The Dead and the Dying (11 page)

"I don't care!" Lockley says firmly, clearly struggling to keep her anger under control. "How long will it take?"

"A few days, maybe. A week at most. But you'll have to clear the budget first."

"Just do it!" Lockley screams, losing her temper. "I don't give a crap if we have to hold a fucking tombola at the front gate to raise the funds, we're buying whatever we need to kill this bastard and we're doing it as fast as possible!"

"I'll start making some calls," the technician replies wearily, "but it's gonna take a day or two, probably longer. There's paperwork to file, the budget to -"

"Just. Do. It!" Lockley says firmly, with more than a hint of pure hatred in her voice.

Sighing, the technician turns and wanders toward the door.

"Someone call a man!" Gazade shouts. "Everything's spiraling out of control!"

"I swear to God," Lockley continues, stepping toward me as Gazade starts laughing, "I'll have your career
ruined
for this, Mason. I'll have you on the fucking streets! Do you understand?"

"I guess I'll be going back to my cell, then," Gazade says, barely able to contain his amusement at the whole incident. "That's fine, but could someone untie these straps. I wasn't going to complain, but since circumstances have changed, I'd rather like some help. God, this is what happens when you put women in charge. Everything goes to crap, doesn't it?" He turns to the technicians. "Come on. Tell me I'm wrong!"

"Get out of my prison," Lockley sneers, pushing me back against the wall with surprising venom. "If I ever see you again, Mason, I swear to God, I won't be responsible for my actions." She pauses for a moment. "I wouldn't be surprised if you did all of this on purpose, just so Gazade would live a little longer. What's wrong, Mason? Have you got some kind of weird fetish for the man who tried to cut you up?"

I look down at the smashed vial, which the technician is busy tidying away. I want to argue with Lockley, to point out that she's the one who knocked the technician and caused the vial to be broken, but I'm finding it hard to get my thoughts in order. The fog in my mind is getting worse and worse, and I feel as if I just need to get the hell out of here. With my heart racing, I hurry over to the door and out into the corridor, where a startled official is explaining to the gathered witnesses that the execution has to be delayed.

"What the hell happened in there?" Dawson asks, trying to grab my arm as I hurry past him. "Jo! What happened?"

"It's that bitch's fault!" Lockley shouts, coming out from the execution chamber. "If any of you want to know who to blame for the fact that Sam Gazade is still alive, you need to go and talk to Detective Joanna Mason! While you're doing that, I'll be talking to her superior."

Walking quickly along the corridor, I start to feel the pain in my chest again. I had no desire to see Sam Gazade breathe another breath, but I'm already trying to work out how I can spin this situation to my advantage. The killer is going to be shocked when she or he realizes that Gazade has survived the night of his execution, and I'm quite sure that this turn of events is going to change everything. Somewhere out there, there's a maniac who'll need to come up with a different plan, and it's precisely this level of uncertainty that I need to use to my advantage. As I round the next corner, I come to a halt and lean against the wall, waiting for the pain to pass. I reach into my pocket and take out the bottle of pills, but at the last moment I decide not to medicate myself. Sure, the pills make the pain go away, but they destroy my ability to think straight. They ruin my ability to get the job done, and I can't let that happen.

With trembling hands, I put the bottle in a nearby bin, before turning and hurrying toward the door.

Paula Clarke

"What's causing this fucking delay?" asks a guy, standing nearby with a patronizing arm around his wife's shoulder. "It's twenty past. They normally announce by ten."

The guy's clearly a complete asshole, but he's right about one thing: there
does
seem to be an unusual delay with the announcement of Sam Gazade's death. I did some extensive research before coming out here tonight, and I was under the impression that the news was usually delivered to the crowd and the media almost immediately. This time, however, nothing seems to be happening. I guess it's possible that there were some small delays, but with each minute that passes, I'm starting to wonder whether something else might have happened. It'd be fucking typical if it turned out that they'd fucked the whole thing up.

"They didn't do it!" a voice calls out suddenly. "They just said on the radio that there was a problem and they haven't got the right drugs!"

"Bullshit!" another voice shouts.

"It's true!" someone else calls out. "They ran out of drugs!"

The crowd immediately erupts. There's real anger all around me, with people pushing and shoving as they surge forward. A couple of police officers are stationed by the prison gate, but they look totally unprepared for this kind of problem, and they quickly move back inside and secure the gate to ensure that the crowd can't get through. It's starting to look as if there's a mini-riot breaking out, as the anger and resentment of all these people threatens to spill over. The police look nervous, with many of them chattering into their radios as if they're desperately trying to call for back-up.

