck like a pit bull, growling and spitting bitter salt blood. He heard shuffling feet, jiggling keys, and shouts. He felt blow after blow against his back and skull, until his teeth lost the grip and the cold concrete touched his cheek. Slowly, he saw the fine pores of the painted red line blur to darkness.

Chapter 27

Tucker was back in Vietnam. The explosion had knocked him flat, filling his gut with metal fragments. He saw Sanchez with his right eye ruptured and red; a black-gray chunk of shrapnel protruded from the bridge of the nose.

Suddenly, Sanchez changed to Bond, whose head had been severed by the NVA. Bond's head began to roll, wobbling toward him to stop inches away, eye to eye. A huge welling of blood formed at the tip of Bond's nostrils and dropped in slow motion, making a loud thump as red rivulets erupted like spider legs. The lips moved.It hurts, Tucker. I'm still alive and it hurts. Don't throw me out of the hole. I'm alive.

Tucker screamed and opened his eyes, seeing a gray cinder-block wall. Jesus, he thought, the nightmare seemed real. He was on his stomach with his right cheek resting on smooth concrete. His skull throbbed, sending pain from his temple down the jaw. His mouth seemed full of paste, and he tasted bitter copper blood.

He didn't move for a long time. When he finally sat up, dried blood on his chest hairs pulled the skin and his upper back muscles ached from blows. The handcuffs and shackles were gone. Naked except for white brief underwear, he was covered in the clotted blood of the guard, Spencer.

He was in a cell, probably six by ten with an eight-foot high ceiling. A four-inch wide mesh grate in the back wall to his right leaked feeble light. On the left, in the corner next to the steel door, he saw a white plastic piss bucket. He stood up, the dried blood on his legs making the hair pull, and stumbled to the bucket. Jerking the underwear aside, he felt a burning as dark yellow urine came out. He staggered back to the wall and sat down. He wasn't hungry, or horny, or close to emotional. He did crave a cigarette and water. The cigarette would be impossible, but they had to give him water.

He had no idea what would happen next. So he rolled forward and did pushups, taking deep breaths, forcing the muscles to loosen. He mentally squeezed the pain away. The same as he did to control the monster. After finishing, he stretched out with his face against the floor, letting the cool concrete soothe the aches.

Suddenly, he had an erection, the first in months. He felt it forcing room between the concrete and his lower stomach. Sitting up, he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, imagining sex with Barbara. He could see her legs with the black patch of hair between them, but her face remained a blur. He used frantic strokes, afraid to lose the moment, desperate to capture the past. The thrill rose to a sight dimming climax, and he stiffened, crying out as warm spurts hit his stomach.

He relaxed, feeling spongy. The sperm turned cool and watery, and when he rubbed his stomach it mixed with dried blood and turned red. He wiped his hand on the wall and scooted away, hating himself for this animal urge which had made him lose control and wipe his own sperm on a wall.

A door grate slid open and a hand plopped a round object on the floor before the grate closed again. Tucker waited a few moments, listening, as footsteps moved away. He approached the thing, which turned out to be a large flour tortilla smeared with what looked like a mush of refried beans. He ate slow, working up enough spit to swallow. The refried bean paste had been laced with chili powder or something that made him thirstier. He heard metal scraping, and a small hole opened in the door. A nozzle poked through.

“Yo,” a voice said.

A cold water blast filled the cell. Tucker jumped in shock, but there was no place to hide. He crouched into a tight ball as water smacked his back like hail. The torrent stopped, leaving two-inches of water on the cell floor. Someone outside laughed.

“Fuck you,” Tucker said.

The piss bucket had turned over, but he didn't care and drank water from the floor. He splashed himself to remove the remaining blood and sperm. He couldn't stretch out for fear of drowning if he fell asleep. So he stood against the wall and waited...

* * * *

Most of the water had seeped out under the cell door by the time he sensed the floor warming. At first, it wasn't bad, but then the soles of his feet began to sting.

Shit, he thought,there are steam pipes beneath the floor . Within minutes, the remaining water had vaporized. He shifted weight from one foot to the other so his feet wouldn't burn.

Leaning against the wall, he began a spastic hop. The floor dried as the temperature rose. He inhaled slowly; cooling the hot air before it seared his lungs. He quickly sweated out the water. Unable to sit or stop to rest, he danced in silence, lost in his own mind.

He relived his childhood. He walked in Vietnam again, and killed each scumbag. He screamed at his father, and at Jarvis, Haskell, and God. He saw the monster up close, feeling its rage. The cold blue eyes demanded obedience while showing him images of tortured children, their faces pleading for revenge. Its iron limbs gave him strength to keep moving. He had done nothing wrong.It would kill again.

He finally understood that he was not Michael Tucker. He had never been Tucker. He had no more substance than smoke. It had not formed in him; it had always been him. He hated it, and he hated the hell it had created. He could feel the monster smile as its blue fire grew brighter. Hate was the secret of life. It would not let him die, not yet. So the dance continued.

* * * *

The floor was cool against his skin. The pipes had been turned off, and he must have collapsed. He did not remember. Shivering, he sat up, wrapping his arms around his knees. His skin itched, especially his butt, from the damp underwear. Light streamed through the grate in the wall, giving no indication of passing time. Time didn't matter now, without a way to tell night from day. He didn't know how long he slept. Since he was hungry and thirsty, he figured several hours had passed.

Leaning back against the wall, he put his knees up under his chin. He waited, shuffling his feet at intervals, testing the floor for heat. The bastards. Spencer would have bled out in a few moments without medical attention. That would teach them to abuse him up close. He heard voices again, and footsteps, no less than four people.

“Ripped his throat right out,” a voice said.

“This the cell?” another voice said.

“Yeah, this one."

“You think he's awake?"

“Probably. Just be ready. He's big and nasty."

Locks clicked. A bolt slid.

“Do we have to open the door?"

“Can't do it through nozzle hole or the food slot. Just be ready."

Tucker tensed. He squatted, facing the door.Let them come face the monster.

The door swung open. Tucker saw two rifles, and heard two quick pops. Something pricked his stomach and left arm as he lunged toward the rifles. The door slammed shut as he crashed into it and bounced off. When he grabbed at the stinging in his stomach, he saw a small dart with red plastic feathers. He pulled it out, and tugged another dart from his left arm.

“Good shooting,” a voice said.

The words sounded garbled. Tucker screamed, beating the door, but his own voice seemed distant. He dropped on his knees, mumbling from what seemed like the bottom of a well. The smooth concrete floor scraped his face as he blacked out.

* * * *

He awoke in cave darkness with cold steel beneath his back, butt, and heels. He heard blood roar through his temples and his hissing breath. Moving his hands down his body, he realized he was naked, face up on a metal floor. He sat up, groping the air. His eyes sought even a speck of light. He could be in a closet, or a room as big as a football field.

“Stand up, please,” a sexy female voice said, from above him.

Tucker looked up. He heard a noise like the sound of a turbine starting up. Suddenly, a mild electric shock came from the floor, and he jumped to a standing position. The jolt ended.

“Thank you,” the voice said. “Please comply instantly to verbal commands. You will be scanned for infectious diseases and photographed. You will not be harmed."

“Bitch,” he said.

“Stand still, please."

The dark filled with faint red light and a rapid succession of bright red pulses and a sound like a camera shutter opening and closing. Seconds later, it was over. The light was gone and he was back in the dark.

“Thank you. Please exit to your front."

A thick, steel panel slid open and bright white light hurt his eyes.

“Please exit."

“All right,” Tucker said, stepping through the opening. The panel shut behind him as he rubbed his eyes to clear the black spots. A horrible stench made him recoil: a rotten meat odor combined with the onion smell of unwashed armpits, piss ammonia, and diarrhea.

Then, he heard the sounds: gurgles, moans, and cussing. Voices from throats stripped raw from screaming. A wailing beyond any agony he had inflicted on scumbags. When his vision cleared, he froze.

The floors and walls were shiny white, the room lit by fluorescent lights in the paneled ceiling. Six inches off the floor, several pipes protruded from the walls, and the floor sloped to a drain in the center of the room. The things that had been six white and four black men were propped against the walls.

Missing arms or legs, they were drooling, mumbling trunks, covered with open sores, each in its own pile of disgusting body waste. Their eyes were gone. The eyebrows and skin below the empty holes had been pulled together and stitched shut. Tucker noticed four men had missing genitals, and leaking holes where tubes were ripped out.

“Kill me,” one white man said. “I know you're in here. Make it end."

Tucker's nostrils adjusted and deadened the gagging smell. The deputies had been right. This had to be a group of lifers without parole. Some limb stubs still held stitches and clamps. Other stubs were healed but sore looking, the stitches removed months or years ago. He remembered theabandon hope sign over the entrance.

This psycho warden, Burdeck, had created his own private hell. Tucker wanted to feel anger and revulsion, but the monster part studied the convicts, fascinated by the work of another monster sanctioned by law.

