The Dead and the Dying (10 page)

"You haven't changed," I reply. "Twelve years after I stopped you, you still think women are inferior to men. You still cling to that belief, like some kind of philosophical dinosaur."

"You might have tits and a pussy," he says with a smile, "but you've got the brain of a man, Ms. Mason. I recognized that right from the start. Are you quite sure there's not a cock hidden down there in your underwear?"

"You're an idiot," I tell him.

"An idiotic man is still better than the smartest woman," he sneers. "Ask any child who's ever seen his mother's weaknesses, or any man who's ever tried to talk rationally to a woman. They're all failures. The only women who've ever achieved anything have done so by sublimating their feminine sides and embracing masculinity."

"You're wrong," I reply. "The new killer -"

"Will fail," he says, taking a step back as footsteps approach the door. "If it's a woman, she'll fuck up sooner or later. I guarantee it. She'll get her monthly visit from the blood fairy and her anger'll get the better of her, or she'll let her hormones push her into a mistake."

Behind me, the door swings open and I hear several sets of footsteps entering the room.

"I'm sorry," Gazade says, with a sense of calm that I've never heard in his voice before. "Our time seems to be up, Ms. Mason. I'm afraid I have a pressing engagement. Just like you, I'm going to be pumped full of drugs. The only difference is, mine will kill me a lot faster than yours will kill you."

Paula Clarke

I don't know how long I have to wait, but eventually the nausea passes. I can still hear the noise of the crowd, and for a moment I worry that I might have blacked out for the news of Gazade's death, but finally I get to my feet and realize that everyone's still waiting.

Checking my watch, I see that it's a couple of minutes before midnight.

I don't know exactly what's wrong with me, but I get these cramps a couple of times a week, usually after a prolonged experience to idiots. It's as if my mind can't take the stupidity and starts pummeling my body, sending wave after wave of pain through my chest and arms. I tried going to see a doctor about it once, but the guy I saw was an asshole and he couldn't even be bothered to run any tests. All he cared about was cashing my check, so I told him to go fuck himself halfway during the consultation. Storming out felt good, but I haven't bothered to go see another doctor since. They're all the same.

Walking slowly back toward the crowd, I pause for a moment, staring at the lights of the prison. Somewhere in there, Sam Gazade is about to die for his crimes. The truth is, I don't agree with the death penalty at all, but I can't deny that on a primitive level I'm pleased that the guy is going to be wiped from existence. The problem is, Gazade is just the tip of the iceberg. I remember, as a kid, watching the live TV broadcasts of his trial, and I was stunned by his misogynistic rants. At first, I thought he was an aberration, a deviation from the norm, and it was only later that I realized he was merely articulating the same kind of ideas that most people keep secret. If Sam Gazade's a monster, it's only because he dares come into the open while all the other monsters in our society are too scared to show themselves.

"You okay?" asks a man standing nearby.

Turning, I see that he's kinda old, maybe in his sixties. He reminds me a little of my grandfather, which instantly sets me on edge. It takes a moment before I realize he's the guy who offered me water earlier. Apparently he just can't stop trying to help people, even when they clearly don't need or want anything to do with him.

"Sorry," he continues, smiling faintly in an obvious effort to put me at ease, "I just thought you looked a little off color."

I stare at him, trying to work out what he wants. He's quite good at pretending to care, but he obviously has some kind of ulterior motive. It's probably sex. Even though he's old, he probably has a raging libido and he thinks he can lure close so he can swing a furtive feel. It's disgusting to think that he'll probably go home tonight and jerk off while thinking about me. I want to grab him right now and rip his goddamn balls off.

"You cold?" he asks, taking off his coat. "You can borrow my jacket if you want -"

"No," I say firmly, disgusted by the offer.

"Sure? It's an old fleece, but it's warm."

"Fuck your jacket," I mutter, grabbing the coat and tossing it to the ground. Before he has a chance to say anything, I intentionally walk straight across the cheap bundle of fabric before continuing on my way, heading directly through the crowd. That old asshole was clearly trying to lure me into some kind of trap, but I'm too smart to be easily fooled. I've seen what men do when they lull women into a false sense of security, and there's no way I'm going to be that dumb again. Not ever.

"Excuse me?" says a nearby voice.

Stopping, I turn to see a girl standing nearby. She's about my age, wearing a thick jacket to keep herself warm, and she's staring at me as if she's confused by something. I'm instantly struck by her dumb, guileless expression, and by the fact that she's clearly not very intelligent.

