Free Thrust by Tom Piccirilli Page B

was always the same, and thinking about it now was like reciting a poem—the first line preceded the second, which preceded the third.   Even thinking about the pattern was a pattern itself, and he had to follow the flow.  
    Compelled now to remember heading out on the parkway to gun past Garden Falls, where the shadow of the buildings sliced down alongside the moon.   He'd stop off at bars and have a few more, speaking to no one .   He wanted to think about something else but couldn't get loose until it had all finished out the way it was supposed to be.   He did that for a couple of years, biding time, feeling a slow movement and rise under his skin.
    That was all right .
    Chase gasped in relief as the memory, the poem, finally finished and he managed to slump in his chair.   The movement caused such a knifelike pain in his neck and shoulders that he had to grit his teeth, gripping his belly harder.
    "We'll play it up for the jury," Ellis said.   "How you're a noted performance poet with a history of mental illness, who attempts to deal with the traumas of his past through his body of work.   A cult figure in New York City, you're as well known for your mania as for your poetry."
    "Sure," Chase said.
    "Singleton's a white trash career criminal, a wife-beater, the kidnapper of his own child.   He'll be up on criminal contempt of court charges.   Assault, violating the order of protection, fleeing police, endangering the welfare of a minor, and possibly kidnapping.   We'll focus the case away from your accidental involvement in it.   You'll admit yourself to Garden Falls tomorrow."   It struck him then, so that he let out a huff of air.   "Ironic.   That's the parkway exit where the collision occurred?"
    "Yes."
    "I'll make the preparations tonight."
    Ellis looked down and started to riffle through paperwork.   Chase realized he'd been dismissed, but still had a question.   "What happens if they make the case against me?"
    " Fortwell , I'd guess.   It's bad, but not as bad as some of the others.   Sing Sing .   Arlingville .   Hardwick."
    "For how long?"
    "Worst case… five years at the outside for criminally negligent homicide. A child died and the media frenzy's already begun.   There will be a hell of a lot of pressure from the likes of M.A.D.D. and other watchdog groups. You'll probably get eighteen to twenty-four months.   It's a good thing you're a calm drunk and didn't give the officers any trouble."
    "How about Singleton?"
    "At least three years for violating the order of protection and running from the cops, another one or two for endangering his kid.   Since he's not considered a violent criminal, he'll get the lighter sentence."
    "I haven't seen anything about his wife.   She's not talking to the papers."
    "She's terrified of what Singleton might do, I'd guess."
    "Did he make bail?"
    "No.   He'll be off the street until the trial starts in six months.   This isn't a cake walk, Grayson.   Joe Singleton's gained some points because of his daughter's death.   They'll play you as the scapegoat here, but you'll both be held accountable.   It evens the books out."
    Chase could understand them hedging their bets.    Everybody had to get a touch of satisfaction or the whole thing would just fall apart.  
    He got up, listening to sirens shriek down on the street, heading uptown.   You could tune in to the soundtrack of your life on occasion, the world outside underscoring everything going on in your soul.   A harsh breeze blew and clattered the window in its frame.
    "How'd Singleton kill his friends?" Chase asked.   "If it was him."
    Ellis couldn't quite purse his lips, but he made the effort, still trying to get a bead on Chase and decide whether he was asking a smart question or a really foolish one.  
    "With a knife.   Four inch blade.   None of this sloppy slitting-the-throat shit either.   One thrust, under the left ribs, directly into the heart.   He's a pro."
    Chase had five