“I can smell you,” the hump of a black man said, as Tucker squatted in front of him.

Tucker smiled, then realizing what he was doing, stood up and moved. The monster had control. He heard a scrape from the floor drain, metal against metal, and when he approached the drain, he saw the opening had closed below the grated cover. Suddenly, a burst of ice cold water gushed from the wall pipes.

“Damn,” he said. In seconds, the water covered his ankles. The skin on his balls contracted and he shivered, hugging his chest. The water level rose up the slight incline, lapping at the doomed half-men. Some shrieked, while others waited, their mouths closed tight. Black, brown, or tan shit gobs floated or dissolved into clouds in the swirl.

Tucker searched for an exit. He couldn't even see the gap in the wall where he entered. The water reached his knees. The roaring stopped as the pipes in the wall went under water. Three of the ten torsos slipped from the wall, rolling and bobbing. One bumped Tucker's leg, and he pushed it away, horrified at its gagging sounds.

He backed up against the wall. One of the things prayed. Another kept pleading innocence. Six now floated like spinning logs. He waited, watching the other four as the water touched their chins. They had managed to remain propped against the walls.

Those remaining went under almost at the same moment, their cries turning to gurgles as Tucker watched their bubbling struggles fade to relaxed death. The water reached his waist and continued to rise. The jetting motion pushed and rolled the corpses like corks. Some bounced into his hips, and he pushed them away.

He waited, conserving energy. The shivering stopped once the water reached his chest. The ceiling loomed high above him. He would swim as long as possible.They were watching . Somewhere above him, they were enjoying the show. One of the things brushed his legs and he cried out.

Lifting his right arm toward the ceiling, he raised the middle finger.

“Fuck you."

Then, the swirling ceased. The water stopped rising just below his chin. The dead things settled toward the bottom. The only sound was his rapid breathing. He heard the grating noise again, and slowly, the water level dropped.

They won't kill me, he thought. I'm worth too much money. It didn't matter what he had done to Spencer. They were tormenting him. But if he could still breathe and move, he had a chance to escape.

From somewhere above him, he heard laughter. A panel opened and men with dart guns shot him again.

Chapter 28

The room was bright yellow, three walls without windows, more a closet than a prison cell. The sliding steel bars were yellow. A small ceiling vent circulated air, and the only light came from bulbs in the corridor.

Tucker had a sink, a toilet, and one roll of toilet paper. He did not have a bed, so he slept on the floor. He had a paper cup, but no toothbrush, soap, or razor. He wore filthy white jockey shorts. He did not have shoes or socks. He had nothing to read and no paper or pen.

Twice a day, a guard slipped a mushy tortilla smeared with grits or refried beans through a slot in the bars. The guards never spoke or even looked at him. Every third day, by his count, they turned on steam pipes in the floor, and he would dance for 12 hours. He figured 14 days passed since he had watched those drownings in the white room. All he had was the monster, the condemned prisoners in cells on either side, and nightmares.

* * * *

It was a bad firefight. When the gooks opened the ambush, the interrogation team had been moving with Delta Company along a jungle trail bordering a village. Three marines went down screaming. Tucker ate dirt, diving off the trail facing the direction of fire, wishing he could be a bug so he could crawl away. Bullets snapped above his helmet like whips; so close, he couldn't rise or look to the left or right. There was no outgoing fire. No one could move.

He heard the Delta lieutenant yelling into the radio for artillery and medevac choppers. The firing stopped, and Tucker stood up, fired a burst, and saw nothing to his front. He looked to the right where a corpsman bent over a wounded man. He looked for Sanchez and spotted him on the ground with his hands over his helmet. The lieutenant stood up in the middle of the trail.

“Third platoon Delta,” the officer said, and the shooting started, forcing him to drop.

It continued for what seemed like hours, a thousand whips cracking. Somebody yelled that the corpsman took a headshot. They couldn't see the gooks. Finally, the firing slowed to scattered shots. Tucker and several grunts raised up, firing into the jungle. The lieutenant stood up on the trail.

“Third platoon Delta,” he said, and once more drew fire. “Fuck it,” he said, dropping to the ground.

Moments later, Tucker heard artillery boom and rounds whistled toward the jungle. Someone called his name...

* * * *

“Tucker. Hey, Tucker."

He shook his head, seeing the yellow cell bars. That flashback had seemed too real.

“What?"

“You deaf or something?"

It was Gary Winger, the prisoner to his right.

“What do you want?"

“You was yelling like someone was after your ass. I thought maybe Bigfoot broke through the wall."

“It was a dream."

“Did you shit today?” Winger said.

“What?” Tucker said. “No, I didn't."

He could tolerate Winger, a 20-year-old, sentenced to death because his partner had killed a bank manager during a robbery. Or so he said. The partner, named Ruppert, had occupied Tucker's cell. He had been executed three months ago when his number had been pulled from the lottery. Winger had introduced himself and persisted in telling Tucker his story.

“It must have been old Bigfoot Nixon. He always stinks the place up when he shits."

Butch Nixon was to Tucker's left, the last cell in the row. Tucker had not seen the men. They were voices without faces. He missed last shower call, which according to Winger came every 15 days.

Winger told Tucker that Nixon was damn near seven-foot tall and weighed 370 pounds. Winger had given him the name Bigfoot because he had something like size 18 triple wide feet. They didn't let Nixon shower with the other prisoners. He was a religious fanatic with a bad habit of killing anyone within reach, for the sake of Jesus. Nixon was stone crazy, according to Winger.

“Yeah, it had to be Bigfoot. I know it wasn't Thorpe. He doesn't even fart."

Tucker knew that Thorpe, a doctor who had murdered his entire family with a scalpel, was the prisoner in the cell to the right of Winger. Winger described Thorpe as a short man in his forties with dainty hands and maniac eyes. So far, Winger had not pressed Tucker to tell him why he was in the death house.

“Yeah, it was Bigfoot,” Winger said. “That bastard has to shit in shifts so he don't clog the pipes."

Tucker heard a noise at the bars to his left and smelled body odor worse than strong onions. Bigfoot Nixon spoke, his voice a slow, deliberate baritone.

“I'm gonna sacrifice you on the altar of God, Winger. Then I'm gonna eat you."

“Ah, eat this,” Winger said. “You fucking Jehovah witness."

“I gonna eat you, too, Tucker,” Nixon said. “I can tell you're pure evil."

Tucker didn't answer. He heard Nixon shuffle away from the bars.

“Don't worry about Bigfoot,” Winger said. “I been here a long time, and he don't get out of that cell when we do."

Tucker walked to the back wall of his cell and sat down. Nixon was the least of his worries. He couldn't hack it here. He had to escape. Apparently, Winger had accepted his fate. Being sentenced to death meant having nothing to look forward to except death. The monster had better come up with a plan because he was out of ideas.

“Hey, Tucker. Don't feel like talking, huh?"

Tucker stared at his feet, his vision beginning to blur. He could escape inside his mind. From what seemed like a far distance, he heard Winger.

“Hey, Thorpe, tighten up your asshole. Tomorrow is shower day."

* * * *

They stood at attention by the cell doors, following the verbal command from the corridor intercom. It was quiet on the block. Earlier that morning, Winger informed him about shower day.

“There's twelve cells on this block,” Winger had said. “One up to twelve. You're in eleven, Tucker. Bigfoot is in twelve, but they won't let him out. He takes his shower by himself. We'll be taking showers with the D block. It's the only time they let us out of the cells, so you have to do what they say if you want to shower. One wrong word and they lock everybody down. You can't fuck with the man, and if somebody causes us to miss a shower, it could be dangerous when we do get one. Know what I mean?"

“What about shaving?"

“Not until they pull your number for execution."

Tucker heard a metal door slide open, followed by two sets of shoes scraping the floor. Two guards began walking the corridor starting at Cl. One of them dragged what sounded like a stick along the cell bars as they yelled at the prisoners.

“Put your shoulders back, Johnson, you piece of shit."

“Creasey, you are one ugly bastard."

“Drop your underwear and put that thing between the bars, Milner. I'll beat it down with this stick."

“I'm going to fix it so they draw your number next, Osgood. I'm tired of looking at your fat ass."

“Thorpe, get your little buns at attention. It's party time."

“Winger, you're so pretty you could be my sister."

Then, they were in front of his cell.

“Tucker, the warden's favorite killer."

“Shut up,” the other guard said.

They moved on and paused in front of Nixon's cell.

“Jesus H. Christ,” the one who had spoken to Tucker said. “You ain't even human, Nixon. You smell like a pile of shit."

Tucker heard Nixon plod to the front of the cell. His deep baritone voice was calm.

“Jesus doesn't have an H in his name,” he said. “Let me out with the others. I'll be good."

“Yeah, right,” the other guard said. “Go squat in your corner, you damn mutant. You make me sick."

Tucker swore the walls trembled as Nixon apparently shook the bars.

“Father, forgive them. They know not what they do."

Tucker heard a club hitting meat.

