Chaingang

by Rex Miller

  “The child grows taller, bigger, stronger—and at age twelve he has the appearance of a full-grown man. He kills his tormentor, and that is the point where young Daniel Bunkowski is seriously imprisoned. There are two more killings in prison. He escapes. He runs loose—killing at random. Killing for pleasure. He becomes the worst serial killer in American history. Growing bigger and stronger all the time. When he was captured in the sixties, he'd become a giant, huge—over four hundred pounds and nearly six feet eight inches tall. He had the beer belly of a power lifter who has gone to fat, but with legs like cannon barrels.

  “At age eighteen he weighed four hundred and fifteen pounds, had a twenty-two-inch neck, and wore a custom-made size 15EEEEE shoe. By that time he was also perhaps the most accomplished killer alive.

  “From the time of his earliest reform school incarceration, he'd devoted himself to mastering countless martial techniques, learning all he could about small arms and demolition, toxicology, man-trapping, camouflage—virtually anything that related to what he considered to be ‘the killing arts.'

  “He was also a genius. His raw intelligence was such that it could not be accurately tested. His intelligence quotient was so high, it went off every chart—warped every graph. He was technically brilliant beyond measure.

  “But his mind did not function in any previously observed manner. He was worse than an animal in some ways, superhuman in others. Clearly he was presentient. He'd developed the ability to sense impending danger. It is his greatest survival instinct. I contended then, as I do now, that he is that rare form of human being called a ‘physical precognate.'

  “I came across his case history because the government was looking for individuals who would be emotionally, as well as physically and mentally, suited to be trained for special work in the military—hazardous work involving sanctioned assassinations. We were at war in Southeast Asia at the time, and the work was of a most sensitive nature. To put it simply, the government wanted expendable killers. As distasteful as such a program was, it was necessary for our country's prosecution of the war effort.

  “Daniel epitomized the sought-after profile: a proclivity for and incredible proficiency in killing, in tandem with prodigious raw intellect. His hatred for human beings was—and is—absolute. He had a built-in survival system that could withstand blast furnace heat, long periods of claustrophobic isolation, or whatever hardships might inflict themselves. On top of all this he had a defensive mechanism that forewarned him of danger. He was the ultimate killing unit.

  “Teaching himself, learning from both his omnivorous reading and hands-on experience, he had already learned how to take lives, and had proved that—serially—he possessed a masterful talent, if that's the word, for committing acts of homicide. But the military would give him something of great value—the technology of combat, and all that went along with it. The government, from his perspective, could turn him into a professional killer.

  “Through various drug-induced interview sessions using sodium Pentothal, Amytal, the paradyzines, tri-Kayandaminopropene, other experimental drugs then being tried, we were able to learn ways that such a man might be at least partially controlled. We were able to manipulate him to the extent that he could be inserted into situations where he might slake his thirst for killing and serve the U.S. government at the same time.

  “Now—once again—through a complex set of circumstances that do not concern you, we have this human monster of our creation close at hand. Under lock, key, and every restraint at our disposal. Here!” He gestured behind him. It was very still in the room, save for the breathing of the audience listening to Dr. Norman's every word.

  “Some of you have heard rumors of a killer who has taken a human life for every pound of his body weight ... of a monster of murder and mutilation. You may think the stories of the killer who eats the hearts of his victims are the work of overactive imaginations. But the rumors you've heard don't begin to describe this living horror.

  “You are growing tired of listening to me drone on, standing in this cramped observation room, hearing how dangerous the care and feeding of one convict is, and the extraordinary lengths we must go to for our mutual protection. You may wonder why your government feels that you have a need to know some of the terrible, damning things you've been learning today.