"We're getting reports that the execution of serial killer Sam Gazade has had to be postponed," says a journalist nearby, frantically delivering the news straight to camera. "Unconfirmed reports suggest that a shortage of one of the drugs used in the execution process has resulted in prison officials being unable to carry out the procedure, which will now have to be postponed until a fresh supply can be sourced and delivered."

"Let me in!" a man shouts at the cops. "I'll do it for you!"

"I knew they'd fuck it up," says a woman standing nearby. "No-one can get even the simplest goddamn job done these days."

Near the front, a brief scuffle breaks out between a man and a couple of cops. Although the man is easily restrained and pulled away, the tension seems to pitch up a gear in just a fraction of a second, and toward the back of the crowd someone kicks over a table that was being used to provide refreshments.

"Calm down!" a muffled voice calls out.

"Twelve years!" another voice yells. "You've had twelve years to get it right, and it's still a joke!"

As one, the crowd seems to surge forward a couple of feet. I try to stand my ground, but I'm pushed into some guy. Just about managing to stay on my feet, I turn and try to push back, but the momentum of the crowd continues to push the huge sea of people forward. For the first time, I'm actually starting to get scared. The last thing I need is to get trampled by a mob of angry idiots.

"Sam Gazade," says another journalist nearby, talking to his camera, "has been spared at the last minute. We're receiving reports that a scuffle in the execution chamber, involving a police officer who was once injured by Gazade, has resulted in the execution being postponed. Sources within the prison claim that Detective Joanna Mason was involved in an altercation with prison officials, and that this resulted in the destruction of the necessary drugs. Questions are bound to be asked about Mason's behavior, and also about the governorship of Hazel Lockley, whose time in charge has been plagued by accusations that the prison is running dangerously short of key resources. I'm going to see if I can get some reaction from the people who've gathered here tonight."

Before I know what's happening, a microphone has been shoved in front of my face, and the camera is pointed straight at me. I can just about make out my started face, reflected in the lens.

"What's your immediate reaction to the news of Sam Gazade's last-minute reprieve tonight?" the journalist asks. "On a gut level, can you describe how you're feeling?"

I stare at the camera, unable to stop thinking about all the millions of people who must be watching me right now.

"Are you angry? Are you sad? Tell me the overriding emotion you're feeling right now. Tell the people at home how it feels to be standing here, waiting for news of the execution, and then to find out that a bureaucratic mistake means nothing's going to happen tonight."

I shake my head.

"Are you here tonight to protest against the death penalty?"

"Move on," the cameraman hisses. "She's no good."

Ducking out of the way, I hurry around the journalist and into the crowd. Turning to look back, I see that he's already started interviewing someone else.

"Anger," the new interviewee says, as if she's considering her answer very carefully, "mixed with sadness for his victims and their families, and frustration at the fact that people are paid to run this prison and they've not done their job. Also, I think, I'm feeling let down and sad. It's been a long time coming. All they had to do was stick a needle in the guy and pump him full of drugs. They should go back to hanging people. Then again, they'd probably just run out of rope."

"I'm disgusted!" another woman shouts, grabbing the microphone. "They've had twelve years to get ready for this night! Twelve years, and what happens? They run out of the drug. Someone oughta just take the guy around the corner and finish him off some other way. This is a disgrace! They need to open those gates right now and let us go in there. I promise you, Sam Gazade would
not
last five minutes! When the government can't get its finger out of its ass and get the job done, it's the right of the people to step in! It's in the constitution!"

"And you'd do that?" the reporter asks.

"Hell yeah!"

Behind her, a roar of approval erupts with cheers and applause, and it's clear that the crowd's anger is starting to build momentum. More and more cops are now taking position on the other side of the gate, as if they're worried that the prison might be stormed at any moment. I can see their point. These people are furious, and they clearly need to find some way of venting their anger. In a way, it's almost as if some of them enjoy being so angry. If Gazade had been executed as planned, would they just have turned around and headed home, taking all this energy with them? They're like animals at a zoo, driven into a frenzy by the prospect of a little blood. I swear, most of them would probably be happy to storm into the prison and lynch Gazade. It's hardly a surprise that, behind the main gate, the police look to be suiting up for a possible riot.

