by Rex Miller
"Well, at least let me spike it."
She finally took her freshly shorn head, and all the rest of her well-distributed 127 pounds, and got in her unmarked unit, returning to 1125 Locust. At headquarters, she immediately headed for the squad room, She nodded to people on the way up, and familiar faces in the hallways, but did not speak until she was inside the door marked Metropolitan Major Case Squad, which was the real name of the unit, but which nobody ever used.
Leo and T.J., the only other female detective on the squad, and the El Tee, were occupied elsewhere. Marlin Morris had been waiting for her so he could brief the three detectives present at one time. Michael Apodaca and his partner George Shremp, nicknamed "Abba-dabba" and "Jumbo" respectively by the other cops, and Julie Hilliard—who normally worked alone—were the only dicks in the room. Sergeant Morris did not have to refer to notes.
"Honcho's with Leo 'n' T.J. They're working the firebombing. We've got thirteen people on Boyles. Rotating teams." Boyles was the name of the file on the "pro" hits, as they were perceived, beginning with the slaughter of a guy who appeared to have no ties to anyone, a colorless loner of a person, a part-time cabby, a twenty-three-year-old man named David Boyles. "That's not counting us. Right now we're going to concentrate on Mr. Dillon and see what we can break loose." He handed out a photocopy of a two-page report and a composite of twelve shooting victims' pictures. There was a second composite showing thirteen faces of young gang members killed in the firebombing/shooting incident. "I think an obvious possible tie is Tom Dillon to the bike gang. He coulda been dealing easy. He was a thief. Maybe he was selling or fencing stuff through the gang? Anyway let's look at everything. Show those pictures. See if anybody makes anybody." They knew what he meant.
Detective Sergeant Morris, a thirty-year-old lifer with a droopy semi-Fu mustache and thinning hair, a hardcore casemaker, talked about the weapon that had been used on some of the bikers outside their clubhouse, and discussed the reports on the various victims, speculating as to what had killed them. Julie Hilliard made notes as he spoke, realizing she was just doodling, really, as she saw she'd written acceleration…explosive… and propellant and had no idea what Morris was saying. She snapped back to life and listened to firearms and high-explosive talk.
"Neither the regional crime lab nor the FBI has anything yet?" Jumbo Shremp asked. She was thinking the same question.
"Huh-uh. Negative, so far."
"Some kind of rifle grenade," Shremp said. "That's what I think. Fits the pattern. A pro."
"Are we—" Julie heard her own voice. "Is anybody asking the military? This guy obviously has a background—a military service record, right? Couldn't we put it on the computer and program it through to give us likely names on who has the expertise for all this stuff…uh, you know, capabilities. Demolition. Firearms. And then run those names against the vics? Would that work?"
"Yeah," Morris said. "That wouldn't take more than about ten million hours to program. No—it's probably the way to go." He shrugged. "But we gotta narrow this thing down first. You got too many guys in the services know this shit. We probably need to start trying to get some patterns here. I don't think this is random work. I think we're gonna find Dillon and some of the bikers tied together."
"I know one thing about the son of a bitch. He's hitting too close to home," Apodaca said.
"Yeah." Connally's was two blocks from the police headquarters.
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14
A person can disintegrate in two seconds or they can fall apart over a period of months—even years. Shooter Price had appeared to implode, going off the deep end and killing a dozen times within the span of a few days, killing as he never had, randomly and without purpose. What had pushed him so far? Surely not one more rejection by a woman, or his inability to consummate the act of intercourse. Time, frustrations multiplied by time, the aging process, the cumulative effect of the last couple of months as he tracked a killer even crazier than himself—these were only some of the root causes of his falling apart.
This was, for whatever reason, some semblance of the old Bobby Price who awoke bright and early, feeling refreshed and rather guiltless, hitting the floor and beginning his normal regimen of calisthenics and isometric exercises.
He pulled on old clothes and went out to the car, put the top down, and drove to Hospital Hill Park. There was a place he'd seen where he could work unobserved.