“Quit talking that Bible crap, Nixon."

More thumping blows.

“Hail Mary, full of grace."

“Let's go,” the other guard said.

“Christ, I hit him as hard as I could across the knuckles and he didn't move."

“Forget it."

A door slid open.

“We'll have to shoot that big bastard ten times to knock him out when his number is drawn."

The voices faded as the door slid closed again.

“Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus,” Nixon said.

* * * *

Ten minutes passed while they waited at attention in their cells. Nixon had stopped praying. Tucker thought about the guard saying he was thewarden's favorite killer . Winger must have been thinking, too.

“So you're the warden's favorite killer?” he whispered.

“It's news to me,” Tucker answered. “I've never seen the warden."

“They call him little Hitler."

“Fits right in here,” Tucker said.

“Who did you kill?"

“Opening Block C, one through eleven,” the intercom voice said.

“I was framed."

The yellow bars clanged opened, and Tucker stepped into the corridor. The ceiling was at least 10 ft. high. Single light bulbs enclosed by wire mesh were in the ceiling above each cell. Several bulbs flickered and a few had burned out. He quickly noticed the cameras at each end of the block.

“Eyes front,” the loudspeaker voice said. “Stand at attention."

Tucker heard breathing to his left, a slurpy hiss. Turning his head slightly, he saw Nixon at the bars of C12. He saw a white, almost flat forehead, unblinking blue eyes, a knotted mess of black hair, and huge white knuckles gripping the bars.

“Eyes to the front, Tucker,” the loudspeaker voice said.

Wanting the basic luxury of a shower, Tucker looked forward, staring at the yellow corridor wall.

“Gonna get you,” Nixon whispered.

“Thorpe, get out of that cell,” the loudspeaker voice said.

Tucker heard Winger chuckle.

“I don't want a shower,” Thorpe whined.

“Get out of that cell or you'll shower with Nixon."

“Won't that be nice,” Nixon said from behind Tucker.

Thorpe came out of his cell. Tucker heard him sniff as if he had been crying.

“I don't want to go in the shower,” Thorpe said again.

“Right face,” the intercom voice said.

Tucker turned to the right with the rest, obeying the military command. He couldn't smell himself, but the body movements had stirred the air and he caught drafts of odors from the others: the Swiss cheese stench of athletes foot, the thick onion stink of sweaty armpits, piss ammonia, whiffs of old and new shit. His nostrils absorbed and deadened the smells.

He examined Winger's back and shaggy dark hair to the middle of his shoulder blades. Winger was six-foot tall, thin and wiry, and had a long scar on the back of his left arm, probably a knife wound. His underwear was brown with stains.

He saw Thorpe, a foot shorter than Winger, bald on the crown of the skull. Tufts of gray hair stood out from his head near his right ear, as if he had been sleeping on that side. His filthy underwear sagged, exposing the crack of his wrinkled ass. There were seven other whites and one black man in line. The other white men were too pale, as if they had been dipped in bleach. They may have been, he thought, considering what he had seen so far. The black man was the color of charcoal, but his short, wiry hair was whitish-gray.

“Forward, march,” the loudspeaker voice said.

Tucker felt Nixon's eyes upon his back.

“Father, bring these sinners into my hands,” Nixon said.

* * * *

In a corridor just outside the sliding steel door entrance to the showers, the column had been halted and ordered to remove their underwear. Tucker heard the steel door behind him scrape closed. He couldn't get a fix on his position inside the prison. It seemed to be a maze of sliding doors. Like he imagined the inside of a submarine would look.

“You will hold those rags in your left hand and drop them into the barrel just inside the shower area,” the loudspeaker voice said.

The stench in the corridor made breathing difficult.

“Hurry up, damn it,” somebody in the front of line said.

“Fifteen minutes until lock down,” the voice said.

The door slid open and the prisoners marched into a huge white tile room. Shower spickets were mounted in the walls on each side. The ceiling was at least 30 ft. high, and there were narrow windows reinforced with thick steel bars a few inches below the ceiling on the left wall. Sunlight hit the opposite wall in thin shafts like map grids, showing the square pattern of the steel bars.

Twelve bearded prisoners from D Block entered from the opposite end. Those in front ran to showers and turned on the water. Tucker noticed small soaps chips on the floor. The steel doors slid closed and the room echoed with the sound of water.

Winger turned and he seemed shocked.

“Damn, Tucker, you're big for an old dude."

Tucker nodded. Winger had a patchy beard that wouldn't grow because the hair was too fine to fill the gaps. He had a round face, fine-pored skin, and brown eyes with long lashes. A former pretty boy who had probably moved from hustling on corners to bank robbery.

Being the last in his group, Tucker took his shower near the door so he could view the entire room. He found out quick there was no hot water. Several prisoners yelled from the shock of icy water. Tucker didn't care. He quickly soaped himself down and scrubbed his scalp, keeping his back to the wall and his eyes open.

He did not consider himself to be like the other prisoners. They were criminals, the greedy or insane. He always had honorable intentions and believed in the purpose of his death work. He had spent his life killing these same kinds of people.

Except for Bigfoot. He didn't know what to think about Nixon. Maybe that animal had his own monster; one that had taken complete control. Maybe he would become like Nixon before it was over.

As he finished rinsing his scalp and let cold water run down his back, he noticed a prisoner from D Block on his knees giving another prisoner a blowjob. Then, Winger and several other prisoners from C Block, whose names he didn't know, surrounded Thorpe. The fat little doctor screamed as they pushed him down and Winger tried to penetrate his rear. They punched and slapped him and he stopped struggling.

“Come on, you little bitch,” one of them said.

No wonder he didn't want to take a shower, Tucker thought. Winger was on top of Thorpe, making frantic grinding movements, trying to gain entry. Tucker reacted even before he thought about it.

Walking across the room, he grabbed Winger by the scalp and threw him across the floor so his face slammed the opposite wall. The prisoners holding Thorpe backed off. The huge room suddenly went quiet. Winger sat up against the wall, rubbing his left eyebrow where his face had struck the tile.

“You motherfucker,” he said. “What the hell you think you're doing?"

Thorpe sat up, backing away.

“If you animals want to poke somebody in the ass, then try it with me."

No one moved.

“Lock down,” the loudspeaker voice said. “Shower call is over. Line up."

The prisoners began moving, slowly forming ranks, Tucker at the end of the line. Winger and Thorpe took their places. Neither looked at him. Tucker sensed that he had somehow just become the top dog in C Block, a leader of the dead.

Unless, Bigfoot Nixon joined the party.

Chapter 29

Tucker estimated that three days passed before a guard pushed a squeaky laundry cart through C Block and tossed a pair of jockey shorts into each cell. The hot floor pipes had just cooled, leaving him exhausted. Using the callused part of his heels, he had balanced his weight on each foot. Still, it took less than ten seconds before he switched legs, doing thedeath row dance . He either leaned against the wall or hopped as he heard other prisoners moan and curse. After a few hours he would escape inside himself, his body reacting while his thoughts wandered the past.

He knew he could be wrong about the three days. He judged time by the meals that came roughly every 12 hours, but he often lost track of time. Since the food remained the same, that refried bean protein paste on a tortilla, he had no reference point of change to count forward. He had been constipated before his body adjusted to the diet. His stomach growled constantly and he worried about losing too much weight.

He exercised for an hour after each meal, trying to maintain muscle tone. Pushups didn't help much. He felt like mush, except after a session of the pipes. His muscles would then be rigid and aching. The floor had just cooled when he heard a door slide and the cart squeak through the block.

“These are too damn small,” somebody said.

The guard didn't answer or say anything, except when he passed Nixon on the way out. Tucker retrieved his underwear and then pressed his face against the bars. He saw part of the guard's back and head as he waited for the sliding door to open. Winger had told him they didn't give Nixon underwear because he tore them to shreds and ate them. Nixon growled like a cornered dog.

“Christ,” the guard said, shaking his head. The door slid open and he was gone.

Winger spoke to Tucker for the first time since the incident in the shower.

“Tucker, does your underwear fit?"

“Yeah."

“Mine are too big.” Winger coughed and spit. “You hurt me, man. Everybody does Thorpe."

“You're lucky that's all I did."

“Lucky,” Winger said. He laughed, short and bitter. “We're all gonna die. How in the hell can I be lucky? I would be lucky if they came and ended this shit. I can't take much more."

Thorpe mumbled.

“Shut up,” Winger said.

Suddenly, Nixon spoke in that deep voice. “Satan is your father."

“Screw you, Bigfoot,” Winger said.

“I wasn't speaking to you,” Nixon said. “You will be an insignificant speck on the floor of hell. Tucker will sit at the right hand of Satan."

“Then at least I'll know somebody in charge,” Winger said.

Winger shuffled away from the bars, rambling to himself about shooting Nixon with an elephant gun. Tucker could smell Nixon's disgusting breath, which now seemed like rotten meat. Nixon farted, loud, long, and wet.

“Gonna get you, Tucker."