My heart pounding, I turn and hurry to the back of the crowd. Around me, angry people are bumping and jostling into one another, and I'm almost knocked to the ground as I barge way through, until finally I emerge breathless at the edge. I stumble across the grass, desperately trying to force my thoughts into order, and eventually I stop and turn to look back the way I came. The crowd is seething at the prison gate, fuming with a level of anger that makes me wonder if the whole scene could turn violent. Taking a deep breath, I try to fight my growing sense of disgust, but eventually I realize that disgust and pity are the only rational responses to these idiots. They wanted their pound of flesh, and now they're being denied. In a way, I'm almost glad that Sam Gazade wasn't executed tonight, because the crowd's frustration proves that they're monsters too.

I just wish everyone could see the world so clearly. Stepping further back from the crowd, I can start to see them not as individuals but as one big, huddled mass of anger and resentment. The mob is out in force again, and even if Sam Gazade deserves to die, I hate the idea that his death is going to in any way reward these idiots. Why am I the only one who can see how the world really works?

The Doll part II

Joanna Mason

"It'll be dawn soon," Jason mutters, staring with bleary eyes at the window. "You're lucky I'm basically nocturnal, you know. Most guys would've told you to go fuck yourself if you'd called them up at half past midnight, demanding a fuck."

"Most guys wouldn't need the hundred dollars," I reply, grabbing my shirt from the floor of the dusty, dirty little motel room. I hold it up and give it a shake to make sure there are no cockroaches hiding anywhere in the fabric. This isn't exactly a high-end place, but they rent out rooms by the hour and there's zero chance that I'll run into anyone I know. Not unless some colleagues from the precinct carry out a raid, anyway.

"You off already?" he asks, rolling across the bed and grabbing my arm. Reaching up, he puts a hand on my bare chest, giving my breasts a brief squeeze.

"Don't do that!" I say, pushing him away in a moment of panic. I've always made it very clear to Jason that he's never, ever to touch my breasts, and I'd hoped he might respect my wishes. The last thing I need is for him to feel the lump between his fingers. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I just don't think a woman should talk to a male prostitute about her medical issues. "I'm not in the mood anymore," I mutter, slipping the shirt over my head.

"You could let me touch them just once," he says, placing a hand on my bare thigh. "You let me touch every other part of your body. Even the parts most women -"

"Forget it," I say firmly.

He sighs.

Outside, there's the sound of a passing siren. This is a rough neighborhood, and sometimes I feel as if I'm taking my life in my hands just by coming here. Still, even though I can afford to fuck Jason once a week, my salary doesn't run to paying for anywhere too fancy. The only alternative would be to take him back to my apartment, which would definitely get my nosy neighbors talking. Unfortunately, I have a policy of not letting anyone else into my apartment - not even for a few minutes, not even for sex - so I'm forced to rent out these crumby rooms. I honestly can't remember the last time I fucked someone on a decent mattress, or in a room where the window wasn't nailed shut.

"You know," he continues, "my fee includes up to ten minutes of pillow talk at the end. You never take me up on that part of the deal. If I didn't know better, I'd think you only wanted me for my cock."

"I certainly don't come to you for your conversation," I mutter as I step into my underwear. "You can work the rest out from there."

"Have you noticed," he adds, standing up and walking over to the window, "that the only thing we ever talk about is the fact that we never have a proper conversation." He turns and stares at me, letting his softening penis hang between his legs on full display. Twenty-six years old and with the kind of firm, buff body you normally only see on an ancient Greek statue, he's certainly a seductive sight. Too bad he always tries to make conversation. "I know you come for my skills in the sack, but don't you ever want to relax when we're done? You always shoot off so fast."

"Do you try to make friends with all your clients?" I ask, re-buttoning my jeans.

"Just the interesting ones."

I can't help but stifle a caustic smirk.

"How was your day?" he asks.

"Just perfect," I mutter. "I ended up calling you up to arrange an extra session. Doesn't that tell you something?"

"I heard they executed that Sam Gazade guy -"

"Can you please shut the fuck up?" I ask, finally losing my temper at the merest mention of that name. I pause for a moment as I realize that my anger probably revealed too much. "I think there was a problem," I say eventually. "They didn't kill him. And before you ask, no, I have no desire to..." My voice trails off as I realize that I'm in a hell of a mess right now.

"So I should really charge you extra," he continues, still naked, still staring at me. "This is kinda out of hours. Fortunately, since you're one of my oldest clients -"

"Thanks a lot," I mutter.

