Game (Jasper Dent #2)(50)

“You don’t believe that for a minute.”

The sheriff shook his head. “I want nothing more in this world than to believe that. I want to believe that there’s no connection between the guy in lockup waiting to be transported to court and the guy killing people in New York. Mostly ’cause that would probably mean there’s a connection to your daddy, too. So, yeah, I want to believe it’s all a coincidence, but I’m not as dumb as I look, which is a hell of a good thing.” He heaved himself out of his chair. “Let’s go.”

Jazz rose to follow him. “Don’t we have to check with his lawyer first?”

“Usually, yeah. But the Impressionist has made it clear that he’s always available to see you. As long as there’s no cops present, you can talk to him whenever and however long you want. You just can’t report it to us or tell us about it, ’cause then it’d be off-limits in court. But hell—he’ll talk to you all day long, if you want.”

“Lucky me,” Jazz muttered.

G. William led him back to the holding cells, which were empty except for the one farthest from the door, in which sat Frederick Thurber, the Impressionist.

He’d been in the Lobo’s Nod jail since his arrest before Halloween. Lawyers from the Nod were fighting with lawyers from just over the state line—where the Impressionist had murdered a woman named Carla O’Donnelly—over which state got to try him first. And then there was a district attorney in Oklahoma who claimed that the Impressionist had also killed someone in Enid, long before taking on his Billy Dent–inspired sobriquet and modus operandi. Fortunately, the federal government was staying out of it—for now—preferring to let the states waste their time and resources. All three jurisdictions in question had the death penalty, so Thurber was heading for Death Row one way or the other, the feds figured.

The whole thing was a snarl of legalese and lawyerly posturing, the upshot of which was that Thurber remained in Lobo’s Nod until everyone could agree who would get the first pound of flesh from him.

Thurber glanced up as the door to the holding cells opened, then sat up straight when Jazz came through the door. Jazz thought maybe there was a small smile playing across his lips, but who knew what it looked like when a madman like the Impressionist smiled? Jazz kept his face impassive, his spine stiff, as he approached the Impressionist’s cell. The Impressionist stood and turned to the front of the cage, staring as though the bars didn’t exist and he could walk right up to Jazz if he wanted.

“Now, I can’t stick around, so I’m just leavin’ you with a warning,” G. William said sternly. “Don’t even think about hurting him.”

“I won’t get close enough to the bars for him to touch me,” Jazz assured him.

“I wasn’t talking to him,” G. William said wearily, and left.

Alone, Jazz didn’t get the chance to speak before the Impressionist said, in a voice oddly high and thin from disuse, “Jasper Dent. Princeling of Murder. Heir to the Croaking.”

The Croaking? Was this crap for real? He’d almost forgotten how completely delusional the Impressionist was. Thurber thought that Billy Dent was a god, that Jazz was destined to the same divinity.

“Come to learn the truth?” the Impressionist asked. “Come to accept your destiny? It’s not too late. It’s never too late. Jackdaw!”

The man was babbling. He was falling apart, Jazz realized. That made no sense. He should have been doing well. Serial killers tended to thrive in rigid, institutional settings. He’d read all sorts of case studies on guys like Richard Macek, who had turned into a model prisoner once incarcerated. When given limited options and no freedom, sociopaths tended to default to a sort of relaxed ennui. But the Impressionist was blowing the curve for the rest of the class. His eyes were glassy and possessed.

Well, there’s an exception to every rule. And you just met him. Jazz almost felt sorry for the man, but he thought of Helen Myerson and he thought of blowing air into Ginny Davis’s lungs, his hands slick with her blood. He thought of Howie, near death in an alley, slashed open by the Impressionist.

“I want to know about Ugly J,” Jazz said firmly.

Sociopaths never revealed anything; they were masters at concealing their emotions or of feigning emotions to cover when they knew a lack of affect would draw attention to them. He’d expected either a calm, savvy, knowing grin or a flat, reactionless glare.

Instead, the Impressionist actually took a step back; his hands twitched as though he would bring them up to shield himself, to ward something off. If Jazz didn’t know better, he would say the Impressionist was actually… afraid.

“Ugly J…” the man whispered. “No. No. Oh, no. Not Ugly J. We won’t talk about that. You’re not ready for that. Even I know that. I defied for you. I touched when I was told not to. But not Ugly J. I won’t.”

Jazz stepped closer to the bars. “Talk to me. What is Ugly J? What does it mean? Or is it a person? Is it a serial killer? Is it what Billy calls himself now?”

The Impressionist shook his head, mute. Jazz came right up to the bars, aware that the Impressionist could make a lunge and grab him.

“Tell me! Tell me about Ugly J!”

“Not ugly!” the Impressionist screamed. “Beautiful!” Considering what the Impressionist thought to be beautiful, that could mean a lot. “Beautiful,” he said again. “But the way you die is so ugly…! So ugly, Jasper!”