  “I ask you now, as absurd as it may sound to each of you, to try as best you can to free your thoughts from malice.” He licked his lips and smiled. “Think of this man with pity, if you can. Think of him kindly—as a fellow human—whose beastly childhood rendered him into something other than one of us. Think of him with respect, great respect always, and remember that whatever you send in his direction may indeed rebound. Treat him in your thoughts, as well as your deeds, as you would be treated were the roles reversed.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, steel yourselves and see, for the first time, the occupant of Cell Ten: Daniel Edward Flowers Bunkowski.” Norman opened the heavy, gray curtain, and the shock wave that engulfed the room was both audible and palpable as they looked down into the pit and met the tiny, black, marble-hard eyes of the massive heart-eater.

  2

  WATERTON, MISSOURI

  At first Mary Perkins thought it sounded like real trouble, a note of seriousness in her husband's warm, friendly tone as he conversed with someone on the telephone. She hadn't been paying attention to what Sam was saying—their phone often rang in the morning, and it was generally something urgent to do with his real estate business. Over the years she'd become used to it. Mary had been sitting at the kitchen table, sipping black coffee as she worked on her grocery coupons and shopping list. But she heard a mild curse and a sharp change in his voice and tilted her head, suddenly aware of what he was saying.

  “I know ... huh-uh ... no. I promise you that's not going to happen, Bill ... sure. I'd be concerned too.” She knew it was Bill Pike on the other end of the line, having recognized his voice when he'd called and asked for Sam during what passed for breakfast in the Perkins house.

  “No. That isn't the case at all. Here's the deal on that: J. T. Delmar of Southland Growers, John Merriweather, and Wilbur Ferrell are the main guys behind it, Bill. Ocie Upton and the Newcomb brothers are in it too—that's who Maysburg Produce Enterprises is, okay? You know as well as I do that John Merriweather isn't about to stand for something like that. John's daughter and his son-in-law are building about half a mile down from you all. You think John's missus is gonna let him put three hundred migrant workers in a camp right in back of their own daughter?” Mary smiled at her husband laughing into the phone mouthpiece, and he winked at her.

  “Yeah. I don't doubt they would like to get a hundred and fifty thousand for that ground. They done preemerged it so many times, they cain't get weeds to make a crop on it, but that's all right. Let me promise you it's not happening. They're going to put it over yonder on some of the Newcomb boys’ wooded acreage.” He lapsed into Good Ol’ Boy now and then out of habit. It went with your chamber of commerce membership if you did business in Waterton. “That's all right. I don't blame you ... I'd have been worried, too. Okay, Bill, no problem. Talk to you later ... Sure. ‘Bye!” He hung up the kitchen wall phone and sat back down at the table, a funny look on his face.

  “Small towns,” he said, shaking his head. “They just kill me.” He reached for his coffee.

  “Don't drink that,” she said, getting up and taking his cold cup to the sink, which was filled with dishes.

  “That was Bill Pike. Get this: His sister called him. He didn't tell me that, but I know it had to be because Mary Beth works down at the welfare office. Anyway, she calls him and says the Mexicans are here. What Mexicans? he asks. The ones who are going to move out in back of you! That's what Mexicans, she says."

  Mary poured out the cold ink, and gave him a fresh cup. “Mexicans?"

  “At the welfare office to get food stamps, presumably. Anyway, they asked around and found out these were some of the work force Southland Grower
s brought in to help do the planting. There's six guys in it—calling themselves ‘Maysburg Produce Enterprises.’ I coulda had us a piece of it, but...” He shook his head and jumped over his own thought. He sipped coffee. She was used to his discursive conversations.

  “Did you say there were three hundred migrant workers?"

  “No. I mean—there will be, yeah. When they start putting the crops in. It's about eight hundred acres. It's that ground the Newcomb brothers own across the river.” He meant in Kentucky. “They tried to get that ground in back of Bill, but they couldn't get city water or sewage. I didn't see any point in going into all that—it woulda only worried him more. He's about to have a fit. All he can think about are knife fights and robberies. He says, ‘The property values will drop to nothin’ overnight. But that won't matter none because we'll probably be killed in our sleep anyway.'” He smiled.

  “Not all Mexican migrant workers are bad people, you know.” Mary checked off the last item on her list.

