The Avenger (35 page)

Reaching into the medeport box, Higgins pulled out a length of rubber tubing which he wrapped around Jack's thigh, and quickly injected the second antidote. Temporary measure, Warren knew. If Jack didn't get a steady dose of specific drugs in a regimented order, he'd slip into a coma and no amount of miracle workers could bring him back. The third and final injection of this first series was administered into the vein of Jack's right arm.

Warren removed his jacket and tucked it under the unconscious man's head, sat back on his heels and waited. If the Judge was a praying man, he'd likely think of all sorts of fancy bargains to make with God. But sometimes life was a shitty little affair, so he reached for Jack's hand and clasped it firmly in his own.

Then he hunkered down and prayed a little anyway, though he'd given up the notion of God years ago. Couldn't hurt, he told himself, and if it helped ... well, it was a small inconvenience. He waited for Jack to snap out of the systemic shutdown of his internal organs.

Warren was peripherally aware of the bustle around him. Two patrol cars arrived a few minutes later with several deputies and federal agents who raced around securing the scene and suspect. Slater took the Gant woman to a patrol car. Howard Randolph was shackled and locked in the back of another car.

The ambulance finally arrived and carted the patient off. By the time they reached the hospital, Jack had begun to recover his color, his breathing stabilized, and his blood pressure normalized. The Judge could tell, however, that the agent was still in a lot of pain, and he knew Jack would need continued medication for at least a week before the recovery journey would begin in earnest.

"Damn, Jack, I'm too old for a rescue mission," he grumbled, standing beside the bed where the agent lay in the emergency room.

Warren understood Jack's refusal to let the ER doctor do more than take blood pressure and pulse. When the doctor left to examine Olivia Gant, Warren administered an injection of fentanyl intravenously. He saw the curtain of pain begin to lift from Jack's eyes.

His agent was returning from the dead.

#

Olivia couldn't bear to look at him. Through the police custody of Randolph, finishing up at the abandoned church, and the emergency medical attention, she had studiously avoided Jack's eyes. He didn't blame her.

He'd lived with what he'd become – what he was further capable of becoming – for a lifetime. Even though he'd felt the gentle tug of what he'd once been pulling at him again, even though he knew she loved him, he couldn't expect her to accept the kind of life he lived.

The hospital released him quicker than they approved of, but Jack's own body would heal faster than anything civilian doctors could do.

"Are you heading back to Baltimore?" Jack asked the Judge.

"We both need to wrap it up as soon as we can." The Judge eyed him speculatively as if he expected an argument. "I'll be in on the interview with Howard Randolph."

Jack kept the surprise from registering. Warren had never been in on an UNSUB's arrest, never participated in an interrogation. Hell, there'd hardly ever been an interrogation anyway what with the suspects dead for the most part.

"You okay with that?" Warren asked.

Jack twitched a shoulder and immediately regretted it when a pain shot through his ribs. "Why not?"

"I'll meet you there," the Judge said and turned to go.

"One last question," Jack said. He met Warren's faded blue eyes with a steady gaze. "Have you always known about Olivia?"

The Judge hesitated, indecision flitting across his face. "You were always different, Jack. I suspected it was because of her, but I underestimated the, ah, ... connection."

With that he and Higgins hustled out of the hospital.

Hadn't they all, Jack thought.

Considering what he'd been through, he didn't feel too bad. The drugs and his body's own healing powers, weak as they'd been recently, were now working their recuperative magic.

He overheard the emergency room physician suggest Olivia stay overnight for observation, but stubborn even in crisis, she squelched the idea quickly. "No, I'm leaving now, no overnight stay."

Jack heard her bewilderment and scented the underlying pain as he watched from the sidelines while the nurse cleaned cuts and scrapes and applied bandages to Olivia's slender body. Someone – probably the ever-vigilant Higgins – had provided clothing, which hung baggy on her small frame. Finally Slater led her down the hospital corridor and pulled a patrol car around to the emergency room pickup circle.

She hadn't once looked Jack's way. Sitting outside on a cement bench, she stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge him as he sat down beside her.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

After a long moment she lifted her shoulders in answer.

