Stone Shadow dje-3

by Rex Miller

  Eichord sighed, rubbed his face vigorously, ran a hand over his head to make sure it was still attached to his neck, and went in the room where they had Hackabee waiting. Only it didn't look like the same Ukie. This looked like Ukie after the Cowboys had used him for a tackling dummy for a couple of days.

  Dallas

  The effect is misleading. The optical illusion typical of the surveillance cameras. Ukie appears to be sitting at the end of a long hallway. Eichord thinks how bad he looks when they play the tape back, as if Ukie had been pressed by a steamroller and slid under the door. He looked worse than Eichord, which surprised Jack.

  “Ukie."

  “I gotta get outta here."

  “Hmmm?"

  “You gotta get me outta here.” The face was drawn. The voice flat, none of the usual animation. He was slumped over. Dejected and drawn in the face as if he'd been crying. His eyes were reddened and lacked the usual nutsy sparkle.

  “How do you propose we accomplish that, Ukie?” Jack had made up his mind that if he started up with the neohermetic regenerations and the post-Pythagorean regurgitations he was just getting up. Not getting mad. Just getting up. Leaving. Smack it.

  “I didn't do it."

  “Uh—huh."

  “I know you know."

  “I know you know what,” Eichord said calmly, waiting for the punch line to fall like the other shoe.

  “You know I didn't off those mother-fuckers. I could see it in your face, man. You never believed I killed those people from day one. Right?"

  “Ukie, what the hell are you talking about?"

  “You gotta get me out of this.” The voice was so flat. Accentless. He sounded like he'd been tossed around by a front-loader and the rinse cycle had been a bitch. “I didn't do it."

  Eichord sat still and waited. “Eh?"

  “I...” Ukie let out a long stream of air. “I was bullshitting. It was all crap. That crap I laid on the cunt. I never killed a goddamn dog in my life. I mighta hit a few birds with my car. I ran over a possum on the road one night. Shit, I didn't do those murders, man, and you KNOW YOU KNOW I AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH.” He started bawling like a baby, first just going, Wahhhwahhh-wahhh, and then a fast screaming-hyena thing he did a couple of times too often.

  Eichord shouted at him, "SHUT UP, DAMN IT.” And that did the trick temporarily, and he started talking through a stream of tears.

  “Shit, I don't know why I did it I just went with it I know it was fucking crazy but goddamn mother-fucking shit cunt she was ... Oh, I don't know. I wanted to scare that stupid whore bitch and I had been seeing those bodies and had ‘em in a cigar box and I just put some up on the wall with naked centerfolds and shit. I mean, you can look in the box I must of had twenty more I never got around to putting up because I ran out of tape. It's the box of Tampa Nuggets on the bureau in my living room.” And he gave Eichord the house number where he'd had Donna Scannapieco like it was nothing.

  Jack knew he'd be watching this over and over when they played the videocassette back and he straightened up and he could feel his concentration go into overdrive and he could hear the words and see the man across from him and he wondered what part Ukie's new lawyer played in this lame scheme, but the funny thing was he didn't really think it was a scheme at all. He thought it was real as fucking cancer.

  “What do you mean you'd been seeing those bodies?” Jack was making himself speak as slowly as he could, feeling the excitement building as he looked into the expressionless eyes of the man across from him, “And you had them in a cigar box?"

  “The clippings,” he replied with a sigh. Ukie looked too drained to even put down Eichord for being slow to pick up on his discursive narrative. “When I saw clippings about, you know, the ones, I'd cut ‘em out of the papers and—"

  “Ukie, I'm having a lot of problems with this. What do you mean the ones? The people who were killed?"

  “Of course, what the hell are we talking about, for God's sake? Jesus, you got to get me OUT of this. I didn't touch a hair on their fucking HEADS."

  “You weren't involved in the killings yet you know where all the bodies are?"

  “Yes."

  “How do you know?"

  “How do I know what? That I wasn't involved in the killings or where the bodies are?” He was glassy-eyed. Whipped.

  “Where the bodies are,” Eichord said with all the patience he could muster.

  “Because I saw him bury them."

  “Saw what?"

  “I saw where the killer buried the bodies."