  “Yeah. I know. But you don't want a seventy-five-unit migrant camp being built next door to you.” He went on explaining the intricacies of the deal to Mary, who tried to feign interest. She adored her smart, successful husband. She'd loved him for so many years—they'd been childhood sweethearts. In many ways they had a dream marriage. Over the years the romance had done what it does in so many marriages, but with that exception, they had it all.

  For the first years of marriage—the first decade—Mary had stayed on the Pill. They loved other people's kids but had chosen not to start their own family. For the last few years the precautions had been Sam's responsibility, on those ever-dwindling occasions when the matter came up, so to speak.

  Even if their marriage had become a bit too platonic, it was a good, solid marriage. There was a wealth of love between them. Mary thought she was one of the lucky ones. She had that rarest of all rarities—a genuinely good man. They were just as hard to find as the cliché said.

  She turned the pages of a mail-order catalog while he told her about his lunch date, which was to take place in neighboring Maysburg. It was with an out-of-towner named Sinclair who claimed to be looking for a land investment in the Waterton-Maysburg area. She listened to his enthusiasm with a degree of pleasure, since she knew how much it meant to him to see their little town prosper, as he told her what a good omen it was that all this speculating and entrepreneurial investing was taking place. As with many longtime marrieds, she also read his mind and knew—from nothing more than the pause in his monologue—that he thought she wasn't listening.

  “I'm listening,” she started to say. “Oh, hon! Look!"

  “What?"

  “You like this?” She showed him what appeared to be a very plain, dark woman's suit. To him it looked like every other plain, dark woman's suit he'd ever seen.

  “Yeah. Mm-hmm. Very nice."

  “What!” Her pretty face contorted incredulously. “You don't mean it. They think I'm going to pay a hundred and sixty-eight dollars for that?” He'd never seen a woman like her. She never spent a dime on clothes, even though they had plenty of discretionary bucks. Yet she looked like a fashion plate.

  “That's not so bad. Not if it's a really good suit.” He had no idea whether it was high or low, but if she liked it, he wanted to encourage her to get it. He loved his wife more than anything, and would have given her the world if it had been in his power to do so.

  Material things meant nothing to Mary. She was such a content person. She liked being a housewife and taking care of him, or so Sam felt. She asked very little of life, enjoying people, nature, and their good health. He felt she was also a very spiritual person, but it was something she chose to keep within herself, a private and sweet core that made her what she was.

  He tried to give her some money out of his wallet, but she wouldn't touch it. She could be hardheaded, too, but when she was, it was usually for the best.

  He changed the subject and talked to her about fashions, which he knew interested her, because he suspected his business stuff was boring her. He knew how boring he could be, but he couldn't help himself. Sam was who he was.

  The child of a couple they knew had asked him his age, and when he'd told the little boy he was in his early thirties, the kid had said, “God! I thought you were about fifty!” To the youngster fifty was obviously as old as anyone got. You turned fifty and you died. Everyone had laughed, but inside Sam knew that the boy had seen the emperor sans wardrobe. He often caught himself acting fiftyish.

  In business it had been a blessing. Thinking fifty had paid for a lot of land for a street kid from a small town—a kid whose father hadn't handed him a dime. But he wondered now and then if Mary was terribly bored with their admittedly dull version of domestic bliss.

  Life was funny. He looked over at his lovely wife. Her robe had fallen open slightly and he could see the swell of her breasts, and the unintentionally provocative pose as she sat with bare legs crossed, absorbed in her magazine. Her legs were as beautiful today as when she'd been a fifteen-year-old cheerleader. By anyone's standards she was an extremely attractive woman.

  Any other healthy man married to this woman, sitting across from her and seeing her the way she looked at that moment, would have but one thought: he'd want to jump on her bones. Sam? He had fucking land deals running through his head. Life was nuts.