"Olivia," he began, "I'm sorry. Sorry you had to ... to see that."

"No," she said, her voice eerily calm, "it's better that I know the truth. See it for myself." She looked down at her hands folded tightly in her lap. "I know you told me about the Change, but it's not the same. Not the same as seeing it firsthand."

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I'd undo it all if I could." He scooted closer and put his arm around her, ignoring the slice to his heart when she jerked involuntarily.

"We've got to find a way to get past this, Livvie." He turned her face gently toward him. He dipped his head to touch her forehead softly with his lips. "I love you."

Her eyes shimmered with emotion, but she didn't cry. "I don't know how I feel, Jack. I need some space ... and time. I need to figure things out."

He told himself she was still in shock, that later she'd acknowledge her feelings for him. She loved him, of that he was certain. But he didn't know if that was enough for her.

He nodded and minutes later watched the taillights of the patrol car until their red glow dwindled to the same size of the nothingness in his own dark heart. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he hunched his shoulders and crossed the parking lot to the Blazer a deputy had retrieved for him.

Inside, he folded his arms over the steering wheel and rested his head on them. Jack was terrified that nothing – even time – could undo what Olivia had witnessed in the abandoned church. He started the patrol car and accelerated onto the freeway, exorcising his frustration through reckless driving as he sped toward Bigler County.

Chapter Thirty

Deputy Harris had arrived an hour before Jack and already processed Howard Randolph. The Judge waited in the bullpen. He explained that Jack had a seven-day grace period before he must start Dr. Davis' continuing drug regimen. After that, permanent damage to major organs would compromise his long-term health. Probably kill him.

That wasn't Jack's main concern right now. As primary on the DLK case, he had a responsibility he wouldn't shirk, and he had no intention of leaving the interrogation to the Judge or anyone else. Only Jack would know for certain which crimes belonged to the man they now had in custody. Legally they couldn't be positive that all seven murders had been committed by Randolph until they'd sifted through endless tons of forensic evidence, necessary proof for a conviction. Seven counts of murder with special circumstances.

Jack knew in his gut, knew with his extra senses, that Randolph was his man, and eagerly prepared himself to confront his long-time nemesis.

In the interrogation room Jack bit back a wince from the pain in his right kidney that fentanyl. The Judge leaned his heavy bulk against the wall. Slater and the ADA watched from the viewing room.

Howard Randolph sat opposite Jack as he slapped the grainy photos one picture at a time onto the interview table in front of him. Randolph's sneer grew with each photo.

"Laura Jean Peterson." Slap.

"Henry Walker." Another slap of slick cardstock on wood.

"Angela Buckley." Slap.

"Susan Evanston." Randolph shifted and his eyes wandered with curiosity to the Judge behind him. "Pay attention, you slime ball," Jack ground out.

Randolph swung his gaze back to Jack. A chilling smile curled his lips.

"Carl Bender." The sharp smack of Jack's palm on the table resounded through the room like a firecracker.

Randolph blinked.

"Keisha Johnson." Jack tapped his finger against the picture. "Remember her, Howard? Course you do. She's the one you saw from time to time in Dr. Gant's office. She's the one you wanted to watch having sex with Ted Burrows."

Randolph's voice dripped with superiority. "You have nothing on me, and even if you did, you couldn't possibly fathom what happened with these ... " His hand swept over the array of photos. " ... offerings." He laughed softly. "Your precious Olivia understands. She was willing to be the greatest sacrifice of all. She
wanted
it."

Jack catapulted across the table, his chair slamming to the floor with a resounding crack. He grabbed the orange fabric of Randolph's inmate jumpsuit and jerked him to a standing position. "You sick son of a bitch," he growled, breathing heavily into the prisoner's face. "I should've killed you back there in the church."

Recovering quickly, Randolph stretched his neck and eased out of Jack's grasp. "Yes," he smirked, "but you didn't, and even if you manage to prosecute me successfully on one or two of those charges, I'll very much enjoy my reminiscences. They bring me
such
pleasure."