  “You're just wasting my time, Ukie. Sorry. Not goin’ to wash at all. The insanity thing ain't makin’ it—” He began to push back from the metal table.

  “Wait a FUCKING MINUTE WAIT, I'M TELLING THE TRUTH. I didn't kill them. I'm not insane. I'm not trying to fake anybody out. I swear to God."

  Eichord was leaving.

  “WAIT GODDAMN YOU I SWEAR I'LL TAKE A POLYGRAPH OR SIGN ANYTHING I PROMISE I WON'T LET THE BITCH PLEAD ME INSANE. I DIDN'T FUCKING DO IT."

  “You'll sign a waiver to that effect?” Eichord had no idea what he was talking about but he wanted the reaction.

  “Yes. Right now. Or whenever you say. I may be stupid but crazy I'm not. Listen to me, he came and showed where he was burying them. That's how I knew about the murders in the first place. He comes and shows me."

  “I don't have the remotest clue as to what you're talking about so you'd better start making some sense, and NOW."

  “It was sort of like headaches and nightmares combined. How the hell do I know how to explain it? It's a thing some people have. Like a way to communicate thought. I've always had it I guess but this ... He comes and gets in there and shows me the dead bodies and shit."

  “Shows ... you ... HOW? Where do you see them?"

  “INSIDE MY FUCKING HEAD I keep telling you."

  “You see people killed in your head?"

  “I see people BURIED in there. Yeah. He shows me how he gets rid of the bodies. I never see the killing part. The ones are already dead and he takes me there and tells me about the dead ones sometimes. Or he just shows me where it hides the bodies. Whatever."

  “This is the killer you're talking about?"

  “Yep."

  “Who is he?"

  “I—I don't know, man. I know how that sounds so please don't ask me about that part because YOU WON'T FUCKING BELIEVE ME that was I mean that's oh shit that was where I made my big see what I thought I could do was just get the attention I just did it to get people to shit I never could make anything happen for me and I came so close so many times I tried to work as a performer and I'd get up in these fuckin’ strip joints and the drunks would be so loud I couldn't even hear my own material and I have a 146 IQ. I'm no damn dummy, and great retentivity and I can remember what I read and I just never had the breaks, or the timing was wrong and I'd come so close and then the cocksuckers would take it away from me and people with ONE TENTH THE GODDAMN TALENT I HAD ONE FUCKING TENTH would become stars and big important sons of bitches and everybody I knew was successful and rich except me old goofy Ukie Hackabee and I was a smart, good-looking, some girls said I was sexy, sharp kind of uptown guy and nothing ever worked and I couldn't hold a job and I was always trying some scam and that wouldn't work and then this damn thing you fucking cops picked me up for the least little complaint shit if some flasher had his dick out to take a piss I'd get hauled in on some bogus bullshit and when the thing started showing me what it was doing on the new row or pathway,” Eichord had thought he was saying, “I just decided I'd make the most of it I mean what could I lose—right? He's showing me all this shit I, might as well make the most of it I mean I'd had these fantasies where I get a job as a spy or a hit man like some slick smooth paid assassin who works for the Cosa Nostra, all cool and collected, and I'm an actor so I figure I'll milk this for all it's worth and people who thought I was some wimpy zero some weak loser some nothing cipher they're going to get shaken right out of their fucking shoes, ya k
now?” He paused for air.

  “What's the new row or pathway?"

  “What?"

  “You mentioned that the killer was showing you what he was doing on the new row or the pathway. What was that all about?"

  “Now it's my turn to not know what YOU, ... Oh, neural pathway, I said,” he muttered, seeing Eichord still didn't have it. “NEURAL, you know, like up here—NEURAL PATHWAY. Jesus! Take your gun and blow the wax outtayafuckingEARS. Hey, I'm only kidding barrrrOOOM-boom.” The old Ukie Hackabee trying to get up for it but just trailing off like a sick tomcat. The eyes wide, glassy, empty of anything beyond pain and disease.

  “The neural pathway. The place where he kills?"

