David Wiltse - Into The Fire

"You don't want to know about this? He's a killer, a serial killer, a mass murderer. I thought you would want to know. What kind of a cop are you?"

"Ex."

"Then why are you here?"

"Why am I here? I'm here because some shit-faced little come got tired of being buggered every night by the ape who shared his cage and thought he'd be real clever and write secret little notes in code to me. As if I gave a shit. As if I had nothing better to do than get involved in a lovers' spat. What am I supposed to be, your trained dog, you can sic me on anyone you want?"

"Lovers' spat? He's a killer!"

"The country's full of killers. There are more of them outside the walls than in-do you think I want to hunt them all down? There are fourteen-year-old killers in every gang in every housing project in the country. There are people killing their parents and parents throwing their babies out of windows and guys driving by with Uzis and spraying a crowd and lunatics strapping bombs to themselves and wiping out the local McDonald's and there are assholes blowing people away in traffic jams. There are killings on the goddamned sports page. And I haven't even gotten to the ones who kill with a fucking motive.

What do I care if the guy who was fucking you is dusting a few? He's your problem, not mine. You work in the library? Take those scissors you used to cut out my cute little code and plant them in his intestines next time he bends you over, that's how it's done in here, haven't you figured that out? Take care of yourself, you little shit, don't try to get me to do it, I'm not your big brother."

Swann slumped in the chair, crestfallen.

"You don't believe me about him?"

"What's to believe? There's a guy in prison who's killed somebody? I have no trouble believing that. I just don't give a shit."

"You're going to betray me, aren't you?" Swann said, his face suddenly terrified. "You're going to give me to them, you're going to tell them what I've said."

"Who did you tell?" Becker asked.

"Tell what?"

"Who did you tell about your clever little scheme to get hold of me? How many did you tell?"

"I didn't tell anyone-do you think I'm crazy?"

Becker was on his feet. He jerked the front leg of Swann's chair off the floor with his foot, held the neck of the chair to keep it from falling so that Swann was on his neck, off-balance, halfway to the floor.

"Who did you confide in, who helped you, who were you whispering to about this, Swann?"

"Nobody. It was all my idea."

"You're not smart enough."

"The hell I'm not."

"You're a halfwit who got caught slicing up his landlady. How smart can you be?"

"Smarter than you think."

"That's not hard. Who taught you the binary code?"

"Nobody. I learned it in the library."

"Do some."

I 'What?"

Becker righted the chair and pushed Swann against the table so that he was pinned against his chest. Becker dropped a pen in front of Swann.

"Show me the binary code for 99."

"Now?"

"No, mail it to me, you little shit. Of course now. Do it there, do it on the table, just the way you sent it to me."

"You think I can't?"

"Do it."

"I told you, don't lump me with the rest of these people in here. I'm different."

"Uh-huh. Do the code."

Swann was silent for a moment, his hands folded in front of him.

"Do it," Becker said.

"I'm praying," Swann said. "I'm praying for Jesus to change your heart."

"Pray for him to teach you the binary code real quick."

"I don't need to pray for that, Mr. Becker. I already know the code. You want 99?"

With speed and certainty, Swann marked a series of dots on the table:

"It's not really a mystery, you know," Swann said.

"Anybody who's computer literate can do it. Does that prove I wrote the messages by myself?"

Becker sat opposite Swann once more.

"I'm going to say this very carefully," Becker said, "because I want you to hear the specifics of what I have to say and not just the emotion.

But if you have half as much sense as you seem to think you do, and if you believe any part of the stories you've heard about me, you'll realize that I mean exactly what I say. All right?"

"Of course."

"I never want to hear from you again. I do not want communication of any kind, in any form. What's more, if I receive communication from anyone else in this place, I will assume that it came from you. Is that clear?"

"That's not fair, you can't hold me responsible..

"Fuck fair. Is it clear?"

"Yes."

"Good. If you are stupid enough to disregard what I've just told you, if I ever even hear your name again, I will personally deliver you to that pack of howling hard-ons in there and I will tell them what you have done. Is that clear?"

"They would kill me."

"Is it clear?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Becker stood and shoved his chair neatly in place under the table.

"Is that all?" Swann asked.

"That's all I wanted to say."

"What about what I told you? Aren't you going to do anything about it?"

"What is there to do? He's out, he's gone."

"You can find him, I can help you find him."

"How?"

"I know where he said he was going. I know where he is now."

"How?"

Swann looked around the room once more, craning his neck to see that the window in the door was empty.

"I need to be safe. I have to be safe before I can talk freely. Can you promise me I'll be safe, Mr. Becker?"

"Me? I just made my promise to you. You didn't seem to like it."

"He's a homocidal maniac. He kills people, he tortures and kills them. I can give him to you, isn't that worth something?"

"It might be to some people. What's it worth to you?"

Swann closed his eyes and clasped his hands in front of himself again.

Will you please help me, Mr. Becker?" he asked, his eyes still closed.

"I am dying in here. I don't deserve to die, Christ has forgiven me for my sins, I've served three years… if no one helps me, I will never survive until my parole. Am I so loathsome that I deserve to die in this place?" He fell to his knees in front of Becker. "Do you know what it's like in here? The monsters are fighting over me. They put their hands on you, you hate it, it disgusts you-and then you feel yourself getting aroused.

You hate yourself for it, but they won't let you just receive, they want you to participate, they want you to cooperate. They want you to make up things to do, things that will make them feel good. And you know what you do? You remember what feels good to you, you remember what you liked to have your girlfriend do to you, and you do it to them, you remember how it feels on yourself and you get excited as they're getting excited. They don't care about you, they don't even know who you are, but they still make you act as if you like it… and you get so you do.

Swann put his hands on Becker's knees and Becker stood abruptly, stepping away from the man.

"What do you want, Swann?"

"Will you at least tell someone at the FBI what I have to offer? Will you tell them you met with me and you know that I have valuable information?" He reached again for Becker's knee and again Becker stepped away.

More than anything, Becker wanted to leave. He felt the oppression of the prison clinging like a film to his skin and he wanted to run from the room and hurl himself into sunlight and water, to stand under a waterfall and have the obscenity of the prison scoured and flushed from his body. Swann's supplications held him back as surely as if the man were clinging to his leg.

"All right," he said.

"Bless you!" Swann cried. He reached for Becker's hand. Becker stepped around him and pounded on the door for the guard.

"Praise Jesus," Swann said, rising to his feet.

Swann stood next to Becker at the door, his body nearly touching Becker's. Becker could feel the heat of the other man's presence. He turned his head away.