He parked as close as he could to the site he'd found, and carried a new shovel to a place flanked by shrubbery. He stripped off his shirt and began digging, first scoring the earth in a large, fairly round circle, then making a smaller interior circle, which was not to be cut. He was digging earth with a vengeance, his powerful body glistening with sweat as he tossed full shovels of dirt around the hole. This would be a loose berm.
The center would be left as a gun post, a roughly cylindrical form around which he could move, but with a base for SAVANT to rest on her collapsible bipod, which he seldom used.
When Price had dug down a couple of feet, he made yet a third circle and started digging between the central cylinder and the outer edge of the hole. He dug far enough down that when he'd finally removed most of the dirt he had a large hole with a built-in seat that ran around the outermost edge of the gun pit. He could sit comfortably and sight the weapon at his leisure. The only problem was that the berm was up higher than the gun would be. He took a break, toweled off, and climbed out to fix the loose collar of dirt that surrounded the pit. When he was satisfied, he covered the pit with a large, but very lightweight bush net, and broke off long branches of leafy limbs from surrounding bushes and trees, which he used to drape between the gun post and the outside edge of the pit. When he'd finished, it was fairly well camouflaged.
While he dug, some of the same physical changes occurred in Bobby Price's biochemistry that once took place due to drug usage. When Shooter was doing cocaine, certain things happened when he sniffed lines: the white lady would jam the pump that regulated his system, overstimulating neurons, fucking with his brain, kicking him in the chest to get his heart started, floating in his synapses, jabbing his brain in the ass with massive paranoia and hard-charging psychoses. He was there again, but this time without the zip of the blow. One could see it in his eyes, and in his frenetic movements. Neurons were shooting at him inside his mind; lightning from a mental electrical storm was about to strike. Brain nerves fired and Shooter Price jerked as if his mind was exploding.
By the time he'd finished he was stoked with crazy nervous energy. He got back in the car and drove around aimlessly. When a neon tavern sign caught his eye he stopped and parked.
He got out of the car and went in, instantly overwhelmed by the salty booze smell.
When he became accustomed to the darkened interior his gaze was drawn to a woman sitting alone at the bar. She was hard looking, but apart from the fact that she exuded a powerfully feral sexuality, something about her reached out for him. He walked over to her immediately, bending close enough that he wouldn't have to speak loudly to be heard over the music.
"Is it okay if I sit here?" he asked. The woman acted as if she hadn't heard him, ignoring the question. He sat down. Price was sure that he could smell her, an untamed animal scent that—together with the booze smells—was making him hot.
"My name's Bobby Price. Would you mind if I bought you a drink?" he asked her respectfully. Down at the end of the bar three stools from them, an office girl in a colored dress had breezed in and ordered a drink. She smiled at him invitingly but she wasn't what he wanted at all. He ignored the offer, and it was as if the woman next to him sensed it, and she grinned at him for the first time.
"I don't want another drink, but thanks." When she smiled, she looked a lot older, and he wondered if she didn't smile much—thinking it made wrinkles around her mouth or eyes. There were quite a few lines in her face, but he thought she was stunning.
"You're the loveliest woman I've seen in a lon
g time," he whispered to her softly, "and I mean that in the nicest way. I hope you don't think I'm acting disrespectful."
She looked at him funny, cocking her head to see what was going on in his face. She looked back and seemed to be lost in thought for a second. Then she did something that almost made Bobby flip out right there at the bar. She reached over and slid her hand up under his cashmere sweater, and he felt long, sharp nails on his chest. People were all around but he wasn't aware of any stares. The bartender was too busy to watch and the people on either side of him were into their own conversations. She just stood there, playing with one of his nipples and suddenly she began to squeeze very hard.
"Ouch," he said before he could catch himself. Then he laughed nervously. She just smiled and kept squeezing. He felt so odd. Why was she doing this?
She just kept looking at him, reading him—as if his face were a book and his chest were Braille, and she had to pinch his tits to see the words form—and saying nothing. He felt like an idiot. He couldn't think of what to say. After several moments of pinching, she leaned over close and whispered something into his left ear.
"Do you know what Ben Hoa balls are?' That's what he thought she had said to him.