  “No, Christ. No...” An expulsion of air and mouthwash, “Not where he kills where he takes me. It's a mental thing. You see it, well first you see nothing and then you like go into this room or corridor in your head and it's a bare stone wall and a concrete floor and the place is like a tunnel under a river or something, big thick walls that are wet and clammy to the touch, and it's all shadowy and gray and cold and that's where he comes and gets me and—oh, shit, man.” And Ukie is forcing the tears back, blowing his nose loudly and breaking himself up.

  Wrapped very tight, Jack can see him starting to really shake.

  “He showed me a dude in Plano. He followed him and zapped him and takes him to this ditch.” And he began telling Eichord and the monitoring eyes and ears how to find a new, watery grave in Plano, Texas. “Oh, shit, man, there's other dead people in there."

  “Where?” Softly, a trickle of fear sweat chilling on him.

  “In the WATER. He showed me under the water. These big trees right by the bank and you drive over this steep levee and right at the bottom of the blacktop part it turns to a gravel run and the road goes right. There's hardly any ditch bank at all. Looks like maybe four or five feet and the water is up real high near the road. It's a kind of bayou thing back along in there just as you come over the levee. And stop right there by the clump of tall trees and shit."

  “Old dude in there already. Looked to be about seventy-five, eighty, shit I dunno how old, but he's been in the water for a while. And there's a big chain around him and he's bloated up and shit. And see, he's chained to these tree roots and"—he sniffles—"there's others chained up, another guy wired down in there and they're all kind of anchored in there together."

  “Who is the killer, Ukie?"

  “I don't fucking KNOW I SWEAR TO GOD I ... Oh, man, I don't know. I'll take a lie detector. Anything. Shit. I don't know.” He sobbed again and Eichord just sat there watching him blubber. Tears running down the face, down the Cary Grant chin.

  “He never lets himself be seen. He stays back. In the shadows.” Ukie's body shook with an involuntary shudder. “You can see he's tall from the shadows. Tall like a professional basketball nigger. He likes to hurt me. He feeds on the pain. Takes reassurance from that feeling of awesome an deadly and terrorizing power the POWER you can't believe the power that he has to intrude upon your mind anytime he wants to and he gets right into the middle of your thoughts and you have no control of what you have in your head all of a sudden and, oh, my Christ, don't ask me.” Sobs and shaking spasms again but on his own snapping right out of it, wanting to spit the words out, “Don't ask me to explain who he is instead let me try to tell you what I'm not. Don't you know I've played this out in my head a hundred times acting out how I'd tell the cops when it was time and how I'd make fools of everybody oh Jesus sweet Jesus in heaven please don't let me die for the stupidity of what I've done I never meant to hurt anybody you can ask even that bitch Donna the most I ever did maybe twist the cunt's hair a little and make her dog-fuck me and shit she LIKED THAT it wasn't—a few slaps—I never hurt anybody—I'm no KILLER please please I didn't—"

  “Okay, now.” Eichord sat back down. “Describe what you see on the, uh, pathway in your head."

  “It's not the pathway in my head, man, you make it sound like I'm lying or some jive shit about a yellow brick road this is a fucking REAL PATHWAY it's a level of communication where he can REACH me. He takes me there instantly. What I see? I see the gray stone. The beads of moisture on the walls. I have to piss bad. I take a leak. I splash around. I want old Sly back in my pants before he comes along but see you always have a warning, not right before. He likes to surprise you but you know within a few minutes because you feel so ... dirty."

  “Let me make sure I comprehend all this. You're saying you don't know who he is. But it's a man who stands in the shadows. But you can tell he's tall. He feeds on pain. And after he hurts you for a while he shows you where bodies of victims are buried. Is that pretty much it?"

  “Yeah.” Subdued now.

  “How does he hurt you?"

  “In my mind somehow. I dunno. It's like he pulls the pain out of you. It's terrible. You think you're gonna die."

  “I'm sure. Hey, listen, Ukie, what am I going to tell you. It's the Way of the Viper all over again. It's every bad horror movie cliché. It's some kid writers out in Hollyweird. They snorted too much blow and they're gonna write about this dude who clouds men's minds. But they'll call him Lamont Cranberry so we don't know they stole it from The Shadow. It's just crap, Ukie. Nobody's going to buy it. Nobody's going to buy it as a foundation for a nutsy number either.” Eichord shook his head and smiled. They just looked at each other.

