Demon Jack Read Free Page B

put it mildly- a stretch.
    I’d go so far as to say I was good and well fucked.
    I felt the creeping edges of despair welling up in my chest. I had spent the better part of my life bouncing in and out of juvenile halls and county or state lock ups of one stripe or another. I had died for crying out loud. I had literally died and come back, demon in tow, for what? For me to spend the rest of my life locked up in a cage like an animal?
    Then again, maybe that’s exactly what I was. Maybe I was an animal.
    I had just killed a woman who had shown me kindness. It had been self-defense, but I had taken another life and felt absolutely no remorse in doing it. I was more concerned with what was going to happen to me than I was the fact that I had just murdered my friend.
    A part of me couldn’t help but wonder if this was what I deserved.
    I opened my eyes. The cop looked to be in his mid-thirties and was carrying more than a bit of pudge around his waist. He was dressed in an off the rack suit that all but screamed in protest to his bulk. The flashing blue and red lights of his squad car slipped through the now open door and bathed his face in hellish shadows. He had the look of a veteran. It was in the way he carried himself, something in his eyes that was equal parts determination and wariness.
    He kept his service revolver trained on me, each step cautious as he approached. He made sure to maintain enough distance to give him ample time to drop me if I decided to do something rash.
    “I’d stay nice and still if I were you friend,” the cop said.
    I followed his advice. My body thrummed with aches, waves of pain washing over my muscles and nerves with every heartbeat. The spot on my face where Essie had hit me danced to its own particular aching waltz, something fast and up tempo, maybe even jovial.
    I felt the press of the gun barrel against the back of my skull. He smelled toxic, bathed in a near tangible cloud of sweat, cigarette smoke and cheap aftershave. He hefted himself over me, pushing his knee into the small of my back. On the plus side, I wasn’t subjected to his stench anymore since he was heavy enough that breathing was almost more trouble than it was worth. On the down side, it hurt like hell. He cuffed me with the sort of precision that comes with years of practice.
    He holstered his gun and jerked me to my feet, using the cuffs for leverage. He patted me down in the same efficient, precise manner he had used when he cuffed me.
    “You got a name?”
    I didn’t answer him, instead turning my eyes back down towards Essie’s body. Blood had pooled around her, painting the cement black underneath the flashing strobes. She looked almost peaceful, despite the blood and pieces of flesh stuck in her few remaining teeth.
    “I asked you a question,” he said.
    “I heard you,” I said, still staring at Essie.
    “So what’s your name then shithead?”
    “Go fuck yourself.”
    “Suit yourself, mister ‘go fuck yourself.’”
    God bless cop humor.
    He gave me a shove, jerking the hood of my sweatshirt away from my head and began perp-walking me towards the waiting squad car. Apparently budget cuts had left the detectives driving black and whites instead of those fancy sedans they always drove in the movies. This close, the pulsing lights were damn near blinding, each color change sending a spike of pain through my aching head. I tried to focus on keeping my head down and putting one foot in front of the other.
    The cop didn’t bother helping me into the car. It took a fair bit of balance and concentration on my part to slide into the backseat without smacking my head against the door frame or falling over. The interior was like every other police cruiser I’d ever had the displeasure of being in. The air inside was heavy with the smell of sweat and cheap tree air fresheners. The back seat was hard, contoured plastic, a thick wall of bullet proof glass serving as a barricade between the front of the car and