"Jesus," she continues, "you should really watch that language."

"What are you talking about?" I ask, already feeling impatient.

"All those curse words you just shouted out," she says. "This isn't the kind of place or time for language like that. If you wanna be so crude, maybe you should go somewhere more appropriate. Like a biker bar or something."

"What the fuck do you mean?" I ask. "I didn't say anything."

"Uh, yeah," she says, as if I'm an idiot. "You were shouting out a whole load of pretty strong curse words." Suddenly a young kid, no more than seven or eight years old, steps out from behind her, looking nervous and a little scared. "I just don't think you should talk like that when there are children present," the woman continues. "It's not right."

"Uh, no," I reply, feeling a sense of panic in the pit of my stomach, "I really wasn't." I quickly turn and walk away, hurrying through the crowd before that dumb bitch can make any more false claims. I don't know what her problem was, but I'm pretty sure I'd know if I'd been talking out loud, especially if I was shouting. Besides,
she's
the one who brought a goddamn child to a fucking execution. I don't think she's gonna be winning any parenting awards, that's for damn sure.

"Bitch," I whisper.

"Don't worry," says another voice standing next to me. "People are assholes. Just ignore them."

"Totally," I reply, taking a deep breath as I try to stay calm.

"You're right about Gazade," the voice continues. "I'm glad you can see the truth. No-one else can."

I turn, but after a moment I realize that there's no-one within a couple of meters. I turn all the way around, trying to work out where that voice came from, but there's definitely no sign of anyone. I catch a couple of creepy stares from other people, but I ignore them and return my gaze to the gate and, beyond, the prison itself. That last voice was kinda weird, but I guess someone must have just spoken and then run off into the crowd. It's the only logical explanation.

Checking my watch, I see that it's time. Right about now, Sam Gazade is getting ready to be finished off. The king of monsters is going to be executed by a society that can't face its own image, and then everyone'll go home and tell themselves that monsters never win. The only problem is, they're wrong, because they're monsters too.

Joanna Mason

"Just a couple more minutes!" I say, hurrying along the corridor alongside Lockley. "You can wait a few minutes, can't you? No-one has to know. There's always a delay getting the news out anyway, so let me use that delay to ask him some more questions. I was just starting to get through to him."

"You really weren't," she replies sternly, "and there's no way I'm going to delay this execution by even a second." As we get to the door at the end of the corridor, she turns to me. "I gave you what you wanted, Ms. Mason. I'm sorry it wasn't enough, and I'm sorry you weren't able to pull a miracle out of your ass. From what I've heard, miracles used to be your specialty, but this is one miracle too far."

"Please -"

"He clearly didn't have any intention of helping you," she replies, interrupting me. "He was playing with you, Ms. Mason, and you were too blind to see the truth. I could let you spend all day, every day with that man for the rest of your life, and you'd never get a straight answer from him." She pauses. "It's pathetic, really. I expected someone with your reputation to be a little more focused."

"I can get through to him!" I insist, before suddenly realizing that there's only one way she could know for certain that I didn't have any luck. "You were listening," I say after a moment, shocked that in my drug-addled state I didn't consider the possibility - in fact, the
probability
- that someone would be keeping tabs on my conversation with Gazade. She must have heard everything, including the conversation about my cancer.

"Of course," she says with a faint smile. "By the way, I'm sorry to learn that you're ill. I hope the surgery is a success."

I open my mouth to reply to her, but suddenly I spot movement nearby and I realize that Dawson is getting closer. The last thing I need is for him to know that I'm sick, so I figure I need to change the subject.

"Sam Gazade -" I start to say.

"You're very brave," she continues, interrupting me. "You must be so strong, to continue with your work at such a difficult time."

"I just have one more question," I say firmly. "One question that could save five or six lives. Is that too much to ask?"

"You should have asked it already," she replies. "I've heard about you, Ms. Mason. I've heard you're smart, but right now you're being extremely dumb. Sam Gazade has been sitting in this prison for twelve years, and he's never shown even the slightest sign that he might decide to cooperate with the search for that diary. It's crazy for you to think that he might somehow repent at the last minute and start talking. That's not how things work. The man's sick, and it's too late to get anything useful from him."

"Let's get out of here," Dawson says as he reaches us. "It was pointless coming here."

