“Open cell eleven.”
“Opening cell eleven.”
The electronic lock disengages with a clang, and the cell door opens. Fuller eyes the prison guard escorting him; the man is eight inches shorter, with a neck so thin Fuller could strangle him with one hand.
The skinny guard unlocks Fuller’s ankle irons, while the second guard, a fat guy with a face like a bulldog, stands at the ready palming a can of pepper spray.
Keep looking tough, punk. If I wanted to, I could take away that mace and stick it so far up your ass your breath would smell like jalapeños.
“Thanks,” Fuller says instead. He smiles, playing his role. The thin guy takes off his handcuffs, and Fuller enters his cell. It’s tiny, cramped. A lidless steel shitter dominates one corner, next to a steel sink. In the other corner is a steel cot, a two-inch-thick cotton mattress resting on top.
There isn’t enough room in here to do a decent push-up, so Fuller compromises, putting his palms on the cool concrete floor and his feet on the sink.
“One, two, three, four…”
He touches his chin to the floor with each tip, feeling the burn build up in his shoulders and chest. His face begins to turn red, and he smiles.
Jack’s expression was priceless. I practically made her wet her panties.
“Eighteen, nineteen, twenty…”
Fuller looks at the cot. There’s a small slit in the mattress, along a seam, with more pieces of onion and some other things. Things that will produce dramatic court theatrics.
“Thirty-seven, thirty-eight-”
The lie detector tomorrow will be fun too. He still has the staple, secretly liberated from his attorney’s paperwork. A staple is all he needs to pass with flying colors.
“Sixty-five, sixty-six…”
Everything is going his way. His bitch of a wife is dead, finally. He got his lawyer to pass on word to Rushlo to keep quiet – and the little toady will no doubt follow orders. If all goes as planned, Fuller will be back out on the street soon – probably in a few weeks. Then he’ll pay Jack a visit, make good on his promise.
“Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one…”
Only one thing is bothering him. Though the doctors assure him his tumor is completely gone, he’s still getting headaches. They aren’t as sharp as before, but they’ve been increasing in intensity over the past few weeks.
“Hundred twenty, hundred twenty-one…”
So far, aspirin is helping. But he foresees a time when that won’t be enough. He’ll need to kill again. Soon.
“Hundred fifty.”
Fuller’s feet touch the floor and he stands and stretches, knuckles dragging across the ceiling. He’s breathing hard. There’s a metallic taste in his mouth – he’s bitten his tongue.
The taste is arousing.
After a minute’s rest, he puts his feet back on the sink and begins another set of push-ups. His teeth work on the cut in his tongue, making it larger.
“Twenty, twenty-one…”
He closes his eyes, pretending the blood he’s swallowing is Jack’s.