"I was stationed there during the war," he said. Her fingernails were still on his chest, but relaxed now. "That was a long time ago," he said. It was the funniest joke anyone had ever told her. She started laughing raucously, taking her hand out of his sweater and pounding on the bar. People looked over at them. He just kept smiling. The bartender said, "Tell me, too. I need a laugh." But she just ignored everybody. She laughed hard, finally stopping.
"What did I say?"
"Don't. Don't start me again. What did you say your name was, lover?" He started to answer. "Bobby. That was it." She slid that hand back under his sweater and he could feel the long fingernails stop at his left nipple, which already was sensitive from the squeezing she'd given it. "Bobby, I'll tell you what, old cowboy. You pay for these drinks and come with me, lover." She turned and was fucking gone.
He threw a twenty on the bar and was running to catch up.
"Hey—thank you, sir," he could hear the bartender say gratefully. Where was she?
He ran out of the dim interior and almost ran into her.
"You got a car?" she asked. She looked nearly fifty in the sunlight, and he thought she was the sexiest-looking woman he'd ever seen, including on TV and in the movies.
"Yeah. There." He pointed. Almost tongue-tied.
They got in the car and she sprawled out like she owned it. Her left hand glanced against the back of his neck and he said "where to" and she gave him her address.
Price started the car and pulled out, asking for directions and getting them. Her voice was cold and matter-of-fact. But her fingernails were playing with the hair at the back of his head.
He reached for her and she chilled him with her voice.
"You drive and don't be touching me till I want you to, okay?"
"Sure," he said, chagrined. After a few moments, he said, just to make conversation, "I don't even know your name."
"Listen. Here's the deal. You don't talk unless I fucking want you to talk, do you understand me?"
"Yeah, okay—but…" He was so confused by this woman, yet so totally drawn to her. "I…"
"You listen good, Bobby baby. We're gonna have a fucking ball. My name is Cindy Hildebrande. You know everything about me now, all right? You can call me Mama, okay?"
"Sure, okay." He smiled. Whatever you're into, he thought.
"Just drive, cowboy." He'd obviously done something to piss her off. He knew one thing. This old Cindy was going to be dynamite in the sack.
Kansas City, Kansas
There were four names in the Boorum & Pease Accounts Receivable Single Entry Ledger under SVS/M, and he regarded the names as unfinished business, to be dealt with in the harshest possible way.
Bunkowski no longer needed to open the pages to read the names inside his head:
Belleplaine, Rene (Tiny)
Cholia, Carlos Garcia (Kid Gloves, a.k.a. Cee-Gee)
Harrison, Donald (Donny)
Vale, Ashley Yaples (Bluto)
The third gangbanger, Donny Harrison, was doing hard time in the joint for second-degree murder.
He is aware that each of these punks holds a title in their now-almost-defunct organization: War Lord, Sergeant at Arms, President, Road Captain.
He has researched their real names, records, home and work addresses (a joke for the parole board's files), and all of this data he came by easily, with a few questions to street people, a few bureaucratic phone calls to the proper agencies. One could learn anything over a telephone with nothing more sophisticated than an official, curt tone and the proper-sounding jargon.
Chaingang wanted them all gone. He'd do these, and when the opportunity arose he'd whack the punk inside as well. Put an end to the line.
His mind sorted probabilities, tactics, strategic contingencies. He knew they were hunkered down in a trailer the gang kept north of town, and he was in his wheels, crossing the river, heading over the Intercity Viaduct bridge on the route that became Highway 24, turning left in the busy traffic on Winter Road, driving in the direction of Sugar Creek.
He knows what he would like to do to them, what would be fitting, and he has already taken certain steps toward that end. His computerlike brain probes for weak spots, exfiltration snags, and the myriad details of hazard assessment. He concludes that if something unforeseen happens he can improvise something. He does not see the three biker punks as a serious threat, but while he still regards them as buffoons, scum beneath contempt, Chaingang is conscious of the fact that his immediate goal is to punish.