"You still have to hook him up to the equipment," I continue, desperate to get this bitch to help me. "That'll take a couple of minutes, at least." Checking my watch, I see that it's two minutes to midnight. "Give me one more minute," I add, "and I swear to God, I'll give you all the credit in the world if we manage to get any results. I'll tell the media that you single-handedly helped us to catch whoever's out there committing these copycat murders."

"I don't need your credit," she says, but she seems a little less certain than before. Once again, it looks as if the prospect of public praise might make her see things differently.

"One question," I continue. "One minute. Please!"

"Jo," Dawson says, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Let's -"

"No," I say firmly, pushing his hand away as I keep my gaze focused on Lockley. "This is our last chance. If you don't let me in there to ask this one final question, there'll never be another chance. More people
will
die, and I'll make damn sure your name's dragged through the mud."

"Are you blackmailing me?" Lockley asks, with a stunned look in her eyes.

"Of course she's not," Dawson says, trying to be diplomatic. "Jo, let's leave. We have other options."

"I'm telling you the various outcomes," I reply, keeping my gaze fixed on Lockley. "That's all. No-one's blackmailing anyone. I'm simply being absolutely honest about my intentions."

She pauses, and I can see that she's considering my offer. "One question," she says finally, "and one minute. After that, you're out. Got it?"

I nod.

"And no-one can know about this," she continues. "Not unless it actually produces a lead, anyway. Is that understood?"

Turning away with a sigh, she pushes the door open and leads me into the execution chamber. It's a fairly small room, almost an exact cube, and Sam Gazade is already flat on his back on a bed, while a couple of technicians work to prepare the various machines. He looks almost like a doll, tied down and barely able to move. On the far side of the room, there's a black curtain covering what appears to be a small window. The whole place seems unbearably sterile, and as I step into the room I'm struck by the realization that this entire place is designed for death.

"This is highly irregular," Lockley mutters, before turning to one of the technicians. "Is everything ready?"

"Just give us a couple of minutes," the technician replies, carefully taking a small glass jar from a nearby refrigerator. "We're almost ready to introduce the dose. We just need to strap him down a little more first and prepare the computer."

With tight leather straps around his wrists and feet, and a metal brace holding his head in place, Gazade still manages to tilt his eyes enough to see me. There's a curious look on his face, and I'm still not exactly hopeful that he'll give me any useful information. Still, I have to hope that he might have a sudden change of heart as he prepares for his final moments. Sam Gazade has always seemed like a complete psychopath, but I have to believe that somewhere deep down there's a part of him that can still be useful. The 'old' Joanna Mason would have been able to pick him apart and get the right result, but with these drugs in my system, I'm barely able to think straight.

"Your one minute starts now," Lockley says, before turning to an attendant near the door. "Don't open the curtain until this woman has left the room. I don't want the witnesses to see this." She turns back to face me. "Make it count, Detective Mason. You've already caused enough drama. Make sure it was worth the fuss."

Pushing past her, I walk over to Gazade and stare down at him for a moment. I wish I knew the magic word that would unlock his cooperation, but as much as I hate to admit it, I'm feeling pretty helpless right now. The worst part is, I know Gazade can see my hesitation, and he's loving it.

"Come to see me off?" he asks, his voice sounding less certain than before. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist. Everyone else said you'd stay away, but -"

"Shut up," I say firmly, as one of the technicians slips a needle into his arm, ready for the introduction of the lethal drugs. "You have one chance," I continue, "and one chance only, to do the right thing. Deep down, you have to know that this copycat could kill a lot more people before we catch her. She might even exceed your total -"

"Bullshit," he spits back at me.

"A mere woman," I continue, hoping against hope that I might have got through to his darker side, "beating the great Sam Gazade at his own game. Doesn't that make you sick? Doesn't that make you want to intervene and ensure the natural order's restored? Remember, she has an advantage over you. She saw how you were caught. She knows what you did wrong, and she can make sure she does better. By the end of this, she'll be the one everyone remembers, and you'll just be a footnote in her story."

"That's impossible," he mutters.

"Is it?" Staring at him, I realize that maybe, just maybe, this is working. Gazade was always a misogynist, driven to kill by her desire to exhibit his superiority over the women he lured back to his apartment. It's that same misogyny, combined with an overbearing and unrestrained ego, that I'm hoping to exploit right now. The only problem is, I'm struggling to concentrate. It's as if there's a kind of fog in my mind.

