He'd been off the medication for barely a week now. He could feel the changes. And they were beginning to scare him. Sure, his breasts were finally shrinking. His voice had regained its normal pitch. His beard was coming back. But at the same time-the feelings were returning. The... bad feelings. The ones he couldn't control. He had thought he would like that.
He had been wrong.
He remembered all those times when he was on the medication, when he had thought evil things, when he had fantasized about sex. Cruel sex. Dreamed about taking women by force and pounding and pounding at them until they couldn't stand it anymore, until they cried out for mercy but didn't get it, just pain and pain and more pain...
He closed his eyes, ashamed of himself. It had been different when he was on the medication. He had needed to fight against the drug. It was trying to make him into something he wasn't. But now-now the drug was gone and it was just him and those dreams that he couldn't control and couldn't block out of his mind. He could act on them now. He could do anything. If he wanted to.
Did he? Did he want to?
He was not a monster! He did not want to be a monster!
Because he knew where that would lead. To the same disgusting life he'd had before. The sick thoughts that led to the evil deeds. And... that person. The one who had made him a true monster, for once and always. The one who had taken his life and thrown it into the sewers, ruined it for all time. He couldn't stand that. He just couldn't stand it.
Aravena pushed himself out of his armchair. He had to do something, had to... distract himself. Even in this seedy little apartment, there had to be something he could do to take his mind off-
He walked to the west wall and glanced out the window. There was a woman on the street. A jogger. She was not as tall as Sheila Knight, not as pretty as Erin Faulkner. But she was pretty enough. And she was alone. Vulnerable. He could follow her, and then when it got darker, he could take her, throw her down and-
God!
He dropped to his knees. What was happening to him? Maybe the doctors were right. Maybe he should be locked up. Maybe he should be on those horrible drugs.
He did not want to be a monster. But the urge was so strong. The need was so great. The voices were talking to him, the ones that came from deep, deep inside. The ones that inhabited his brain. He knew he couldn't resist them forever.
But he had to try. Because he could not go back on the Depo. He couldn't live like that. But he couldn't live like this either.
"I do not want to be a monster!" he cried out, pounding at his closed eyes.
"I do not want to be a monster!"
But I am.
Chapter 25
Christina sat in the office lobby, her arms crossed on Jones's desk, her head bowed.
"I can't believe I folded like that. I can't believe I let that arrogant judge treat me in that manner."
Ben patted her shoulder sympathetically. "You did everything you could."
"I did too much. I totally alienated him."
"At that point, you had nothing to lose. He'd made up his mind."
"Because I blew it." Christina pounded her head against her arms. "I should have backed off when Derek started to get angry. I should've cited more case law."
"Christina, there's no point in sitting around blamestorming. We have to move forward."
"Forward to what? I signed Ray's death warrant."
"Now you're being ridiculous," Ben said, but he knew it wouldn't help. No words would. He'd been in these situations himself. He'd handled Ray's trial, after all, and he'd been toting around guilt about that ever since. She would just have to work through it. "Meeting in the conference room?"
Christina nodded. "Everyone's waiting for you. Although I don't understand what we're-"
"You'll see." He tugged at her arm. "Come on."
"Do I have to?"
"Definitely. I need you, Christina. Now more than ever." He raised her to her feet. "You're the best lawyer I know."
"Think about it," Loving was telling Jones as Ben and Christina entered the conference room. "Who's in a better position to take over the world? They could make it happen overnight."
Ben felt his impatience boiling up. They couldn't waste time on Loving's paranoid delusions. "Who are we talking about this time? The twelve old men who rule the world?"
"No," Loving said.
"The Trilateral Commission?"
"No."
"The CIA? FBI? NSA? KGB?"
"All wrong," Jones answered. "You're going to love this one. This time, the threat to world peace is... wait for it..."
"Yes?"
"McDonald's," Loving replied.
Ben threw his briefcase onto the table. "We don't have time for this."
"Think about it, Skipper," Loving insisted. "They're strategically placed all over the globe. They got more than twenty-six thousand outposts worldwide. The U.S. Army has fewer than a hundred. McDonald's also has more than a million workers. They're immensely wealthy. They've already brainwashed our children and addicted them to their products. They've destroyed the health of the human species and made us all fat and lazy. They could take over the U.S. in a heartbeat. And after that, the rest of the countries would fall like dominoes."
Ben pressed his hand against his forehead. "Please tell me you're kidding."
A slow, sly smile spread across Loving's face. "Well, of course I'm kiddin'. What do you think I am, crazy?"
Ben did not comment.
"I just thought you could use a laugh right now."
He was certainly right about that. "Listen to me, people. We have work to do."
"But what's the point?" Christina asked. "Our petition was dismissed. Ray's remedies are exhausted."
"I refuse to give up," Ben replied, not missing a beat. "I don't care how grim it looks. Whatever the rules and regulations, this is still America. They won't execute him if we can prove-absolutely prove-he's not the killer. We'll ask the Supreme Court for emergency relief. We'll ask the governor for a pardon. Whatever it takes."
Christina did not appear optimistic.
"We have five days until Ray's execution. Five days. We have to pull out all the stops. All the other cases go on the back burner. I don't care what they are. This takes priority."
"Understood," Jones said quietly. His expression was sad and sympathetic, as if Ben were a pathetic wretch in deep denial who had to be humored. "What can I do?"
"What you've been doing. Only more so."
"Such as?"
"I don't know. You're the resident mouse potato. Hit the Internet. I keep hearing you can find anything on the Internet. Find something that helps Ray."
"I'll try, Boss."
"Loving, I want you or Christina to revisit every potential suspect, witness, or informant on our list. Get something new out of them. Find new connections."
"Got it."