“Jesus,” Tucker said, retreating to the rear of his cell.

* * * *

The party was over for the prisoner named Osgood. Several meals later, they came for him. Tucker sat against the back cell wall when the metal door by Cl hissed open. He heard footsteps and a voice.

“Come on, Osgood, it's your lucky day. You hit the lottery."

“Get up, you piece of shit,” another voice said. “It's time to pay your bill."

“I'm innocent,” a frantic voice said.

The loudspeaker crackled with static for a moment. “Opening C four."

“Get up."

Tucker heard the cell grind open. He didn't know Osgood because the only time he had seen other prisoners was during the shower. He did remember hearing a guard say he would make sure Osgood was executed soon, and he wondered if that was possible. Feet shuffled and a club thumped meat. Tucker knew that prisoners stood at the front of their cells.

“Stop it. I don't want to die."

“Closing C four,” the loudspeaker voice said.

The procession passed Tucker's cell. Osgood had probably been fat before his stay on the block, but now he was just chubby. His blond hair stood up like wheat. He had a blond beard and pale blue eyes. A guard supported each arm, dragging him. A guard behind him kept poking him between the shoulder blades with a club.

“I didn't do it,” he kept saying.

The front of his underwear was urine yellow, and his back was covered with leaking sores. The door at the end of the block slid open and they were gone. The door hissed closed, echoing. Within a few hours, Osgood's skull would tumble down the stadium ramp. The cellblock remained quiet. No one had said anything, not even Bigfoot.

* * * *

Tucker rolled to a sitting position, shaking his head. He figured it was night because he had been sleeping. He had dreamed about Barbara. They were in bed and he cupped her breasts. When he moved to kiss her, she suddenly curled her lips back, her teeth grinding like stones.

He had been startled awake, shivering on the cold floor. His joints and lower spine seemed about to snap. His eyes stung from dried secretions fusing the lids to the lower lashes. He rubbed them and shook his head again, trying to focus. A shadow suddenly blocked the corridor light as his vision cleared. A sewer smell came in waves, sending chills up his spine. Something primeval stood in front of the cell. The grinding noise had been C12 opening.

They had let Nixon out.

Tucker took his first full look at what had to be a genetic mistake. Nixon had a lion mane. He was covered with thick black hair, even his shoulders; so thick his genitals had disappeared. His short legs seemed out of proportion to the long arms. The jagged nails of his feet and hands were black with old dirt. His insane, drooling smile exposed white, pointed canine teeth. The surrounding teeth were green and brown, spaced like a rotted picket fence.

Patches of white skin showed through the stomach hair. A narrow strip below the bloodshot blue eyes, the wide, sloping forehead, and the palms of his hands were the only parts without hair. He smelled like the pig farm Tucker used to pass on his way to the cabin. Staring, Nixon gripped the yellow bars with both hands.

Tucker stood up several feet away from the bars, his eyes locked on Nixon's. He sensed the monster rising inside, spreading to his limbs. It seemed different now, curious, not ready to kill, examining.

Tucker suddenly understood that Nixon was the physical form of what had been inside both of them. Only Nixon had lost the battle with his monster. It had changed his body. They stared like brothers who had always despised each other. Nixon growled and Tucker growled back.

“What the fuck is happening?” Winger said.

“Opening C nine,” the loudspeaker voice suddenly said.

“No,” Thorpe yelled when the door to C9 slipped sideways to open.

Nixon turned and released the bars of Tucker's cell.

“What the hell is going on?” Winger said.

“Shut my cell,” Thorpe pleaded. “God, shut my cell."

Smiling wide, Nixon glanced back at Tucker. “Time to play,” he said, then plodded away.

Along the row of cells the prisoners shouted. Tucker blocked their voices out. The human part of him felt horror and revulsion. The monster part was in its element, enjoying Thorpe's terror.

“Please get away from me,” Thorpe said, just before he screamed.

The scream ended in a wet, harsh squawk.

“The lord giveth and the lord taketh away,” Nixon said.

Tucker heard a noise like paper crackling and ripping. Then, Thorpe's bloody skull rolled past his cell.

“Oh, my god,” Winger said.

Tucker retreated to the rear of his cell and sat on the toilet edge. He was stunned by Nixon's brutal ability to decapitate a man with his hands. He heard bones snap, and slobbering chewing.

“Opening C ten,” the loudspeaker voice said.

“No, you bastards,” Winger yelled.

Nixon laughed and belched. A piece of Thorpe's shredded leg, full of teeth marks, thumped in front of Tucker's cell.

“Gonna get you, Winger,” Nixon said.

Tucker heard a hiss, like air forced from a balloon, and Winger gagged. He heard feet scramble, a popping suction rip, and wet chewing. Other prisoners shouted and cursed. Someone pleaded with all the gods.

Tucker expected his cell to open next. The monster rose to give him strength. His heart pounded his temples and he breathed rapidly as he tensed to fight, but he knew this maniac in the next cell would be too powerful.

What had happened, he thought? They were scheduled for public execution, not cannibal food for some psychopath. For the first time, Tucker experienced actual fear of another human. The monster, however, acted on instinct. It did not fear death; it dealt death. In its own way, the monster gave him courage.

Nixon stood in front of Tucker's cell. His thick body hair was matted with blood gobs and pink meat specks dotted his beard. The sweet smell of violent death masked his natural stench. Bigfoot jammed his right arm through the yellow bars up past the elbow, stopping when he could go no farther.

“Come here,” he said in that slow baritone. “You're next. Jesus wants you to be his last supper."

Winger would have grabbed his dick and told Nixon to eat this for your last supper, Tucker thought, then smiled at the irony. Nixon had probably done it.

“Smiling at coming death,” Nixon said. “I like that."

Tucker stared. He heard a snarl and realized it was coming from him. His muscles seemed ready to burst. He could rip the bars down with his hands. Nixon showed no reaction in his unblinking, reptilian blue eyes.

“Opening C eleven,” the loudspeaker voice said.

The lock slipped, surprising Nixon. Tucker leaped forward and grabbed the huge wrist. Nixon grunted and pulled, but the sliding half of the steel door opened 12 inches and stopped, pinning his arm between the bars of the half that didn't move.

Tucker relished the sudden panic in the giant's eyes. Nixon jerked and twisted so his elbow now faced up, with the bend in his arm down against the bars. Bracing his feet, Tucker pushed up on the arm, using his own great strength to bend Nixon's arm the wrong way toward the elbow.

They struggled in silence. Tucker watched Nixon's face pale as perspiration dotted his forehead. The arm broke at the elbow, cracking the radius and ulna bones like split wood. Then the arm dangled free, swinging back and forth at an odd angle. Nixon screamed his agony and piss ran down his leg as the door closed tighter against the arm.

The sliding door beyond C12 opened. Tucker heard several pops and saw Nixon hit with at least eight feathered darts. Still, it took several minutes for the giant to collapse against the bars.

Five guards in beige uniforms entered the cellblock, carefully stepping around Thorpe's head and arm. They seemed haggard and ready to puke. Four carried rifles while the fifth pointed a pistol at Tucker, ordering him back toward the rear of his cell.

Tucker retreated and sat on the toilet edge. He felt dull pain in his upper shoulders and knew he had torn several muscles. He would have surely died if Nixon hadn't screwed up by sticking his arm through the bars.

“Christ, what a mess,” one of the guards said.

Three guards walked down the block, ordering prisoners to be quiet. One tall guard stared at Tucker before speaking into a portable phone. The only word he could make out wassir .

“I hope we don't have to clean this shit up,” the remaining guard said.

“You will if Burdeck wants you to do it,” the guard with the phone said.

“He don't pay enough for this crap."

Moments later, they snapped to attention as another man entered the cell block, giving Tucker his first look at the Paddock warden. Simon Burdeck was at least six-foot tall and built like a wrestler. There was a faded tattoo on each of his freckled forearms. He wore a starched, short-sleeved beige shirt and beige pants with creases down the legs. His shoes had been spit shined. His short, gray hair was cut military style, close at the ears and slightly longer on top. He had emerald green eyes, the flattened nose of a boxer, and a square jaw. His teeth were too white and straight to be real. Tucker estimated his age at about 60, probably a retired career soldier, possibly the Marine Corps.

Burdeck exhaled loud then shook his head as he folded his arms across his chest.

“This is a hell of a mess we have here, Riley."

“Yes, sir,” the guard with the phone said.

Burdeck moved beyond Tucker's view, apparently looking into Thorpe's and Winger's cells. When he returned, followed by the other three guards, he stared at Tucker. The guards kept their weapons pointed into the cell.

“Nixon is a true animal. Wouldn't you agree, Tucker?"

He returned Burdeck's stare. “This whole place is full of animals."

“Is that your opinion?"

“It's a fact."

Burdeck leaned into the cell, staring at Nixon's arm. The arm was purple-black and had swollen to three times normal size. Tucker wondered how they were going to break Bigfoot free.