Jack shoved him back in his chair. His hands itched to throttle Randolph, to unleash the beast and rip this monster to pieces. But he glared instead, barely holding his fury in check.

"You had your chance to kill me," Randolph taunted. "I wonder why you didn't?"

His eyes glinted with amusement. A smile played at the edges of his mouth. "Did you decide that the role of Roger was too dark even for your black soul? Too bad you intervened, Jack. I had a special
debitum naturae
reserved for Olivia."

Unexpectedly, Slater entered the room and placed a hand on Jack's arm. He shrugged it off.

Slater gave the Judge a knowing look. "Judge Linders, I know you're going to respect the fact that this is my station house, and for the moment at least, my prisoner."

After a long, steady look, the Judge left. Slater took Jack's place in the chair opposite Randolph while Jack turned his back to them, breathing deeply to gain control.

With his cuffed fists, Randolph smoothed back the hair that had fallen over his forehead. After a moment, he held his hands. "Remove these and I'll tell you about them."

Jack turned back, wondering what game Randolph played now.

Randolph gestured with his head to the grisly display of photographs on the table. "Wouldn't you like to know the
how?
The where? The when? All the gory little details that Jack didn't garner from the crime scenes? The details to make your case? Wouldn't you like to know if that's all there is?"

"You sick bastard," Slater said. "No one's going to take those cuffs off."

The request had fostered an idea in Jack's mind and he stepped forward, nodded toward the door and stepped outside ahead of Slater. "Why not uncuff him?" he suggested. "Let's give him a chance to explain."

"Has he lawyered up yet?" Slater asked.

Jack shook his head. "He doesn't want a lawyer," he snorted. "He wants an audience. No decent attorney would let him run his mouth like that."

He drew in a deep breath and waited until the Judge and Waylon Harris disappeared around the corner. "Randolph is evil. He doesn't want to ease the pain of the victims' families." He glanced meaningfully at Slater to gauge his reaction.

Understanding crossed his old friend's face. "All kinds of dangerous things happen when a suspect's cuffs are taken off." He eyed Jack thoughtfully.

"Things like attempted escape," Jack agreed. "Attack on a police officer. The stress of interrogation often takes its toll on someone."

"Stroke or heart attack?"

Jack returned the stare. "What do you propose?"

His friend bent his head and nodded as though he were coming to a personal conclusion, and Jack knew what it would cost a man like Slater.

He laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder and spoke quietly in his ear. "I’m going to take a break now," he explained carefully. "Barrington’s on his way. You’ve got maybe fifteen, twenty minutes before the D. A. arrives and makes sure Randolph gets his public defender."

Jack kept his gaze steady and voiced with his eyes the unspoken message. Fifteen minutes then. Whatever Jack did would be covered up just like when he'd killed Olivia's stepfather seventeen years ago.

But at what personal cost?

There were a hundred ways to kill someone and make it look like something else, and Jack was an expert at every single one. He told himself that if Randolph expressed a single iota of remorse, guilt, or contrition, he wouldn't do it. He'd let him serve out multiple life sentences in a cage.

Imprisoned, but alive.

He knew it was an empty bargain. Psychopaths were incapable of such emotions.

After a few minutes, Jack returned to the interrogation room. He turned his back to the prisoner, reached up to switch off the video recording camera in the corner at the juncture of the wall and the ceiling, and removed the plastic handcuffs. When he turned back to Randolph, Jack saw pure terror on the man’s face.

He’d give Randolph one more chance. He sat down opposite the prisoner. One more chance, you fucking monster, he thought, one more chance at redemption. He fought through the euphoria of the fentanyl and forced himself to step into Howard Randolph's mind one last time.

A ghastly montage raced through his head like the jerky movement of a silent film. The sexual thrill Randolph experienced even in the face of his death sickened Jack. Blood and death, gore and violence. Pain beyond imagination, exultation and sheer primal pleasure in the suffering of another human being.

Jack knew what he had to do.

He stared impassively at the Dead Language Killer, remembered the years of suffering he'd caused, the fear and pain of his victims. He read the lust in Randolph by the slackness of his mouth and the glitter in his eyes and tried to conjure up the beast inside himself.