"You're not really with us tonight, are you?" Gazade asks. "You see out of sorts, Detective Mason. Are those drugs working their wonders again? Please, don't push yourself on my account." He grins. "Does it scare you? Death, I mean. I've come to terms with it. Do you envy me? I remember what it's like to be terrified. Would you like me to tell you the secret?"

"Fuck you," I say quietly, fighting the frustration that's starting to boil up through my soul. "You're going to fade into history, Gazade. Your copycat's going to outshine you. Whoever she is, she's going to take your work and improve upon it. She'll see all your mistakes and she'll avoid them, one by one."

"You sound as if you
want
her to keep killing people?" he replies.

"Where did you hide that fucking diary?" I ask.

He stares at me for a moment, before finally a smile creeps across his face. "You're wrong," he says eventually. "Do you want to know why you're wrong? Here's a hint... This supposed copycat is a dumb bitch. She obviously had a man's help to find the diary. The female brain just isn't capable of the necessary level of intelligent thought. But if you weren't doped up on chemo drugs, Detective Mason, you'd have a much clearer understanding of what's really going on here. She's not a copycat. She's something far more interesting. You used to be so smart. There was a time when you'd have been one step ahead of this whole mess, but now you're lagging far behind. That great intelligence of yours, that instinct... it's already dead. The drugs are suppressing your masculinity and reverting you to the state of a dumb, soft bitch."

"Time's up," Lockley says, stepping over to me. "Come on, Mason. Leave the poor bastard alone. There are people in the next room, relatives of his victims, who want to see justice takes its course. It might also interest you to know, Mr. Gazade, that there's a hell of a crowd outside -"

"I should hope so," he says with a grin.

"Men
and
women," Lockley continues, "and they're gonna cheer when they hear the news that you've breathed your last. There are news crews, too. People all across the country are staying up late, to make sure they hear the announcement as soon as possible." She pauses. "I don't intend to delay this moment any longer."

"We're ready," says one of the technicians.

"You have to help me," I say, reaching out and grabbing Gazade's arm. I'm starting to feel this whole case slip away from me, and I have to find some other way to make him cooperate. The guy might be a misogynist and a serial killer, but he has answers that I need.

"Don't touch him!" Lockley says, trying to pull my hand away as the technician comes closer.

"Please," I say, staring down at Gazade. "At least tell me where the diary was hidden!"

"If you're still so smart," he replies, "work it out for yourself!"

"No!" I say firmly.

"Get off before I call security!" Lockley shouts, before looking over at the far wall as one of the attendants pulls the curtain aside to reveal six startled-looking people who were expecting to watch an execution. "I told you to keep that thing closed!" Lockley yells, before turning back to me. "You're stepping way over the line, Ms. Mason!"

Uttering a hurried apology, the attendant slides the curtain closed again.

"You're leaving right now," Lockley continues, trying to pull me away, "or I'll call your superior and have you taken off this case!"

Still strapped to the bed, Gazade starts laughing. "Lucky me, huh?" he says after a moment. "Two dumb whores fighting over my bed as I'm about to die. Could there be any greater confirmation that I was right all along about the fairer, dumber sex?"

"Where was the diary hidden?" I ask, leaning closer. "Where did she find it?"

"Stop!" Lockley shouts, trying to pull me away. At the last moment, however, she loses her grip on my arm and stumbles backward, bumping into the technician. Seconds later, there's a light smashing sound from below, and we all look down to see a broken vial, its clear liquid contents seeping out across the floor.

"Save it!" Lockley yells, kneeling down and trying to keep as much of the liquid from being lost, but it's too late. "Get another vial!" she shouts. "Get another one immediately!"

"There isn't one," the stunned technician says. "That was the only one we had in stock!"

"No!" Lockley says firmly. "There has to be another!"

"We've been down to the reserves since you cut the budget," the technician continues, clearly not impressed. "We've already postponed two executions this month, just so we could have this last vial available for Gazade."

"There has to be one more vial in this miserable place!" Lockley shouts.

"I'm sorry," the technician says, "but we warned you this might happen if you let stocks get so low. If you authorize the purchase, we can have more in maybe four or six weeks -"

"We're not waiting four or six weeks to kill this son of a bitch," Lockley says, turning to me. "I hope you realize this is all your fault! If I hadn't let you in here, this asshole would be dead by now and millions of people could celebrate!"

"Maybe we could buy a couple of vials from another prison," the technician says, "but they'd charge us a totally inflated price, like, ten times what it should cost."