“Nixon is also an idiot,” Burdeck said, stepping back out of the cell. “Riley, bring in some lifers to clean this place up when we're through here."

“Yes, sir."

“Shasta,” he said to another guard. “Bring me a hacksaw and a raincoat."

“A raincoat, sir?"

“Just do it, Shasta."

“Yes, sir,” the guard said, lowering his weapon and hurrying away.

Burdeck removed a pack of Camel cigarettes from his pants pocket and lit one. He exhaled toward the cell. Tucker instantly craved nicotine. It had been a long time since he had smelled a cigarette. He breathed deep, trying to catch the exhaled smoke, but he got a strong whiff of Nixon and cut the breath short.

“Do you remember what it was like just to be able to light a cigarette when you wanted one, Tucker?"

“I remember."

“Freedom is a precious privilege,” Burdeck said, blowing smoke into the cell again.

Another prisoner down the block yelled something about a motherfucker.

“Shut up down there,” Burdeck said. “Or I'll have your ass on the chopping block tomorrow."

The block went quiet again. Nixon groaned and farted a sulfur odor, which made Tucker hold his nose. He noted that Burdeck didn't react at all and continued smoking.

“Damn,” Riley said.

Shasta returned with a yellow raincoat and a shiny hacksaw. He stood at attention, waiting. Tucker saw the other guards shrug their shoulders and exchange glances. They didn't know what Burdeck planned to do.

The warden looked at Nixon. “There hangs every mother's nightmare,” he said. He crushed the cigarette under his shoe and exhaled, folding his hands behind his back. “But when I think about it, so am I."

“The raincoat and the hacksaw, sir,” Shasta said.

Burdeck turned. “Right.” He took the raincoat, putting it on over his clothing. “We have a logistical problem here. The cell door won't close until we remove Nixon. So until then, we won't be able to confine Tucker."

Burdeck suddenly had one of the guard rifles. The rifle popped and Tucker felt a stinging high on his right shoulder where the feathered dart penetrated. There were three more pops. Darts pricked his stomach and left arm.

“It's best that we put you out for awhile, Tucker."

Within seconds, Tucker felt weak and sleepy. He slid off the toilet seat, the floor cool against his skin. His legs wouldn't work.

“Should I start sawing the bars, sir?” Shasta said.

Tucker saw Burdeck grab something shiny. “Riley, call for Doctor Creighton and tell him to bring a surgical bag."

“Yes, sir,” Riley said, then put the phone close to his mouth.

“Shasta, you must learn that prisoners come and go, but these cells are forever."

Tucker watched Burdeck squeeze through the narrow opening in the cell door.

“This one doesn't need his arm to be executed,” Burdeck said, holding the hacksaw above Nixon.

Staring through a wobbling haze, Tucker noticed the warden's right arm working frantically, but it no longer meant anything. He floated, mentally rocking from side to side. The yellow raincoat became red speckled and suddenly splashed bright red. In a detached way, he thought maybe he was on a boat crossing a turbulent lake of fire deep in hell.

Going home, he thought.

Chapter 30

A ceiling fan rotated slowly beneath fluorescent lights as Tucker, handcuffed in the front and with leg shackles, waited in a room without windows. He wore clean underwear, dark blue cotton pants, and a sky blue, button-up, short-sleeve shirt. They opened his cell, and he had been guided by the loudspeaker voice into the showers, noting along the way that Nixon's cell was empty. The cells that held Winger, Thorpe, and Osgood had new occupants.

He showered alone, the sound of the water echoing as he stared at the sun filtering through the high windows. Then, he was ordered to put on the clothing before being guided by the loudspeaker voice into the office.

He sat in one of four folding metal chairs facing a wooden desk and five blank televisions mounted on the wall. A white plastic ashtray had spilled on a green blotter in the middle of the desk. The floor was a gray concrete slab. The walls and ceiling were beige. The only luxury item seemed to be a brown leather swivel chair behind the desk.

Tucker didn't know what to expect. Burdeck wanted them all dead, and had used Nixon. He didn't understand why, since they were supposed to be worth so much money. He knew Winger and Thorpe died, but he didn't know about Nixon. He remembered a hacksaw in the warden's hand, and nothing else. The drug in the darts had been powerful; he still felt sick to his stomach and had a slight headache above his eyes.

He stared at the ashtray, searching for a butt worth saving, in case he could get a match somewhere. The cigarettes in the ashtray were non-filters, burned down to stubs. Probably Camels, he thought. A door slammed and Burdeck entered the room, alone.

The warden, dressed in a pressed beige uniform, reminded Tucker of a movie dictator. Burdeck sat in the swivel chair and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke up toward the fan.

“You used a fan in many of your torture sessions,” Burdeck said.

Tucker didn't answer.

“I retired from the Corps in 1996,” Burdeck said. “I put in thirty years."

“I figured that out."

Burdeck lit another cigarette and placed it on the end of the desk on Tucker's side.

“You can have that one."

Tucker leaned forward, gripping the cigarette in his cuffed hands. He took a long drag and instantly felt dizzy. Burdeck removed a white plastic ashtray from a desk drawer and slid it toward Tucker.

“Don't use the floor."

They smoked in silence. Burdeck finished long before him, so Tucker stared at his own cigarette, savoring each drag while avoiding eye contact. When it was down to a stub, he crushed it in the ashtray and met Burdeck's stare.

“There's a difference between you and me,” Burdeck said. “I was in Nam. I was also in Panama and on Desert Storm. I've seen as much combat as you, but I know how to handle it."

“You're a better man than me."

“I assume you realize what that difference between us is about."

“You're just as fucked up as me, but the law is on your side. You do your killing legally."

“That's right. But in here, the law isn't on my side. I am the law."

“Why did you have Nixon kill Winger and Thorpe?"

“I run a tight ship. I don't put up with ass humpers and peter puffers. When I have time, I weed them out. You stopped Winger from having sex with Thorpe, didn't you?"

“I don't like the strong preying on the weak,” Tucker said. “But I didn't kill them. I thought we were supposed to be worth so much money?"

Burdeck smiled, displaying perfect teeth, which seemed yellow under the bright lights.

“Do you really think the public cares who gets executed? Do you think they care who is a headliner? They want blood and money. That's all. Once prisoners enter Paddock, they are mine. If I say they died while awaiting execution, nobody asks questions. You're already dead once you enter these walls.” Burdeck lit another cigarette. “You read Dante, and you saw the abandon all hope sign on the way inside. You even used one of his demons during your murders. I've studied you."

“Is that why you had Nixon try to kill me?"

Burdeck blew smoke. “Let's just say that it was a pass or fail job interview. You did well on your interview."

Tucker shuffled his feet, rattling the chains. “A job doing what?"

“Have you been to an execution?"

“Yeah, I didn't care to watch it."

“Where do you think the executioners come from?"

“I don't know."

“From right here. Men like you who were sentenced to death. You are one of those rare individuals who fit the profile I need for an executioner. They work for me."

“Could I have another cigarette?"

Burdeck crushed his own cigarette then lit two, placing one in the ashtray on Tucker's side. As he smoked, Tucker thought about the executioners. They were all muscular hooded men with stage names like Ajax and Slash. Their real identities had remained secret, and now it became clear why.

“Each executioner is a convicted murderer,” Burdeck said, coughing as smoke came through his nose. “Of course, their murders combined don't equal your total."

Tucker felt dizzy again. Shit was moving too fast here.

“Three weeks ago, one of my executioners dropped dead from a heart attack. I want you to replace him."

“What about my death warrant?"

“You will be reported to have died of natural causes while awaiting execution. Your film bio was a good one, too. The computer did one hell of a job. Of course, the public will never get to see it."

Tucker inhaled deep. “So I have a choice of being executed or working for you as a killer."

“Is it really much of a choice? You are a killer. It's all you know. You haven't got the capacity to show remorse."

Tucker thought about his feelings after killing Hauser, and whether he would have been able to live with himself if he had killed the undercover cop. He had felt remorse, and believed he could train the monster to kill only in self-defense.

“What I am offering you is your life and the chance to kill within the law. You will also have limited freedom."

Tucker crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “Meaning what?"

“What difference does it make when you consider the alternative? Unless, I've judged you wrong and you hate yourself so much that you want to die."

“I've wanted to die many times. Right now, I want to live. If I didn't, I would have already tried to kill you."

“Like Spencer?"

“I thought I did kill him."

Burdeck placed his hands on the desk. “You did, but he let his power go to his head. I don't like my men to make mistakes with prisoners. He's gone without a trace."

“You made him disappear?"

Burdeck shrugged. “This is a business, Tucker. I try to run it like any successful business."

“What happened to Nixon?"

“He's with us. Minus an arm. I think his lottery number is due to fall soon.” Burdeck smiled. “Now, do you accept my offer?"

“I'd be a fool if I didn't."

“Good.” Burdeck stood up, folding his hands behind him.

“You will be paid six-hundred dollars for each completed death warrant. The money will go directly to me. You will be given one hundred dollars a month for cigarettes and personal items at the commissary store. It will be just like you're back in the Marine Corps."

