Chaingang

by Rex Miller

  “You must stay within the boundaries where you are safe. Daniel, you will be free to do the things you like. But for your own safety you must stay within twenty-five miles of the town where you will be set free. So long as you remain within a twenty-five-mile radius of the town, your actions will be protected. No outside harm will come to you. Do you understand?"

  Wind blows over a mass grave. It is otherwise still in his mind.

  The doctor. Another supervisor. Six correctional officers. Shackles. Cuffs with the security boxes over them. He listens for jailhouse noise. The slam of cell doors.

  “You will also—"

  Dead bodies wired inside sunken junkers.

  “—want to exterminate—"

  Bloated inhuman faces under the surface of a shallow stream.

  “—particular subjects—"

  A cat growling in the blackness of a jungle night.

  “—as well as targets of opportunity—"

  Haze. Loss of balance.

  “—that you encounter."

  A prisoner buried under the heart of an icy monolith.

  “A dossier has been prepared that will introduce you to—"

  A sense of deep perspectives.

  “—these targets."

  Blurring now as the powerful drugs hose him under.

  “Daniel, you will—"

  Going to black.

  “—of interest. You can study—"

  Dissolving on the words of Dr. Norman as he completes the ritual of repetition and reassurance.

  The brain implant appears to have been successful, but Dr. Norman wonders how things will go with Daniel. His affection for the beast is deep. He wonders if Daniel has bonded to him as well. Yes. Surely he has.

  The dossier has been prepared by him. When Daniel wakens he will be shown the electronic display. General content, purview, presentation, and tone have all been carefully shaped. He knows precisely what it will take to engage that mind, pull him out of repose, enrage and motivate him into the cold kill fury that will allow him to function.

  He has studied it himself innumerable times, and can quote content verbatim: “Police removed nine pit bulls from an establishment on Willow River Road, following a series of complaints regarding organized pit bull dogfights. Authorities said animals had been abused ... were being kept for so-called death matches ... Humane/society ... put the dogs to sleep ... Allegations of other animal cruelties ... Sutter family."

  Norman could see the photos of the dogs. Then the ads of the animal auction and the pictures they had to go with it. “The Genneret Gun Show and Exotic Animal Auction ... dog ‘bunchers’ ... Virgil Watlow ... left strays that the lab wouldn't take ... Seventeen were found tied to a tree, starved to death."

  It built like a hot romance novel heading for a breathless climax, or a symphony building to a timpani-filled crescendo. There was a certain undeniable aesthetic to it. He could imagine the rage that would flood Daniel's mind when it reached the report about “The Mutilator ... John Wayne Vodrey ... private collection of cat tails, paws, and other anatomical mementos.” Dr. Norman shuddered as he imagined the retribution in store for the targets of the dossier.

  They wanted a “handle” on “occupant.” They used the word “control” again and again. They were the ultimate control freaks. He recognized it and played to it.

  No, he was frank to tell them. There is no control for occupant. There is only understanding. Understanding and manipulation. But Dr. Norman had found the secret control handle.

  Most towns have their share of animal abusers, but this one—simply by luck of the draw—had some of the most flagrant and heinous cases one could find. It had been a simple matter to investigate these, magnify them, and prepare an illustrated presentation designed to engage, enrage, manipulate, and motivate the occupant of D Seg's infamous Cell Ten. One more terrible coincidence with an upside.

  “Can you hear me all right?” No response. Nothing. “Daniel, it's Dr. Norman. I won't let any harm come to you. You know you can trust me. I'm your friend.” One more time. The briefing period would mark his last hours of incarceration. Then Alpha Group II would work its magic and the subject would be inserted into the observation zone. “Can you hear me?” The lion coughed.

  “Good. Just relax. Dr. Norman is your friend. Anything that I do is for your protection. Always remember that, Daniel."

  The power of the experimental wonder drug had left its mark on the beast's face.

