'Yes.'

He laughed harshly. 'Well, it's an easy enough question to answer: I was just on my way back home and sort of got sidetracked. Distracted, you might say. Never did make it all the way. That makes sense to you?

'Not exactly.'

Sullivan grinned and rolled his eyes. 'Life's a mystery, ain't it?'

'If you say so.'

'That's right. If I say so. Of course you're a bit more interested in another little mystery, aren't you, Cowart? You don't really care about some other folks, do you? That ain't why you're here.'

'No.'

'Tell me why you want to talk to a bad old guy like myself?'

'Robert Earl Ferguson and Pachoula, Florida.'

As best he could, Blair Sullivan threw back his head and bellowed a single sharp laugh that echoed off the prison walls. Cowart saw a number of the corrections officers swing their heads, watch momentarily, then turn back to their tasks.

'Well now, those are interesting subjects, Cowart. Mighty interesting. But we'll have to get to them in a minute.'

'Okay. Why?'

Blair Sullivan pitched forward across the table, bringing his face as close as possible to Cowart's. The chain that linked him to the table rattled and strained with the sudden pressure. A vein stood out on the prisoner's neck and his face flushed suddenly. 'Because you don't know me well enough yet.'

Then he sat back abruptly, reaching for another cigarette, which he lit off the stub of the first. 'Tell me something about yourself, Cowart, then maybe we can talk. I like to know who I'm dealing with.'

'What do you need to know?'

'Got a wife?'

'Ex-wife.'

The prisoner hooted. 'Kids?'

Matthew Cowart hesitated, then replied, 'None.'

'Liar. Live alone or you got a girlfriend?'

'Alone.'

'Apartment or a house?'

'Little apartment.'

'Got any close friends?'

Again, he hesitated. 'Sure.'

'Liar. That's twice and I'm counting. What do you do at night?'

'Sit around. Read. Watch a ball game.'

'Keep to yourself mostly, huh?'

'That's right.'

The eyelid twitched again. 'Have trouble sleeping?'

'No.'

'Liar. That's three times. You ought to be ashamed, lying to a condemned man. Same as Matthew did to Jesus before the cock crowed. Now, do you dream at night?'

'What the hell…'

Blair Sullivan whispered sharply, 'Play the game, Cowart, or else I'll walk out of here without answering any of your frigging questions.'

'Sure. I dream. Everyone dreams.'

'What about?'

'People like you,' Cowart said angrily.

Sullivan laughed again. 'Got me on that one.' He leaned back in his seat and watched Cowart. 'Nightmares, huh? Because that's what we are, aren't we? Nightmares.'

'That's right,' Cowart replied.

'That's what I tried to tell those boys from the FBI, but they weren't listening. That's all we are, smoke and nightmares. We just walk and talk and bring a little bit of darkness and fear to this earth. Gospel according to John: "Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do. He was a murderer from the beginning, and abode not in the truth, because there is no truth in him." Got that? Eighth verse. Now, there might be a bunch of fancy shrink words to describe it all, but, hell, that's just a bunch of medical gobbledygook, right?'

'Right, I guess.'

'You know what? You've got to be a free man to be a good killer. Free, Cowart. Not hung up on all the silly shit that bogs down ordinary lives. A free man.'

Cowart didn't reply.

'Let me tell you something else: It ain't hard to kill folks. That's what I told them. And you don't really think about it much after, neither. I mean, you got too many things to think about, like disposing of bodies and weapons and getting bloodstains off'n your hands and such. Hell, after a murder, you're downright busy, you know. Just figuring out what to do next and how to get the hell outa there.'

'Well, if killing is easy, what was hard?'

Sullivan smiled. 'That's a good question. They never asked that one.' He thought for a moment, turning his face upward toward the ceiling. 'I think that what was hardest was getting here to the Row and figuring that I never did kill the folks I wanted to kill the most, you know.'

'What do you mean?'

'Ain't that always the hardest thing in life, Cowart? Lost opportunities. They're what we regret the most. What keeps us up at night.'

'I still don't get it.'

Sullivan shifted about in his seat, leaning forward again toward Cowart, whispering in a conspiratorial voice, 'You got to get it. If not now, you will someday. You got to remember it, too, because it'll be important someday. Someday when you least expect it, you'll remember. Who is it that Blair Sullivan hates most? Who does it bother him every day to know they're alive and well and living out their days? It's real important for you to remember that, Cowart.'

'You're not going to tell me?'

'No, sir.'

'Jesus Christ…'

'Don't use that name in vain! I'm sensitive to those things.'

'I just meant…'

Blair Sullivan pitched forward again. 'Do you think these chains could really hold me if I wanted to rip your face off? Do you think these puny little bars could contain me? Do you think I could not rise up and burst free and tear your body apart and drink your blood like it was the water of life in a second's time?'

Cowart recoiled sharply.

'I can. So don't anger me, Cowart.'

He stared across the table.

'I am not crazy and I believe in Jesus, though he'll most likely see my ass kicked straight to hell. But it don't bother me none, no sir, because my life's been hell, and so should my death be.'

Blair Sullivan was silent. Then he leaned back in the metal seat and readopted his lazy, almost insulting tone. 'You see, Cowart, what separates me from you ain't bars and chains and all that shit. It's one simple little detail. I am not afraid of dying. Death, where is your sting, I fear it not. Put me in the chair, shoot me up with a lethal injection, plop me down in front of a firing squad, or stretch me by the neck. Hell, you can throw me to the lions and I'll go along saying my prayers and looking forward to the next world, where I suspect I'll raise as much hell as I have in this one. You know what's strange, Cowart?'

'What?'

'I'm more afraid of living here like some damn beast than dying. I don't want to be poked and prodded by shrinks, argued and discussed by lawyers. Hell, I don't want to be written about by you guys. I just want to move on, you know. Move right on.'

'That's why you fired the attorneys? That's why you're not contesting your conviction?'

He barked a laugh. 'Sure. Hell, Cowart, look at me. What do you see?'

'A killer.'

'Right.' Sullivan smiled. 'That's right. I killed those folks. I'd of killed more if I hadn't been caught. I'd of killed that trooper – man, he was one lucky sonuvabitch all I had was my knife, which I was busy using on that little gal to have some fun. I left my damn gun with my pants, and he got a clean drop on me. Still don't know why he didn't shoot me then and save everybody so damn much trouble. But, hell, he got me fair and square. I can't complain about that. I had my chances. He even read me my rights after he got me cuffed. His voice was cracking and his hands were twitching, and he was more excited than I was, by a long shot. And, anyway, I hear that arresting me gave his career a real boost, and I take some pride in that, yes sir. So, what I got to argue about? Just give some more fucking lawyers more fucking work. Screw 'em. It ain't like life is so great I got a real need to hang around, you know.'

Both men were silent, considering the words which hung in the air inside the cage.

'So, Cowart, you got a question?'

'Yes. Pachoula.'