He would take his time with the targets, and on a conscious level his logic was strong and uncompromising. His subconscious mindscreen, however, was scanning retrieval for something unrelated. Dr. Norman would have been fascinated to watch the beast's mental computer examine stored data:
Reclamation of X-velocity materiel from chemical compounds.
Big-bang mixtures from over-the-counter accessibles.
Improvised M18A1 antipersonnel mine detonation devices.
Construction and field usage of homemade munitions.
Chemistry, math, and the general sciences…
He also saw something with just the
EDGE
OF
HIS
MIND
and tried his best to stop it and look at it but to no avail. It had flashed by too quickly. Something akilter, out of place—jarringly so—an element he had "seen" with his presentience, perhaps, but not identified. A danger to him.
The harder he tried to lock on to it the farther it fled from his grasp, so he relaxed his mind and thought of pleasant scenes. Old killing fields and brutalized sex he'd enjoyed. Tried not to focus on the mindscreen's present to him-sometimes that worked.
Sterling Avenue caught his gaze from a street sign and he turned north into the flow of heavy traffic, driving defensively, but not overly slow—the model of a careful driver if you were behind him. (He was also capable of expert, fast driving. In his lifetime, he'd been stopped by various state cops a total of nineteen times. Once, in legal wheels, he'd taken and paid for a forty-six-dollar speeding violation. Seventeen times, in stolen vehicles, he'd talked the state rod into both tearing up or not starting a ticket, and into killing the "wants/warrants" check! He could have been an amazing confidence man had money interested him. Only once he'd been unable to dissuade the unlucky state highway patrolman with words, and had left him filling his front seat with blood.)
In a more receptive state, he realized that something was still seriously awry with his system. Each time he had this thought it seemed to center in the rolls of fat at the back of his huge tree-trunk of a neck, and shoot up the skull. He wondered if he'd had brain damage, or if perhaps he had some sort of brain tumor that was becoming malignant.
One thing he knew without questi
on: Something was wrong. He knew his system like the inside of a ticking Swiss watch, from his thought processes to the regularity of his bowel movements. He was, for all his screaming abnormality and oversize bulk, a well-oiled human machine. He knew he was having "mental problems" of some kind. He was also certain that—by logical standards—he was not insane. Not by his criteria.
Bunkowski separated these mental problems into two parts: first, there was a vague torpor—as he thought of it; second, there were those physical manifestations that he could isolate as having begun sometime during his last period of drugged incarceration. When they'd prepared to let him out for the killing spree in Waterton, they had done something—either overdosed him in some form or struck him on the head while he was drugged. This was the hornet's nest, which was his way of thinking of the buzzing, dizzy sensation he had experienced a time or two since his release from the hole in Marion.
The torpor thing was what tugged at him. It was interfering with his day-to-day business, and affecting decisions. Making him act weirdly in his own eyes. He was doing things that made no sense—giving Miss Roach two hundred dollars unnecessarily, for example. Why hadn't he simply buried Miss Roach and put her out of her misery? Very disturbing.
It wasn't torpor at all, when he thought about it. For one thing, he never seemed to be horny anymore. Not that he was such a randy goat to begin with—it's just that he had normal desires for sex, at least in his mind they were normal. Another thing he'd noticed besides his unusual celibacy was that he didn't seem to find killing so much fun anymore. Sure, it had been pleasant, doing the bikers in their clubhouse, but there had been no true exhilaration as he'd felt in the past, no genuine sense of satisfaction.
There was nothing good that would come of thinking along these lines, he decided, and jerked his mind off of the subject—or tried to. He saw a rib joint, decided he was hungry, and pulled in. But as he got out of the car he was quite shaken by the realization that the act of killing was not acting as a catharsis, if indeed it ever had. This knowledge did not keep the desire for revenge from rumbling inside his gut like physical hunger for food, but he knew it was a bad omen. He was tasting something he could never completely eat. Like a drug addict who gets off the first time like a skyrocket, and then spends his life searching again and again for the perfect high he experienced with his initial experiment. He'll never find it, and perhaps inside he knows he'll never recapture it—but addiction (if only to selfrewards) supersedes logic.