  3

  MAYSBURG, TENNESSEE

  Sam had always wondered what Pagoda Village looked like on the inside, having passed it countless times, but he'd never had any reason to enter. Business and pleasure had brought him across the river from his hometown of Waterton often enough, but the local wisdom had it that their Chinese food was tasteless and overpriced—also it wasn't Chinese—and he was less than adventurous when it came to trying new restaurants.

  What he'd always liked about it was the mock Oriental architecture. Had he not gravitated toward real estate, he'd have doubtless become an architect, draftsman, or at the very least, a contractor. Buildings intrigued him. His “edifice complex” was one of his standard business jokes.

  Pagoda Village's main roof was composed of overlapping pantiles, and the dissymetrical ogee curves shimmered in the noonday sun—if one had an eye for such things. He took his dark glasses off, opened the door, and stepped into the dark interior.

  It was typical for an out-of-the-way Maysburg eatery. The town was regionally famous for having forty restaurants, give or take, which seemed to exist only for tourists, persons whose taste buds had remained in embryo, and those couples who—for whatever reason—did not wish to be seen. They were usually dimly lit, chockablock with skimpy tables, plants, and gimmicky decor, and the food was, as a rule, undistinguished.

  He felt very odd about this meeting with the man who had spoken with him first a week before, telling Sam he was coming to town for “another party who was interested in buying some rural land.” Nobody who bought ground, no serious buyer, that is, ever spoke that way. The choice of words was awkward, making him think that the man—identifying himself as one Christopher Sinclair—was not being especially forthright. Sam Perkins had been polite, and dismissed the call soon thereafter.

  A week later his secretary told him Christopher Sinclair was on the line. He wanted to “talk turkey.” The party he represented had made up their mind what kind of package they wanted. There was “a lot of money in this deal” for Sam. But there were certain restrictions. It was all very sensitive and hush-hush. “Let's meet and I'll put my cards on the table,” Sinclair had told him, suggesting an out-of-the-way place in Maysburg, across the river in neighboring Tennessee.

  Everything about Christopher Sinclair was immediately reassuring. He looked like the prototype of a Nashville con artist: big, bulky—fat, in fact—with a dimply smile and a hearty hail-fellow-well-met air about him. Not the sort to be cooking up shady real estate deals in dark beaneries. Or perhaps just that very sort. Beautiful pink skin (the color of a baby's tush, he told Mary that night), glossy, unbitten nails, g
ood suit, and a gorgeous head of snow white, wavy hair.

  He could have passed for a southern Methodist preacher on his vacation, or an insurance man from Moline—with “Chartered Investment Consultant” on his business card—until he opened his mouth to speak. As soon as he introduced himself and they started schmoozing “for serious,” all glad-hander images were quickly dispelled.

  This Christopher Sinclair was one smart, tough cookie. He knew his real estate. And he smelled like Big Bucks.

  “You recognize this ground?” he'd said, partially unfolding a copy of a land abstract. A circle was drawn across the squares and rectangles of property lines, a circle in red, smack dab in the middle of some of the best black-dirt cropland in all of North Waterton.

  “Sure do."

  “My party wants to buy it."

  “I've got bad news,” Sam said, smiling. “No way.” He shook his head. “It's not available."

  “Doesn't matter,” the silver-haired stranger whispered. “We're going to buy it.” He obviously hadn't understood.

  “No. See this here.” Sam gestured at the parcels of land that represented maybe four thousand acres between the river and East Waterworks Road. “These are some of the biggest farms in this part of the state. You've drawn a circle through the farms of maybe a dozen big landowners. They'd never part with any portion of that land in a million years."

  “Ten."

  “How's that?"

  “Ten big landowners. Well, ten landowners. Some are fairly big. Some aren't. My party is well aware of who owns this chunk of ground."

  “No. They'd never sell these parcels. Not a one of them.” Sam had already begun to lose interest. He decided he'd see if he couldn't salvage something out of the luncheon date. “What did your party want the ground for—if you don't mind saying? I've got some mighty fine properties that would do just—"