"I don't care if you have to lean on them. Frankly, I don't care if you have to torture them with bamboo shoots under the fingernails. Just so you get something."
"Understood, Skipper."
"Christina?" Ben could tell she was still upset about the hearing. And who could blame her? But he missed her usual effervescence. Her energy was about the only thing that got him through some of these cases. "I want you to pull out all the files, one at a time. All the transcripts, all the witness reports, everything. Read them and reread them and reread them. Find something we've missed. Something everyone has missed."
Her head listed to one side. "I'll try, Ben, but-"
"Good. People, we will not give up. Not while there's any chance, however slight."
"And what will you be doing?" Jones inquired.
"I have about a million tasks to complete before that execution date arrives. But one takes precedence. Unfortunately." His eyes fell to the table. "I have to tell Ray what happened at the hearing."
"What the hell was going on out there?"
Chief Blackwell closed his office door, but Mike knew from experience that when his voice hit this decibel range, everyone on the floor could hear. And unless he missed his guess, half of them had their ears pressed against the other side of the door at this very minute.
"You had the woman under surveillance. And you let her die?"
Mike squirmed. "We did not
let
her do anything."
"Right under your noses! She was right under your noses!"
Sergeant Baxter looked no more at ease than Mike. "We thought she was alone, sir," she offered.
"People usually are when they commit suicide, Sergeant." He paced back and forth across the office, apparently so angry he couldn't hold still. "You're sitting in your car, and you don't have a clue what's going on until you hear the gunshot?"
Mike swallowed. "That's about the size of it."
"What were you two doing, anyway?"
Mike looked at Baxter, then quickly looked away. "We were... um..."
"Not doing anything," Baxter completed. "Just passing the time..."
"Right," Blackwell said. "Just passing the time. While this woman puts a gun to her head."
Baxter coughed. "Sir, I'm not at all convinced this was a suicide."
Blackwell marched right in front of her. "Don't start with me, Baxter. I humored you the first time. I won't go down that road again."
"But sir, there are strong indications that another person was present."
"So what? It's a vacation cabin. She probably had people there all the time."
"I mean recently. Just before she died."
"You were supposedly watching the cabin. Did you see anyone?"
"No. But think about it. There was no suicide note. There were cuts and abrasions on her body. A serious blow to her left leg. We found signs that she had fallen down the slope behind the cabin."
"And none of that amounts to a hill of beans!"
Baxter rose to her feet and faced him down. "With all due respect, sir-you're not giving me a chance."
"Why should I give you a chance?" He addressed her more like a drill sergeant than a supervisor. "Maybe I didn't make this clear when I hired you, Sergeant. I expect results. Not theories. Not botched stakeouts. Results!"
"Sir, if you'll just give us a little more time..."
"You've wasted too much time already. I've blown a bundle in taxpayer dollars humoring a rookie detective. I should've listened to Major Morelli when he told me to call Faulkner's death a suicide and close the file."
Baxter glared at Mike, her eyes like cold steel.
"And that's exactly what I'm going to do. I assume your opinion hasn't changed any. Not based on this pathetic nonevidence. Right, Morelli?"
Mike sat silently, pursing his lips.
"Well?" Blackwell bore down on him. "Am I right?"
Jones entered Christina's office and found her nose buried in a huge pile of files. "You look as if you could use a distraction," he said, holding out a pink message slip.
Christina didn't look up. "I don't want to see your honeymoon pictures again."
"Hardy-har. This is about the Goldman case. Got a call from James Wesley. Erin's sorta boyfriend. He wants someone to come over to his home. Wants to talk."
"What about?"
"Wouldn't say on the phone. But it must relate to Erin Faulkner."
"Shouldn't you tell Ben?"
Jones looked away. "He's busy. And I thought... you might like to take it. Might be good for you."
The corner of her lips turned up, just barely. "Yeah, you're right. I need a break." She snatched the message from his hand. "Thanks."
"Oh, no," he said mysteriously, looking away. "Don't thank me till you get back."
"Actually," Mike said tentatively, "I have... somewhat... altered my opinion."
"What?" Blackwell looked as if he'd been hit by a bulldozer. "What are you babbling about?"
Mike inhaled deeply. "I'm talking about my initial impression that Erin Faulkner's death was a suicide."
"You have doubts?"
Mike knew this would only further infuriate Blackwell. But he had no choice. "No, I don't have any doubts. I'm sure. These deaths weren't suicides." He paused. "I was wrong."
Baxter turned, her lips parted.
"And when did you arrive at this brilliant revelation, detective?" Blackwell demanded.
"I don't know. I think I've known all along, at least a little bit. I just didn't want to admit it because..." His chest rose, then fell again. "I suppose I didn't want to admit that Baxter was right."
"Because she's a woman?"
Mike frowned. "No. Because she's... annoying. But I shouldn't've let that affect my judgment. She called this one exactly right."
Baxter gazed at him, her eyes filled with wonder.
Blackwell was not mollified. "And do you by chance have any evidence in support of this sudden epiphany?"
"We're still collecting evidence-"
"Don't stall me, Major."
Mike's jaw clenched. "The cuts and abrasions on Sheila Knight's body can't be explained by the gun wound. There are signs that she rolled or fell down the slope behind her cabin-and perhaps that she was dragged back up it. There are fresh footprints-not hers-also behind the cabin. We've found a key chain-we think it's a key chain-with some strange design on it. I haven't identified it yet, but-"
"Is that all you've got, Morelli? Because, frankly, it sounds pretty feeble to me. And I am sick of this half-baked, amateurish-"
"Just one goddamn minute," Mike said, matching his volume. "I've been on this force a good long time, and I think I've proven I know what a homicide is. I've also proven I can solve one, given enough time and support. And I can't think of any reason why I-or my partner-should have to endure this abusive bullshit!"