  “No, man,” Ukie whispered. “No. NOOOOOOOOOOO, this is no goddamn shuck I'm not nuts why would I try to—look, you already told me no no man, please, I don't—he takes me with the power of his mind,” crying now softly.

  “On a secret neural pathway?"

  “Yes."

  Eichord sat unmoving. Watching. “Uh huh."

  “You wouldn't be so fucking smug if you'd seen some of the ones he put down. This bitch with her whatchacallit carotid artery fucking severed and stuffed in this thing and one you still haven't found on top of a computer center and the ones he's thrown off of buildings and shit.” Lots of tears now.

  Eichord couldn't resist. “I gotta ask you one more question, Ukie."

  Hackabee took a deep breath and waited.

  “Does this have anything at all to do with the katachthonian subworld's revenge?” he asked innocently. When Jack closed the door Ukie's parting “FUCK YOU” was still echoing from the institutional walls.

  Either way he was going out the door and heading for the nearest bar. I'll fix this shit, he thought, licking his lips at the thought of the liquid remedy.

  Dallas

  Another day another time with the vibes a little different he wouldn't have been back behind a desk doodling in the middle of the afternoon. He'd have been out at the house waiting for the evidence techs to finish but he'd come back to the cop shop half-blitzed and he just wasn't up for it. It was something he wanted to do alone the first time, go in the house where Spooky Ukie, which is what he thought of him now, had taken Donna and kept her chained like an animal. Using her for sex. Showing her dirty pictures and dirtier news stories. It always broke him up how they ran sex and violence together—the media people and the morally outraged. They shouldn't be tied together at all. Nothing more pornographic than some front pages and TV newscasts. Nothing more obscene than raw violence.

  He was doodling, half in the bag, drawing guns and glue bottles and trees and doors and beehives. He was doing his free-association doodle which he used to remember conversations. Eichord was not the believer in electronic gadgetry that so many of the younger cops were today. He seldom went into a situation wired. He liked to keep everything as organic as possible. Even now, waiting to shake off his half-bagged stupor before he viewed the videocassette again, he thought how little he cared for the new technologies. The computers, that was a little different. But he knew about masks and how easily the very clever and sociopathic perpetrator could fool you.

  The biggest lie imaginable, right up there with “The check is in the mail” and “I promise not to cum in your mouth” was, “You
can't fool the camera lens.” Bull. You could fool the living SHIT out of the camera lens, the microphone, the polygraph. There were in fact whole books on the subject and the books weren't really all that valuable either. When you were combining the uniqueness of people and the mechanical and programmable elements of high technology you ended up with a quasi-art form if not an enormously imperfect science. Even in his bagged fog he could envision himself watching Ukie say, “I never touched a hair on their fucking HEADS." Knowing that the combination of fear, malevolence, and sincere pleading he'd felt in the room and seen in the eyes would be flattened and distorted by the video surveillance tape.

  He thought about what he was going to do as he doodled. He'd go out to the old dark house alone. A part of him couldn't help but momentarily wallow in the what Lee Marvin once referred to as “the vicaries,” even more of a buzz to the guys out there in the trenches, because they knew what it was to walk along the edge of the precipice. He would go in alone, his concentration on full beam, but subconsciously programmed by four decades of life that included The Bat Whispers, and all those sliding-bookcase movies of the 1930s and ‘40s.

  He'd be touching ordinary wood but he'd be programmed for ornate wainscoting and spiral staircases, sniffing the traces of fear and Jade East and his own Caswell & Massey, but knowing the air was electric with voltage from The Lost City and every mad scientist's sparking tesla coils. He'd be brushing against surfaces covered with dirt but these were the hands that gripped the armrests of the Orpheum as the skeleton reached out and touched Mantan Moreland. He knew the truth. No matter what he found, a part of him would be getting off on it. His comic book was getting more and more real. Any day now he'd find himself starting his own cigar box of press clippings.

  He thought what he'd do, his wandering mind staggering all over the place as he doodled away: he'd get his shit together and go watch the latest couple of Ukie tapes. See if he could feel any splinters on the banister. Look for the big paw prints in the container of Dairy Farm.