"Back off, Jack." Commissioner Liebowitz approached me, laughing. "Usually I don't get involved with the interrogations, but you killed a friend of mine, you bastard." Right. Danvers had been behind his appointment; the only time the Roarks had backed a loser. How did I know? I ran interference, keeping their bribe money from reaching the payoff. I tried to respond, but could only manage a wet groan. I spat blood and not for the first time. Liebowitz laughed again, sounding too old for his body. "What's that? You shot Conway Danvers?"
I shook my head, but couldn't say a thing. Behind me, Jackie-boy spoke. "I think he did, commish." Damn your eyes, Jack. I hoped someone would cut out his throat, and I wished to God it would be me.
I strained to look up, and knew I shouldn't. By all that is holy, Jack was wearing Nicole. I must have screamed or something because he drew her. "This? You want this?" I nodded. He sneered, and I shrank away. "I've been waiting for this a long time, you piece of shit. Have it." He slammed the grip into my skull, and I lost consiousness at last.
When I woke up, I wished I hadn't. I could hear water off in the distance, and the dampness permeated my skin. I was in St. Jude Prison, and in the darkest cell of them all, the one that opened onto the lake. Liebowitz must really hate me. I could feel the rain drip onto my battered skin, and I dragged myself a little closer to the window. The chill felt good, like tiny ice packs applied to my bruises. What had happened to Wendy? Gail and Miho should have been there, should have gotten me out of this. Maybe I was still paying for Fred Soames. (Promise, I'll tell you later.) Frustrated, but exhuasted, I slept at last.
Bright lights woke me up next, and I found myself being roughly thrown into the mess hall. I stumbled toward the table, and found myself suddenly holding a bowl of what smelled like shit. Luckily, some big guy slapped it outta my hands and laughed as it smeared across my uniform. I memorized his face, and vowed to get even; sure, the food was shit, but that doesn't mean I like getting pushed around.
I don't remember anything between then and the body. A dead guy washed up on the beach near my cell and no one came by to clean him up, so I got stuck with the smell. I'm told I killed a fellow prisoner, but I don't hear any details. Everyone avoided me, with the exception of the guards, and I found a stash of cigarette cartons in my cell. Small bit of comfort. I caught a glimpse of myself in a window; had to have been be at least a year, judging by those whiskers, and I must have seen some kind of action; a stitched up wound dominated the right side of my face. I found that I had memorized my cell down to the finest detail when I stepped over my uniform to take a piss.
He'd almost decomposed entirely when I was dragged to a parole hearing to wait until I was sent back. No way in hell Drucilla would let me out. She knew me too well to expect I'd leave her alone if I ever got out. She was right, too. So I sat through that mockery of justice and listened to them call me everything from con man to murderer; they were right, but I didn't tell them that. Then I got a picture of just how scared of me she really was.
It was about three weeks after my parole hearing that she came to visit with that French friend of hers. I could smell her coming, even over the lake and Bonesy. That damned perfume again. I leaned against the bars of my cell and shook. That smell. I could almost taste the Vergelegen again. I could almost feel her lips pressed up against mine again. I could...
"Dear Joseph." Damn her.
I turned to face her, and tried to twist my face into a mask of anger. "What? What could you possibly want from me now, you miserable slut!" I roared, but my voice cracked near the end. So much for anger. She tittered and I fell to my knees, weeping. All it took to break me was to see her again.
"To wish you farewell, Joseph. That rotten District Attorney won't put you on Death Row, so I find myself having to kill you." My head shot up to stare at her. She had to be joking. No way she would want to kill me after all she had already done. She raised an eyebrow, and laughed. "Surely you didn't think I'd let you live? You're the only one who knows what really happened that night, and I cannot afford to be set back any more than I already have been. My fiancee," I felt like I'd been slapped in the face. I slumped against the cot, head in my knees. "Yes, Joseph. I'm getting married. This June. I'd invite you, but you have other, more pressing engagements. Anyway, he has lent me a little toy of his. Joseph, meet Miss DuBois." I could hear the bars to my cell slide back, and heard high-heeled steps walk in.
I felt the cool metal of a gun barrel press against my head, and heard more footsteps echo out as Drucilla excused herself. No way to get out of this one, I thought. I heard the hammer click back, and gave up.
I was surprised to find myself thinking about vengeance as the hammer ratcheted back. I couldn't die now, not while she had gotten away with patricide by proxy. She should be in here, I thought, and I wouldn't rest until she was. I ducked to the right just as DuBois fired, and kicked her legs out from under her. She caught herself and shot again, but not before I'd rolled under the sink. Plaster exploded everywhere, and she cursed. Sparing a glance on my way to the bed, I could see that the dust had blinded her momentarily. I kicked out again, this time leaping from the wall above my bed. I caught her full across the face, and landed precariously on the rim of the metal toilet. Springing back, I dodged another gunshot and landed behind her. I punched her in the small of the back, and rolled to the right. Smart move; she had placed the muzzle under her left arm and fired. That shot went out into the empty hallway instead of my lung. I leapt up as she was turning to face me. I caught her gun arm, and struck it sharply on the wrist. She cried out, and let the gun go; big mistake. I grabbed it, shoved her to her knees, and placed the barrel against her forehead. I think she pleaded with me, begged for her life. I don't know; I don't speak French.
I pulled the trigger. The gunshot almost muffled the wet splat of her brain hitting the concrete of my cell. Holding her gun close, I sprinted out into the hall. Every shadow held danger; assassins never work alone. The lit areas were worse; guards had to be on their way. Too many bullets had been fired for a simple mercy killing.