62
I went to visit Ted Buckley. He was encased in plaster, pulleys holding an arm and leg suspended. His eyes were open and they hardened as I approached. I said “How you doing there, Ted?”
He tried to act like I was a stranger, but immobile in a bed, how many ways can you fake it?
“I know you?”
“Jack Taylor.”
The nicotine teeth locked down, and I didn’t think agitation was going to do his condition much good. “That supposed to mean something?”
I pulled up a chair, straddled it. If Superintendent Clancy could do it, then hell, why not?
“Ah, does this mean I can’t join you, not be a vigilante?”
He tried to shift his head as if seeking help, then said,
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I let that hang for a bit, then,
“You killed a guard.”
Spittle lit the corners of his l