“Wonderful."

“You are a prisoner. Don't ever forget that. I expect you to execute warrants and stay in good physical shape."

“What happens when I'm too old or I get sick?"

Burdeck shrugged and exhaled. His eyes shifted slightly to the left. “You will be retired with a pension here at Paddock. I take care of my executioners."

Tucker knew that was a bullshit lie. His retirement would be death.

“What if I escape?"

“I guarantee you won't escape."

Tucker didn't like the confidence in Burdeck's voice. He wasn't being told everything.

“You can go back to C block and eat off the floor or join my team and do what you do best. Do you want the job or not?"

“I want it."

“Good. And you need to think of a stage name. Something appropriate."

“How about Malacoda?"

Burdeck smiled. “Good choice.” He removed the cigarette pack and matches from his breast pocket and placed them on the desk. “You can have these for starters. Someone will be along shortly to take you to your new quarters. I think you're going to like the work."

Fuck you, Tucker thought, as he reached for the cigarettes.

Now he would have two monsters controlling his life, both feeding upon each other to crush him.

Chapter 31

Tucker's new cell on the second floor of a red brick barracks building was a remnant from the old Paddock mental hospital. Compared to C Block, the place seemed like a fine hotel. He did not have handcuffs or leg shackles. There were no wall cameras. The tall window with steel bars opened upwards, giving a view of the cross-shaped Paddock complex. The cell door was solid steel with a sliding panel for receiving food.

He had a squeaky, rod-iron bed with a lumpy mattress that smelled rain moldy. He had a scarred wooden table, a rickety, metal chair, and beige, 12 inch, black and white television with a bent aerial. The separate bathroom, with a door, had a shower, a sink, and a polished aluminum mirror. A light fixture with a bare bulb and a pull string had been mounted in the ceiling above the mirror. He even had shaving cream, a disposable razor, a toothbrush, and toothpaste.

He shaved, brushed his teeth, and took a long warm shower. His pale face appeared much younger in the cloudy mirror, despite gray streaks at the temples. Long brown hair curled up at the back of his neck. He stared as if at a stranger because it had been so long since he had seen his own reflection. His teeth looked dull and yellow. His eyes seemed a lighter blue. He flexed his muscles, checking each ripple and groove. The shrapnel scars on his stomach were bright pink in contrast against the white skin.

Then, he thought he saw the monster. In flashes, like flipping between a photograph and a negative. A huge, black shadow surrounded his body, making him appear small. The blue eyes became cold and reptilian. He saw fangs and horn stubs.

No more, he thought, stepping away from the mirror.You won't get control again.

He knew it was a lie. The monster owned his soul.

* * * *

The door panel slid open and a food tray scraped the floor. It contained steak, a baked potato, green beans, four slices of bread, and two cartons of milk. Tucker ate the real food slow, then smoked a cigarette. A few minutes later his stomach cramped with diarrhea. He had expected it with the diet change.

After leaving the toilet, he lit another cigarette and turned on the television. The screen hummed and remained blank. He tried twisting the bent aerial, but nothing worked. He turned it off and stood by the open window, staring between the bars at the Paddock complex. The sun was fading to his left. It was like viewing an oil painting. There were no sounds, in his building or through the prison.

He didn't know where the other five executioners lived. Probably in this building. A toilet flushed somewhere to his right, and pipes rattled and hissed. From his second floor window, he saw most of the prison. Paddock was shaped like a huge beige crucifix with a circular building in the center.

Everything in this place is either beige or white or yellow, he thought.

Two long buildings crossed the circular building at right angles to form a cross. Each arm and the top half of the crucifix had five connecting smaller wings on each side, passing through the main long buildings at right angles, making the upper half of the crucifix look like a snowflake. This would be the different blocks: lifers, the mentally ill, and death row. Pink steam rose from the circular building in the center. At least, it looked pink, but he figured it could be an illusion caused by the sunset.

The bottom half of the crucifix, which ended 50 yards across a courtyard from Tucker's barracks, had several large square buildings as branches; each one surrounded by sidewalks and neatly trimmed lawns. These were probably the administration buildings, hospital, cafeteria, and whatever else was involved in running a prison. Here, the main gate entrance and road was to the right. Double walls surrounded everything, with the minefields in between.

The pink vapor from the circular building disappeared along with the sun. Outside lights blinked on and large spotlights on the prison walls probed the compound. Tucker stepped away from the window to sit on the bed. No one could escape, but by a strange twist of fate, he now had a job off the complex. At the stadium, he could possibly disappear into the crowd. He fell back on the bed, imagining freedom. He would escape and shove this executioner scam right up Burdeck's ass.

* * * *

Guards led him to the complex the following morning where a barber shaved his head, making his skull instantly feel every breeze or temperature change. A tailor took exact measurements, including shoe size, and a doctor examined him.

Burdeck met him in the corridor outside the doctor's office. The warden dismissed the guards and motioned Tucker to follow him. The corridor was wide, beige, lit by fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling, and full of doors. Some doors had nameplates. Others were markedPrivate orRestricted: Do Not Enter Without Proper Clearance . Guards and men in white smocks passed, greeting Burdeck with nods or salutes. No one stopped to talk, smile, or make direct eye contact with their boss. A few glanced at Tucker then quickly turned away.

“We do a lot of research here,” Burdeck said. “By the way, you'll be getting shoes soon."

Tucker glanced down. It had been so long since he had worn shoes that he hardly missed them. He had been thinking about the guards and lab technicians. “Are there any women here?"

“Not at Paddock, for obvious reasons. Women prisoners are at Marysville where the warden and all the guards are women. You might have to chop a woman. Six have been executed so far."

“Where are the other executioners?"

“You won't see them until after training and your first death warrant. Then you will be part of the group."

I'll bet that's a fun group, Tucker thought.

They moved into a wide cross-corridor with curved walls, and Burdeck stopped in front of a sliding steel door. Tucker figured this was the circular building at the center of the complex.

“To your left around the bend is the cell block for the physically fit lifers,” Burdeck said. “To the right around the bend is the cell block for the physically defective lifers and those who have been declared totally insane."

“What does that mean?"

Burdeck smiled. “Defectives are the ones who can't be used for medical experiments or transplants. The drug addicts or the ones with bad hearts or deformed limbs. The nut cases come from state mental hospitals after doctors have determined they are incurable."

“You mean that not every prisoner here is a criminal?"

“No,” Burdeck said. “Mental patients who can never be released back into society are sent here."

“Then if I would have been found legally insane I would have ended up here anyway,” Tucker said.

“I doubt if you would have ever been released,” Burdeck said. “And it would have been far worse to come in here as a mental patient."

“Why?"

“You'll see. And by the way, death row is directly opposite on the other side of the building. You've seen that already."

The sliding door opened on a large square room. Three walls were crammed with beige control consoles, all knobs, switches, and lights. The other wall was a thick glass window. A bald man wearing a white lab coat stood at the controls. He saluted Burdeck and stared at Tucker.

“Good morning, Segal,” Burdeck said. “Are we on schedule this morning?"

“Right on time, sir. They're bringing them in now."

Burdeck motioned Tucker forward to the glass. Looking down, he saw a huge stainless steel bowl. At least 75 feet in diameter, and 15 feet deep, the bowl was slick with what looked like clear jelly. The top of the bowl, hidden in a wall recess, ended a few feet below the glass window. Fifteen feet above him, the center of the white dome ceiling had a circle of six grated exhaust fans surrounding a circular stainless steel panel.

On the opposite side of the room, a door opened and guards removed handcuffs from a naked white man before pushing him into the bowl. This continued until there were five white and three black men in the bowl. They cussed and screamed and struggled to climb the sides, all sliding back down to the center.

The guards shoved four corpses into the bowl. Two were missing all their limbs, and the other two were in a stiff fetal posture. The control room consoles whirred and clicked.

Tucker glanced over his shoulder and saw the bald man, Segal, move from panel to panel as he turned knobs and pushed buttons. Burdeck lit a cigarette and stared through the glass. Tucker heard a grinding hum. The huge bowl began to rotate to the right, slowly picking up speed. The eight men and four corpses slid to a pile at the bottom.

The steel panel between the ceiling exhaust fans opened. A hydraulic, stainless steel shaft, thick as a telephone pole, unfolded in sections like a telescope, dropping toward the center of the bowl. When the extending shaft was still several feet above the prisoners, four shiny blades unfolded from the tip and with a loud click locked into position. The men screamed and tried to back away, but they kept sliding to the bottom. The shaft rotated, so fast the blades became invisible.

“You could have used something like this at your cabin, Tucker,” Burdeck said, blowing smoke. “Do it, Segal."

The shaft dipped lower. Screams were cut short and the bowl gushed red. The prisoners had died fast. Meat globs and hair exploded against the stainless steel. The exhaust fans in the ceiling came on, sucking up a red mist.