  “You must remain within twenty-five miles of the killing zone. That is for your safety, my friend. As long as you stay there, you will have your freedom. Your old weapons are restored to operational condition and will be turned over to you. I got your weapons for you, Daniel. Your tools. After all, would we ask a master carpenter to build a house for us without his favorite tools? Everything is exactly as it was when you ... were returned to us three years ago.” The beast had been in Marion for two years and ten months.

  “Do you understand what I'm telling you, Daniel?” There was a slackness to the features that reminded Dr. Norman of the face of a retarded child. But deep under the drugs, the lion managed another growl. “Your own beloved tools, Daniel! Think of that. Everything will be as you left it, your clothing, your special equipment—just the way you assembled it. We've even upgraded the things that had gone bad over time: you'll have new ammunition.” He glanced at his notes. “The explosives—the munitions—all brand-new."

  “They didn't like that part, my dear friend. But I made them give you hand grenades and mines. They said, ‘Let him resupply himself in the field,’ but I reminded them that there were no armories or munitions stockpiles within a twenty-five-mile radius of your operating zone. We couldn't have you wasting valuable time accumulating tools, could we?” The look on the slack features was that of a brain-damaged baby, smiling.

  “One last thing before the targets are presented to you. As I've told you, and this is important for you to always remember: Everything I've done has been in your best interests. The drugs are extremely powerful. But even though you cannot respond, you will register and retain this information. Do not be confused by the odd feelings you may experience when you come back to a state of what seems like full consciousness.

  “It's likely that the chemicals in your system will have a secondary effect, and there will be a period in which you feel much the same as you ordinarily do, but perhaps your actions will be somewhat erratic or—” he purposely did not use the word “normal"—"unusually low-key. For example, you may find yourself interacting with others in odd ways, or you may notice other behavioristic ... lapses. Do not be alarmed. Because of your great strength, a particularly strong dosage of the drug must be used, but in time you'll be back to your old self. A day or two, at most.” The doctor shrugged. “There will be no further need for such drugs, so you'll soon find yourself completely restored and refreshed. Do you understand?” There was no response. Dr. Norman drew near the huge, bound figure.

  “I'll miss you, Daniel. I shall genuinely miss you.” He reached out and touched the rock-hard muscle of a tree-trunk leg. “Will you miss your friend Dr. Norman?"

  The slack-jawed look of the autistic child's empty smile was unchanged, but deep inside came a low, rumbling animal sound.

  9

  WATERTON, MISSOURI

  “Aw—,” he said, the moment she came to the door.

  “Hi,” she said, almost before she got the door open, and they were in each other's arms, hugging on the porch. “Thanks for coming,” she said gratefully, into his shoulder and neck. “Come in.” Her voice was softer as they broke the clench and moved inside the house.

  “I must have sounded like an idiot when you phoned."

  “No."

  “You threw me. It doesn't take much,” she told him. When she answered the phone, he had said—"Does the name Quasimodo ring a bell?” Part of their old banter. He'd told her she was supposed to reply, “I can't place the face, but I still remember the bad hump.” One
of their old faves. But the strange voice and wacky opening line had thrown her into abject silence. He'd had to pry conversation out of her.

  “I had no idea—you know—about Sam."

  “That floors me, Royce. A town like Waterton. I was so sure everybody would know by now."

  “I might as well have been on another planet.” He gestured in the vague direction of Waterworks Hill. “I'm up there in my own little world. I haven't read a paper or heard any news for three or four weeks. I wouldn't know if war had been declared."

  “I don't know what to do. I'm not sure why I'm picking on you, but—"

  “That's okay. I'm glad you did. I don't know what I can do, but if you need some help—you know—um...” He spread his hands.

  “I just thought maybe you'd have some ideas. Something we hadn't thought of. I can't sit here doing nothing. I've talked to everybody. Marty Kerns says nobody saw Sam. He just ... disappeared.” Royce nodded grimly.

  “Hmm. Wow,” he said, and made a humming noise of condolence and befuddlement. He had no idea what to say to her.

