Ramirez lets out a low whistle. “There goes Nora. What a waste of a good pair of tits.”
“Didn’t she bite you?”
“Fuck yeah, she did. Had to get a tetanus shot and everything. But you know I like ’em feisty.”
As Officer Friendly chuckles and shifts into drive, I take a deep breath and one last look at the place where Nora used to be.
And that’s when I see him.
The executioner.
Black mask.
Black police uniform.
Black fucking soul.
And when his head follows our car as it pulls into the police station across the street, I know he sees me too.
Wes
“Goddamn it, Riggins! That’s the third car this week!”
“It wasn’t my fault, sir! We got stuck in traffic, and the Bonys swarmed us!”
“I told him not to take Northside Drive, sir.”
“Shut up, Ramirez! Y’all are lucky you still have jobs, you know that?”
I drum my fingers against the molded plastic armrest of the 1970s-era chair I’m handcuffed to as Ramirez, Officer Friendly—who I guess is named Riggins—and their police chief argue about the dead Bony they rode in with. The lobby of the Fulton County Police Department feels like a DMV waiting room from 1975—other than the flat screen TV glowing on the wall. Reporter Michelle Ling is interviewing Governor Fuckface in Plaza Park right down the street. The sound is off—thank God. But even without being able to hear his pompous-ass voice, that jowly grin and puffed-out belly speak volumes. He’s as proud of his “duty to protect the laws of natural selection” as Michelle Ling is nauseated by the sight of him. I can see it on her face. Either she polished off a fifth of gin before this interview or this man makes her sick to her stomach.
Maybe both.
Probably both.
Just then, an officer breezes in through a side hallway with the swagger of a seasoned drag queen. He seems vaguely familiar, but it might just be because he looks like RuPaul with a little more meat on his bones and a lot less style.
“Miss me, bitches?” He sweeps a hand across the nearly empty room and then grimaces when his eyes land on the chief. “Sorry, Your Majesty.” He curtsies.
“Elliott,” the police chief snaps. “Deal with that until Hoyt and MacArthur get back.” He points directly at me and then goes back to ripping Riggins and Ramirez a pair of new assholes.
“Ugh. Processing?”
The chief cuts him a warning glance, and Elliott pouts pretty hard before coming over. But as he crosses the dingy tiled floor, his face morphs from annoyed to impressed.
“Well, helloooo, sailor. I’m loving the Hawaiian print.” He swirls a long index finger at me. “Very ’90s Leo.”
I lift an eyebrow, waiting for him to get to the point, and he lifts one right back as if he’s waiting for me to respond.
Finally, he huffs, “You don’t know who I am?”
Now, both of my eyebrows are raised. I shake my head a fraction of an inch, and his face falls.
“Really? Okay, maybe this will jog your memory.” He backs up about ten feet and walks toward me again, this time with a blank expression on his face and an invisible person on the crook of his arm.
Considering that I just saw a sneak preview of my own death a few minutes ago, I’m not really in the mood for fucking charades, but I decide to throw the guy a bone. Maybe because he’s the only person around here who isn’t acting like a ’roided-out douche bag.
“The bailiff? From the executions?” I tilt my head toward the glowing screen in the corner of the room.
“Ding-ding-ding!” He beams, clapping his hands with every ding. “You probably didn’t recognize me because I’m sooo butch on TV.” The sound of footsteps entering the lobby makes him snap his head toward the back hallway. “Aren’t I, Mac?”
“Aren’t you what?” the gruff, middle-aged guy walking in mutters back. He doesn’t even look at us. His gaze is fixed on the cubicle he’s walking over to, and his shoulders are rounded from carrying the weight of the world on them.
“Aren’t I so butch on TV? Our new suspect—” Elliott turns to me and asks, “What’s your name, handsome?”
“Wesson Parker,” I deadpan.
“Ooh, Wesson. Like the gun? I like that. Very Dirty Harry.”
Elliott turns back to the guy who is now sitting with his back to us at a computer screen. “Wesson here didn’t even recognize me! Can you believe that?”
“Nope,” he mutters. Then, he pulls the trash can out from under his desk and blows a snot rocket into it.
“That’s MacArthur. He’s a sourpuss, but he loves me. Don’t you, Mac?”
“Hmmph,” the old guy grumbles, pecking at his yellowed keyboard with two stiff index fingers.
Just then a dude about as wide as the hallway he’s walking through comes lumbering into the station lobby.
“Oh, thank God! Hoyt! Hoyt, c’mere, sweetie!” Elliott waves at him like a damsel in distress.
About thirty slow-motion strides later, the slack-jawed, sleepy-eyed, shaggy-haired officer makes it over to us. He reminds me of a sheepdog, both in his appearance and general IQ, but sheepdogs probably smell better.
“Hoyt, the chief told me to tell you to process this fine young man as soon as you got back.” Elliott tosses me a wink that goes completely unnoticed by Officer Hoyt.
He simply nods and produces a key ring from his front pocket. Unlocking the metal bracelet attached to the armrest, he gestures for me to stand and secures my wrists behind my back again. Hoyt doesn’t make eye contact once. He simply takes me by the arm and shuffles me over to a cubicle next to MacArthur’s.
After he takes my fingerprints, name, and basic info—with as few words uttered as possible—Officer Hoyt uses a key card to escort me through a security door and into a dimly lit hallway. He stops at a metal cabinet, digs around inside for a minute, and pulls out a cup, a toothbrush, an orange jumpsuit, and a plastic bottle marked De-Licer.
“Sorry, man,” he mumbles, his head hanging even lower than before. “Gotta hose ya down.”
“Better you than the bailiff,” I deadpan.
Officer Hoyt opens the floor-to-ceiling cabinet door a little wider until it blocks the small black video camera attached to the ceiling behind it. Then, for the first time since we met, he lifts his head and looks me dead in the eye. The pity and remorse I see there hit me right in the fucking gut. He doesn’t look at me like I’m a suspect or a convict or “the accused.” He looks at me like I’m a man who just found out that he only has a few days left to live.
“For what it’s worth,” he whispers, blinking his red-rimmed eyes, “I really am sorry.”
I nod and press my lips together to keep my chin from wobbling like a little bitch.
I’m gonna fucking die here, I think as he escorts me to the showers.
“Dead man walkin’.”
May 6
Rain
I couldn’t sleep, so I came out to the front porch to get some fresh air and escape Jimbo’s snoring. He and Mrs. Renshaw dragged their king-size mattress over from next door and flopped it across my parents’ queen-size bedframe last night, and Carter tossed his mattress on the floor in our junk room. Now the whole house smells like smoke.