The pink cloud Tucker saw wasn't an illusion. And they call me an animal, he thought.

The bowl began to fill with water from the wall recess. The crimson water rose, covering the spinning blades. Burdeck stepped away from the glass and returned with a small ashtray. He exhaled smoke and crushed his cigarette.

“What do you think about our waste disposal system?"

The shaft stopped spinning. The blades folded back inside and retracted toward the ceiling until it disappeared and the panel closed.

“I didn't know they made man blenders."

Burdeck scratched his nose. “We can do up to thirty in under two minutes. I would say it's more like a man puree. Wouldn't you, Segal?"

“Yes, sir."

Water continued to gush into the bowl until the color faded from red to light pink. Tucker saw nothing in the water bigger than a fingernail.

“Segal has killed more men in a week than you have in your life. But he kills within the law according to the will of the people we serve."

Right, Tucker thought. Burdeck loved this slaughter.

“Open the drain, Segal."

The bald technician pushed a button. Tucker heard steel scraping. A huge swirling tunnel appeared in the water. The bottom of the bowl apparently opened into the sewer system.

“I call this place Malebolge, the Eighth Circle of Hell, after Dante, of course. You should appreciate that, Tucker. It's not often that men get to enjoy their dark fantasy as you and I have. Everyone else calls this place by a different name."

“I know,” Tucker said, staring at the spinning water. “They call it the whirlpool."

Chapter 32

Tucker chopped watermelons, 50 or more a day. After a light breakfast, he would lift weights for two hours, always by himself, before each practice session. He wore a custom-fitted head roller uniform. The black leather hood, like a sack with a tie string below the Adam's apple, covered his head and neck, part of his shoulders, and upper back, taking away his peripheral vision. He had to turn his head to see either side.

The black pants were shiny and tight. The heavy black boots caused heel blisters for the first week. The gloves, the palms covered with grainy silica for a no-slip grip, gave him a rash between his fingers. The half-moon shaped ax, forged from a block of stainless steel, weighed 19 pounds and had a black rubber grip like coarse sandpaper.

During each practice session, Tucker would be locked in a beige room. The room had a thick glass window in one wall so Burdeck could observe and give instructions. His sessions were filmed and often played back on a television mounted on the wall next to the window. The chopping block was a replica of the one at the stadium, except the severed head ramp was two feet long. The roll wasn't important during practice, Burdeck told him. It was the clean cut. The ability to pop the head off without missing.

At first, Tucker missed a lot. The ax stuck into or bounced off the wooden chopping block. He cut melons at the wrong angle so they didn't pop forward and roll down the ramp. The red insides would crumble, rip up the middle with a hollow wet, thunk sound, or the rind would split without moving. The room smelled of thick, sweet syrup. Pink juice splattered his pants, the ramp, and the floor. His boots made sucking noises when he moved. Green rinds and dark seeds were everywhere. His gloves stuck to the ax handle.

Burdeck guided him like a drill instructor.

“Watch your legs, Tucker. Spread them more. Cut at less of an angle."

During one swing, the ax bounced off the block, skimming the side of Tucker's left boot before sticking in the chopping platform.

“Don't cripple yourself, boy,” Burdeck said. “I can't use a man with one leg. You'll go to the whirlpool."

Always the threats, Tucker thought. Just like his father. Tucker imagined Burdeck to be a living copy of his father; calling him boy, just like the old man. He hated the warden. A killer who tormented because he enjoyed it.

Burdeck seemed to always know his thoughts.

“You don't have to love me, boy,” Burdeck would tell him. “You just have to do what I say if you want to live."

* * * *

Burdeck took Tucker to thewhirlpool many times during the two weeks of ax training. Death came quick to victims in the bowl. The monster awoke each time, enjoying the pure terror as prisoners pleaded their last moments. Several men had jumped up into the blades to end the torment. The initial buzzing zip of blades slicing skulls, and the great splash of tissue and blood, which often pattered the window, made Tucker's stomach knot. This wasn't killing for any cause. This was just murder.

Still, he had to watch. The terror gave the monster strength. It wanted him to remember the pleasure of torture. It wanted more, always.

Now, on his last day of melon chopping before moving to what Burdeck called the final training phase, Tucker watched the whirlpool turn men to soup.

“This isn't right,” he told Burdeck.

Burdeck puffed a cigarette. The drain opened, making sucking noises as the bowl emptied in a swirl of water.

“What isn't right about it?"

“These people weren't convicted of capital crimes."

“And I suppose all of your victims killed people? What about that security guard you decapitated? Who did he kill?"

“That was different,” Tucker said. He knew it wasn't. He didn't have an argument.

“Of course it was,” Burdeck said, his voice rising in volume. “Because it was you doing the killing. You tried to justify it by convincing yourself that you were avenging children when all you were doing was killing for personal pleasure."

“I did not,” Tucker said.

Segal, the bald technician, coughed. Burdeck turned toward him.

“The cycle is complete, sir. I have to go to the bathroom."

“Go,” Burdeck said.

The warden was a big man, but Tucker could snap him like a dry twig. Then, he could not escape. He needed to survive to reach the stadium. That was his only chance, if he had a chance. He had been guaranteed he would not escape, so maybe there was some obstacle he didn't know about. He stared at Burdeck's profile as the warden watched Segal leave and close the door.

When Burdeck turned back, his face wrinkled in anger. “These people are shit, human garbage in a disposal. Don't pretend you have a conscience.” He raised a finger. “And don't judge me. I am the law, and I do what I have to according to the law. I am not, and never will be, the animal you are."

Tucker stared. He could end it now, but knew he couldn't. Not just because of the escape. He cringed before Burdeck. Somehow, Burdeck had the ability to read his mind.

“I am your father now, boy. Now and forever."

* * * *

The thing, face down with its neck on the chopping block, had maggots crawling in and around pink, wet sores dotting its charcoal gray back. It smelled like strong Swiss cheese mixed with the bitter stink of burnt hair.

Tucker knew this thing had been a black man, but it had

gone beyond human identity. It was a bald, gasping torso without arms and legs, wrapped in a filthy diaper. The head rocked from side to side, unaware.

Tucker stood just inside the chopping room. The horrible stench and maggots made him turn for the locked door. Then, he saw three bald white prisoners propped against the wall on the opposite side of the chopping block. Their skin was chalk pale and full of sores and scabs. Two were cuffed and shackled, but the third, with a face like a high school student, was a trunk without legs or arms. They stared, probably heavily sedated.

So this was the final training phase, he thought.Practice on other prisoners . His scalp itched and sweat made the hood stick to his forehead. Turning to face the window, he saw Burdeck.

“You know what to do,” the warden said through the intercom.

Tucker looked to his left at the ax against the wall by the door.

“I don't want to do this."

“Would it make you feel better if I told you at least two of them were child molesters?"

“You can tell me anything you want, but it's not the same. I believed in what I was doing. This is slaughter."

One of the men moaned.

“This is what you were born to do,” Burdeck said.

Tucker picked up the ax and approached the thing on the chopping block. He wanted to tell Burdeck to get fucked, but he was a survivor. On the platform, he hesitated above his first victim.

“It's either them or you. I can't use a man who won't obey orders."

Staring at the remnant of a man who didn't know he was there, Tucker forced the monster to take control. It was easier than he imagined, despite months of suppression. These four pieces of human garbage stood between him and survival. Two of them had molested children. Maybe all of them. He could sense the thing inside grinning. The monster didn't care; it didn't need some lame justification and enjoyed his weakness.

He raised the ax above his head; his legs spread to form an upside down V. He kept watching the neck and locked his elbows. In that moment, he remembered Erwin Mitchell, and how the executioner had looked standing over him.

He struck, surprised at how easily the blade cut flesh. He pulled the ax away and stared at the twitching neck stub. Blood jetted in even spurts. When he moved his head to the left he saw Burdeck smiling through a red film of blood splattered on the window.

“Fine work,” the warden said. “You're going to be a star."

* * * *

In his cell, Tucker sat on the edge of the musty bed after eating the supper the warden had ordered. It was a custom, Burdeck said, for his executioners to eat well on the day of their training graduation. Tucker had two steaks, mashed potatoes, corn, four slices of bread, milk, and coffee.

The rain started after dark, beating the roof and roaring from the gutters. Tucker finished half a cigarette and crushed it in a plastic coffee cup. He was suddenly tired, as if the training stress had caught up with him. Too much to eat, he thought. Not used to that much food anymore.

He flopped back onto the bed then stared at the ceiling, his feet on the floor. He thought about removing his boots and tight pants but changed his mind. It didn't seem important and he was too tired. A spider crawled across the ceiling. He envied its freedom. He lost track of it because his eyes kept closing. The rain beat a steady rhythm. Saliva trickled from the left corner of his mouth and down his cheek. He wiped it away and let his hand flop down on the bed.

In two days, he would make his first public appearance as an executioner. His last, maybe, once he figured a way to escape. Now, though, he had unfinished business at the stadium.