  For her part, she was instantly sorry she'd called him. He seemed irritated that she'd bothered him with her problem after all these years—and he seemed rather ... dirty. Or perhaps she'd built him up in her mind. Royce had been a big jock in school, but he'd gone down the junk road. She was wary of him, and he could read it on her face.

  “I'm really glad you thought to call, Mary.” He felt scuzzy and in need of personal grooming. God—he hadn't thought of being “well groomed” in a long time. She was looking at his roughshod appearance, and he knew he wasn't measuring up.

  “It's just that I'd heard something—” she looked down “—some gossip about you doing detective work or something. You know—when you were away from town those years. Sam said you had joined the CIA...” She trailed off.

  “No!” He smiled, coldly, instantly on guard. “I heard that bullshit too. CIA. Jeezus!” He laughed humorlessly. “Not me, kid."

  “So that was why, you know, I thought about calling you...” She let it drop. It felt like it was pointless for them to waste any more of each other's time. She looked tired, but Royce's maleness reacted to her, as he always had. She was a lovely woman, even without makeup, and she was clearly out of it.

  “I'll help any way I can, Mary. I thought when I got the note that Bobby was gone.” They were now uncomfortable as strangers.

  “Bobby?” She had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Bobby Bartel. Didn't you know he has cancer?"

  “You're kidding,” she said, dumbly.

  “Uh-uh. Heard it a couple months ago from Lyle Garner. You remember Lyle?"

  “Sure.” She nodded. Sam and Mary had been married for nearly fifteen years, and it had been sixteen years since she'd been involved with any part of Royce Hawthorne's world.

  When Sam Perkins left Waterton to go to college out East, he'd made a new set of friends and locked on to the business track. When he returned, the kids who'd stayed around their hometown were still involved with one another's lives, the Waterton-Maysburg sports rivalry, and Friday night brew parties. Sam told her early in the resumption of their dating that he'd left all of that behind. He didn't mean it in an unkind way; it was merely a fact of maturing. Mary agreed, and had been pleased to grow along with her childhood beau.

  Royce typified the kids they'd hung out with in high school. He hadn't changed much: a rugged Marlboro man sort of party guy. He'd been stuck back in his Waterton letter-sweater days, memorizing Coach John's playbook, and pretending he was going to be drafted by the Cowboys.

  “JoAnne James is dead, you know?” she heard him say, and she shook her head.

  “My God. I hadn't heard."

  “She and her husband and two or three kids, living down in Florida. I believe she was shot and they never solved the case.” They sat quietly for a moment. “Do you know about Hal Stahly?” he asked, after a bit. She looked blank. “He's in Vegas. Struck it rich in the auto parts business. Gale Strickland told me he'd lost about a hundred pounds and was married to Helen Swoboda. Used to be a cheerleader at Maysburg."

  She smiled and listened to him run down the catalog of their onetime classmates. Royce was tall, rangy, his looks spoiled by a nose that had run up against a number of hard objects over the years. He still had all his hair (though it needed washing), and a jock's flat stomach, but his eyes were cloudy, squinting against the light, and he seemed to have acquired a few nervous habits, like he had a dozen itches at once and couldn't decide which to scratch first.

  He was something of a shock to her system after so many years. One of the strange components at work was the strong attraction she'd always felt when she was in Royce's company. Who can explain these things? Her subconscious gave her a guilty nudge as she recalled their silly nicknames for each other. She called him “Buns,” and he called her “L.D.,” for Legs Diamond.

  The notion that she might in some way even identify those kinds of feelings was such anathema to her that Mary felt a momentary stab of irritation as it drifted through to the surface of her awareness. She pushed it away, concentrating on Sam, and trying to decide what she should do next in searching for him.

  Sam and Mary had grown up in the same block, one of the classic next-door romances that blossomed at puberty, and there'd never been any question that one day they'd be married. They were steadies from eighth grade through senior high, and would have wed then, but Mary stayed in Waterton when Sam was attending the University of Maryland.