"Oldest as in longest-serving," he adds. "Not oldest in terms of age. How long's it been? Five years? Do you realize you've been coming to me for sex longer than my parents were married? The fucking modern world, huh?"

"Careful," I say, putting my leather jacket back on. "You're starting to sound decidedly mawkish." I reach down for my socks, but after a moment I realize that Jason has wandered over to the old TV in the corner of the room. "Don't turn that on," I say, keen to avoid the fallout from everything that happened with Sam Gazade a few hours earlier. I came straight to Jason after leaving the prison, and I was careful to turn my phone off in order to avoid any awkward calls.

"What's got into you?" he asks. "I mean, you're always kinda jumpy, but you're off the scale tonight. If you wanna talk about it -"

"I
don't
want to talk about," I say firmly, "and if I did -"

"I know," he replies with a sigh, "it wouldn't be with me."

"Bingo," I say, standing up and taking some cash from my pocket. "So how much do I owe you? Including the out of hours call-out fee."

"Just call it the usual hundred," he says, still grinning as he stands and watches me.

"I don't want any favors," I say, walking over to the nightstand and counting out a hundred dollars, before adding fifty. "That enough?"

"Depends," he replies with a smile. "Was it good for you?"

"It was fine," I mutter. "It was better than doing it myself."

"Huh," he says, joining me by the dresser and picking up the money, "you know, I think that's the biggest compliment you've ever paid me. Better than doing it yourself. I'm glad to be one step above a wank in the shower for you, Jo."

"I have to go," I say, even though I'm dreading going back out into the real world. I know I can't hide forever. Sooner or later, I'm gonna get a whole load of crap rained down on me after everything that happened at the prison. I'm sure Lockley has put her own spin on events, making it seem as if I'm completely to blame. Hopefully Dawson has been there to defend me, but I'm already pretty unpopular in my department. With my head still a little foggy and no more leads in the copycat case, I'm starting to think that I might be hitting the buffers. As I turn to the door, however, I feel a brief stabbing pain in my side, and I stop for a moment, waiting for it to pass.

"You okay?" Jason asks, hurrying over and putting a hand on my waist.

"Fine," I grimace, as the pain continues to build. I should take a pill, but I can't afford to cloud my judgment. Not until I've worked out who's behind the copycat murders. The old Joanna Mason would have cleared this whole mess up already, but in my current state I'm next to useless.

"Bullshit," Jason replies. "I know something's wrong, Jo. It's been fucking obvious for months, so you might as well -"

"Tell you?" I ask, turning to him. The pain is still intense, but I'm fired up by his pathetic attempt to act as if he cares. "You want me to open up? Sorry, but it's not happening. I'm fine. I've just got a little cramp. I guess I pulled a muscle while you were going down on me. Happy now? You were
that
good! You actually injured me. You should be proud."

He stares at me, and even though it's obvious that he doesn't believe my explanation, he takes his hand from my waist and steps back.

"This is the last time I'll be coming to you," I say after a moment, feeling as if I need to cut this whole thing off dead before Jason tries to get too far under my skin. He's just a whore, nothing more, and if I really need to get laid again I can easily find someone else. "I won't be needing your services again."

"Got yourself an actual boyfriend?" he asks.

"I just won't be needing you."

"You say that every time," he points out.

"This time I mean it." I open the door and step out into the corridor, and although there's a part of me that regrets my decision, I know it's for the best. Once I've had my operation, there's no way I ever want to come anywhere near a guy again. It's a shame, but I can't change the facts. The last thing I want is to see some guy's face as he tries to pretend that he's not grossed out by my mastectomy. After my breasts come off, it's probably best if I stick to the shower nozzle when I need a little excitement.

"So I'm never gonna get to see those pretty little titties bounce again?" he asks, standing naked by the nightstand, with the money in his hand.

"No," I say, feeling a shiver pass through my body. "You're not." With that, I reach out and grab the handle, pulling the door shut and leaving myself standing alone in the dark corridor. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my cellphone and switch it on. By the time I get out of the building and into the dirty night air, I see that I've got fifteen missed calls and a whole load of messages. As I'd feared, the events at the prison didn't go down too well. Sighing, I figure I've got another battle on my hands. Sam Gazade's alive, and somewhere in this city there's a copycat who's probably already lining up some more victims. I need to get my head straight.

As I walk across the dark, cold parking lot, I take the bottle of pills from my pocket and toss them into a trashcan. Damn it, I'm gonna regret that later when the pain comes back, but I have no choice. I need to keep my head together.