David Wiltse - Prayer for the Dead

Becker felt the tension in Dyce’s neck resisting his hands. It was turned as far as it could go without shattering the vertebrae. He could imagine the satisfying sound of the final snap.

“It’s what you ultimately do that counts,” Gold said. “Not what you think. A killer doesn’t just think about killing-he kills.”

For the first time Becker noticed Dyce’s moan. He didn’t struggle; he lay beneath Becker like a lamb on the altar, bewildered but accepting.

Lightning flashed and Becker saw Tee’s eyes watching him, wide and staring with anticipation. He read permission in Tee’s eyes, approval.

“It’s what you do,” Gold said. “Ultimately, you’re in control of it. They’re not. You are. That’s the difference.”

Becker released Dyce’s head and pulled him into a sitting position so that Dyce’s back was against Becker’s chest. Dyce sagged limply against Becker with a grateful sigh. Becker cradled him as the sound of Hatcher and the rediscovered loudspeaker moved closer in the darkness.

“You had no options,” Gold said.

“I could have backed away.”

“While balancing like that? You would have fallen and killed yourself. You had to go for him.”

“I could have just waited. Hatcher was out there. He would have shown up eventually. There was nowhere for Dyce to go.”

“That’s pretty cool thinking under the circumstances. At the time, you felt that you had no option but to attack. You did the right thing. It worked, didn’t it?”

“If I hadn’t seen Tee looking at me, I might have killed him.”

“You said Tee thought you should have done it.”

“He told me that afterward. At the time I just wanted to think he approved.”

“You don’t know you would have killed him if it hadn’t been for Tee watching.”

“I don’t know I wouldn’t have,” said Becker.

“You didn’t do it. That’s what counts. We’ll just have to leave it at that.”

“I guess we will,” said Becker. He paused, prying the blinds apart with a finger and looking at the withering acacia tree on the street below.

“What will happen with Dyce?” Gold asked.

“He’ll be declared innocent by reason of insanity and put away for a while until he proves himself sane. He probably will be able to do that eventually, won’t he, Gold? Convince some people that he’s sane?”

Gold sighed. “Possibly, Probably. If he’s sane most of the time, he can get away with it.”

Becker turned to look at Gold. “In other words, you admit you can’t really tell.”

“I admit we can’t always tell… Can you, Becker? Can you always tell if they’re sane or insane?”

Becker grinned broadly. “What’s the difference?”

Becker turned back toward the window and watched the traffic for a moment before moving toward the door, rubbing his fingertips together.

“You should dust more often, Gold,” he said. “The place is full of cobwebs.”