“You'll be doing the headliner,” Burdeck had said.

“Who is it?"

“Your old friend Nixon."

Tucker couldn't believe it. “I'll enjoy that one."

“I figured you would."

The killings didn't mean anything. Not now. He tried to remember the faces in the chopping room, but the image went fuzzy. He had to contact Barbara. She would run with him; follow him anywhere. What if she had found another man? Not possible, he thought. Chop that fucking Nixon's head and make it roll all the way across the field. Be the first executioner to put a head way beyond the numbers. Too tired to think about it now. The rain sounds just like Nam. Something isn't right.

* * * *

Tucker jumped up, shaking his head. His eyes had fused shut so he rubbed them and saw a blur of blue sky through the window. Christ, he thought, I must have slept all night. His sinuses were clogged and he craved water. Tasting like bitter copper, his tongue stuck to the back of his teeth when he tried to swallow. He had an erection, pressed straight up against his stomach from the tight pants. When he stood up his head throbbed.

In the toilet, he pissed for what seemed like five minutes, and leaving his pants down around his knees, he turned on the faucet and splashed water on his face and drank from his cupped hands.

Then, he looked up into the mirror and recoiled in shock.

His face had been dyed red from the neck up, even his ears and entire skull. Frantic, he rubbed at the skin, scrubbing with soap and water. The dye was bright, and permanent.

“You motherfucker, Burdeck,” he yelled, falling to a sitting position.

It was over, the escape plan and any future hope. They must have drugged his meal so they could dye his skin without a fight. No wonder Burdeck had been so confident when he had guaranteed no escape.

The executioner hood would attract attention out in public. Without it, he would be shot on sight. Even Barbara would believe he had AIDS and belonged in a Red Gang. Now, he knew the full story on why the other head rollers never removed their hoods. They were Burdeck's walking dead, and he had just joined them.

Chapter 33

Saturday, November 18, 2006

Tucker waited in a gray stadium corridor, with the ax over his right shoulder. His muscles glistened with oil. He faced the sliding steel doors that muffled the noise of the screaming crowd. The two other scheduled head rollers had completed their task of three death warrants each. He knew they waited for him somewhere within the stadium. Waited for the apprentice to execute the headliner before joining their select group. They would all ride off together back to Paddock.Just one big happy family of psychos and misfits , Burdeck told him.

Fuck them, Tucker thought. It would all end tonight. Each breath hissed beneath the executioner hood. His heart thudded his temples. This first and final act would possibly be front-page news. He had physical stage fright. Facing thousands of people wasn't something he wanted to do, but mentally, he was determined to carry out his plan.

His death seemed logical since all chance of escape had been removed. The war was over; the children would need a new champion. With scumbags lurking in the shadows, giving up avenging children was the hard part. But he could not face years in the hell created by Burdeck to end up as mush in the whirlpool. Since he could not kill himself, he would let others do it. When they brought Nixon out, he would tear off the hood and attack the guards with the ax, forcing them to shoot him.

That would be his escape from hell.

He knew the monster did not understand this decision. It had no concept of its own death. It only understood slaughter. The monster knew it would soon kill again. Tucker felt it inside, struggling to escape up and out.

“I should have broken your neck when I had the chance,” he said, turning left to look into the camera above the door.

Burdeck's voice echoed through the square speaker next to the camera. “I see you're still angry about the dye job."

Tucker stared.

“What did you expect, boy? Did you really think I would let you walk out of here? Give me credit for having some brains. I've been in this business a long time.” Burdeck laughed and then coughed lightly. “Your soul belongs to the devil, but your ass is mine."

“We'll see about that,” Tucker said, raising the ax.

“It's time. Put on a good show, Malacoda."

“One you'll never forget,” Tucker mumbled, as the door slid open. A blast of hot, humid air hit him, although it was November.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a loudspeaker voice echoed through the stadium. “Let's give a welcome to a new head roller, Malacoda-ah."

A bright spotlight flashed, making Tucker squint. The crowd noise was a single roaring voice shoutingMalacoda . Tucker raised the ax and flexed his muscles as he walked forward, shocked by the sudden attention, although he had known what to expect.

Cigarette smoke drifted in the spotlight beam. He turned his head right and left, avoiding eye contact, seeing nothing but a rolling mass of faces. When he did concentrate on the crowd for a few seconds, he saw men staring with obvious envy while others saluted him with upraised, spilling beer cups. Women smiled, often leaning close to other women to speak as if sharing a secret. Some women stared with open lust. A bra hit the ramp near his feet.

Guards pushed back aggressive drunks along the fence surrounding the ramp. There were many armed guards, almost shoulder to shoulder. He didn't know whether to feel like a god or a freak, and found it hard to believe he was a head roller. Television screens showed Nixon devouring a small child, and the scoreboard flashed wagering odds.

When he reached the chopping block, he stopped and glanced up beyond the ring of white stadium lights to the night void. He imagined himself rising above the steel girders and lights. He had to take that one final step.

The chantRoll, Roll began and soon reached a deafening level. Tucker looked into the crowd across the 20 feet of open space to the fence. Autograph books were thrust forward along with offerings of beer and encouraging words.

“Hit my number, Malacoda,” someone yelled.

The stadium lights dimmed as the spotlight formed a huge oval on the tunnel entrance. Tucker's hair rose on his arms and a chill ran across his lower stomach. The door slid open and the one-armed beast Nixon entered the circle of light followed by three guards cracking whips and wearing white rubber gloves up to their elbows. All chanting stopped as the mob moaned in surprise at Nixon's appearance.

Nixon wore dark blue boxer shorts. He was covered with matted black hair up to the neck. The swollen, pink stub of his severed right arm bobbed and twitched. His left arm had been chained with a short tether to a double set of foot shackles, forcing him to lean down far to the left. His shaved, gorilla shaped skull was covered with lumps and scars. He had a broad, flat nose and tiny, mushroom shaped ears without obvious lobes. A web of purple veins ran from his cheeks and up to his temples, in contrast to his chalky skin color. Each time the guards flicked whips, Nixon growled and lunged, but in his awkward stance only managed to spin in a half circle. The chantRoll, Roll began again as the mob surged against the fence surrounding the ramp.

Tucker stared toward the sky flickering with faint stars. When the stadium went quiet for Nixon's last words, probably something about Jesus, Tucker planned to step forward while he could still be heard and scream his own name. He would tell them about Burdeck's scam, then tear off his hood and attack the guards close to Nixon. It should be over fast.

Tucker stood back with the ax over his right shoulder as the guards whipped Nixon up the stairs to the chopping block. The giant stood in the spotlight rattling his chains and breathing hard. He glanced at Tucker and growled.SILENCE flashed across the stadium screen, and slowly the mob settled down until 60,000 silent people waited for the execute order.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” the loudspeaker voice said, bouncing off the rafters. “The final execution of the evening will be carried out by order of the governor."

The announcer spent ten minutes describing Nixon's crimes while the stadium screen displayed computer generated excerpts. Tucker felt sweat coating his body, even his feet. This was taking too long. The list of Nixon's crimes was extensive, at least 30 murders. Having seen Nixon in action, Tucker figured there had been hundreds. The announcer finally finished and made his closing statement.

“Butch Robert Nixon, you have been ordered executed for the capital crime of murder and cannibalism. Do you have any last words?"

Tucker stepped forward, ready to tear off the hood to expose his own identity. Nixon turned toward him and froze. The giant's blue eyes met his and went wide.

“What the fuck?” Nixon said, in that deadly baritone.

Tucker felt the monster rise as he met Nixon's hate filled stare. All that he despised in himself and the life he had lived stood before him. The tortured souls of murdered children screamed for revenge.

“I know you,” Nixon said, lunging.

Tucker brought the flat side of the ax down on the crown of Nixon's skull, stunning him, knocking him flat on his stomach. The crowd reacted with anohhh sound. The guards with whips stared at each other, obviously confused. Tucker glanced at them, and they backed away when they saw his eyes.

“Well,” the announcer said, reacting quickly. “It looks as if our new executioner, Malacoda, doesn't want Nixon to give a final speech."

Tucker heard several people laugh and then cheer. Soon, noise filled the stadium, and the chantRoll, Roll began until it was impossible to hear anything else. He felt the thing inside pushing him with definite purpose.

Reaching down with his left hand, he grabbed the chain connecting Nixon's left arm to the feet shackles and dragged him up on the chopping block in a display of massive strength. Nixon groaned but offered no resistance. Tucker lowered him so the neck was exposed across the chopping block. He wanted to rip and tear. A tingling rushed from his stomach through his limbs. Scumbags like Nixon needed killing. Someone had to do it.

He raised the ax high, the crowd screams like throbbing music. He looked up beyond the stadium to the dark void dotted with faint blinking starlight, like eyes of children demanding vengeance. Looking down, he concentrated on the exposed neck, his legs spread in a wide V.

Inside his head, a mocking voice laughed at his defeat.

He could not die, not now.

Maybe next time.

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