  While Sam was away getting his B.A., she and Royce had become close. He was spontaneous, carefree, funny—and in some off-the-wall ways he was tremendously appealing. Women probably wanted to mother him, or thought they could change his ways. Men, of course, considered Royce the ideal buddy. She knew that he was a great deal more complex than he appeared to be. But that was old news.

  Sam Perkins had become more than a husband to Mary—as their marriage became, perhaps, overly comfortable. He'd become like a brother. Royce, bless his damn heart, had made her take a subconscious glance at that.

  “What's the deal?” he asked her, in his most serious and quiet tone. She remembered how he could be.

  “How do you mean?"

  “I mean Sam. Was there trouble between you?"

  “No."

  “No money problems? Health problems?"

  “Absolutely none. He was very happy.” She was suddenly defensive. “Good health. We both worked at it. He was great. His business was wonderful."

  “You guys weren't having, you know, personal problems?"

  “Uh-uh.” She was surprised he'd even ask her.

  “From what you say, he just ceased to exist one Friday morning, Mary. People don't vanish like that—the parked car and all. Unless he was kidnapped—and who'd want to do that? Or ... he decided to leave."

  “I would have known. Something happened to him."

  “Okay."

  “He parked the car at the office—in back. When he got out, somebody probably pulled up beside him or honked at him. That's what I think. He got in the car with them. And then something happened to him. That's the way he disappeared."

  “Mm."

  “The one who kidnapped him might be waiting for some reason before they ask for money. Waiting to see if the police or FBI can ... you know, uncover their tracks."

  “So you think he was kidnapped?"

  “That's the way it looks to me."

  “Pretty soon you'll get a demand for ransom money if that's what happened."

  “Right.” It had been a big mistake to call him. “That's what the cops and FBI think, too."

  “You called the Feds?"

  She nodded. “Yeah."

  “Well—” He wanted to tell her about himself and that he was one of the good guys. At that moment he felt very sad for her, and without thinking, he took one of her hands and held it in his. He had big, rough hands. Laborer's fingers. But he was no laborer, sitting there at the kit
chen table in his beat-up leather bomber's jacket and faded jeans, looking as if no time at all had gone by. She took her hand away and got up to put coffee water on, wondering if he'd done lines. “So—if the FBI is on the case, that's good. Right?” He was trying to reassure her, she supposed.

  “I guess. They didn't act very interested. These two guys came to town and talked to me here at the house, and they tape-recorded me and asked a bunch of stuff. The same things I'd told Marty Kerns. They said, ‘We'll be in touch,’ and that was the last I heard from them. I've called a couple of times since. The last time I had to call back three times to get an agent on the phone, that's how they returned my calls."

  He just looked at her. She supposed he'd had to get half-stoned to come talk to her. She thought of Sam's name for him. “The Junkie,” he'd always called Royce if his name came up, and not unkindly. Now here he sat: her old junkie lover of once upon a time.

  Mary Perkins awoke frightened, off kilter, out of synch like a worn film or a badly dubbed Japanese monster movie, and she had to work to fight back the edge of whatever it was that felt so intensely like desperation, shouting herself awake with a loud, unladylike curse of frustration.

  Her shout was like an echo in this house without Sam Perkins. The weight of worry for her missing husband came and rested on her, reinserting itself into her consciousness, prodded by Royce's perfectly natural questions about the state of their marriage.

  Half of her mind continued to sort options, stack and measure possibilities; size up the paucity of solid information she'd been able to gather about the why of his disappearance. The other half worked to nag her with worst-case scenarios, in which fictional mistresses and torturous plots nudged the dark convolutions of her thoughts.

  It was the most obvious of the possibilities if you could look at their childless and increasingly platonic marriage objectively—which she couldn't. Never mind that it had been Sam, not Mary, who'd been adamant about concentrating on career, not kids, in the early years of their marriage, and then sunk himself deeper into his work. Or that it had been Sam who'd found romance too much of a bother.