Butcher (16 page)

Dr. Hodge, another of the zillion faceless sissies who'd been so fascinated with him over the years, resented Dr. Norman terribly, and all but throbbed with delight at the chance to have a session with the much whispered about occupant of cell 10 in D Seg of maximum security—the hole.

First there was the parade from the hole to Hodge's office, Daniel “Chaingang” Bunkowski, a quarter ton of dead weight, bound and gagged by every means possible. Even the handcuffs had their own boxes, as this inmate was notoriously monkey-pawed. A squad of strong, well-trained correctional officers shared the collective responsibility for controlling the occupant of cell 10 whenever he was moved. They were known as the SCUT squad, Special Convict Transport squad being the official title, but no army latrine honey-dipper or mental institution nut-wrangler ever faced such dangerous scut work. There was no letting down when you were within reach of the predaceous monster who lived in D Seg.

Chaingang, restrained and masked, had a badly swollen ankle and a cracked rib.
The nonsequential illogic of the injuries defied analysis. Perhaps there had been other equally severe beatings
. In any event he was transported to Dr. Hodge's office, rather painfully, but showed nothing in the hard black marbles that were his eyes.

“
So, Dan...” the doctor began.

Dan?
No one, not even sissy Dr. Norman, had ever used such a name on him. It would be like walking up to a rogue elephant with blood on its tusks and saying “Hi there, Jumbo."

Abject hatred flickered in the hard black orbs. “Let's talk about your mother, shall we?"

If a worse beginning could have been devised, it would be difficult to imagine.

“
You loved her and hated her, is that fair to say? I mean your case history is quite classic in that respect. Your stepfather abused you something awful, beating you, keeping you under the bed in a punishment trunk, only bringing you out to assault you sexually, forcing his perverted attentions on you as your mother stood by. God, no wonder you hated her. Still, she was your mother. So all the long hours while you were kept inside the darkened closet, what sort of confused and bitter thoughts must you have entertained?” Dr. Hodge was enamored of his own rhetoric and continued at some length. Daniel, of course, was examining the room for opportunities.

“
But why the hearts? That's the part I don't quite understand Eating...” he made an ugly face of distaste,” ... a heart! Why, Dan? Why did you eat the hearts after you killed your victim? What's that all about, can you tell me?"

He remembered that in their own way the sessions with Hodge were harder to take than the amateur beatings he'd been given.

He set his mind to work on various projects, waiting for an opportune moment when the idiot prison psychiatrist way briefly called out of the office. Finally, it came. Instantly he went into his belly stash. Chaingang could barely move his fingers, but he possessed incredible dexterity as well as strength. Deftly, with the greatest precision and focus, his fingertips found temporary freedom, curling down under his apron of belly fat, and producing a horde of tiny objects. A plastic thing that opened into a hinged hook; which was tied to a short length of stout monofilament line, a tiny stoppered vial, a stub of pencil.

After six attempts he was able to catch the grapple hook over the edge of the nearby wastebasket and with the greatest focus slide it over within reach of his fingers. His luck held and it did not tip over. Quickly, hoping time would also be on his side, he pulled the metal container up to where he could sort through it, looking for something he might use as a weapon, a metal nail file or rusty razor blade, anything. There was nothing of interest. Only the shrink's discarded junk mail.

Out of disgust he found a clean envelope and took a stamp from his tiny vial, wetting it with perspiration and applying it over the cancelled one. Dr. Hodge's address was on a peel-off label, which is why Chaingang had selected it. He removed the label and retrieved a junk novelty catalog from the trash. Skimmed the pages quickly until he'd found something, then removed the order form and filled in a number with his pencil stub, using the doctor's MasterCard number from a discarded receipt.

He was about to seal the envelope that would send away for the joke novelty item, when he saw something that made his coal black eyes sparkle with momentary interest: a harmless-appearing toy called Slingshot & Water-balloon Game!

"Wouldn't it be fun if you could launch your water balloons 300, even 400 feet into the air?” the catalog copy asked, breathlessly. “Now you can! The Slingshot & Water-balloon Game was designed by a professional marksman to smack the target dead center every time! Competition-grade launchings can achieve super velocities of up to 250 miles an hour, just pull back the firing cradle, put your muscles behind it, and wing those water balloons skyrard.
Warning: Do Not Aim At People Or Pets!
Made in USA and 100% biodegradable. Comes with instructions, Poly-Vordex grips, rubber tubing, and nylon ammo cradle, plus water-balloon starter kit. Targets not included. “It was priced at $23.95. Chaingang thought it was a bargain.

There were two accessories to the game offered: one was a gross of heavy-duty balloons, which he ordered to go with his weapon, and a set of targets, which he didn't need. He already had a target in mind.

All these details were deliciously fresh. Daniel had no idea that the basic events had taken place nearly three years before and were unrelated to his present condition. They were, nevertheless, pleasantly comforting memories, albeit out of context and asynchronous. He recalled his ambivalence at finding the toy as it meant he would have to forgo the fun of sending for the gag item.

The peel-off label was reapplied to the order form. Thick fingers that could tear a human jaw loose took the stub of pencil, erased the item lot number he'd written, and ordered the slingshot and balloon set in its stead, crudely sealed the envelope, and daintily fiipped it into the Out tray of correspondence on the nearby desk.

One other slight change had been made: the order would be paid as a charge to Hodge's credit card, but while it would still be sent to the penitentiary, it was now coming to the personal attention of a trustee whose con name was Mousie. Chaingang had something Mousie wanted. Free enterprise will always rule. There would be some trade-offs. Bunkowski would end up with a weapon that he could transport with him wherever he went. Not rubber, nylon, plastic, nor “Poly-Vordex” would set off a metal detector. And while the hacks looked in Bunkowski's every orifice, there was one place no one, not even Dr. Norman, had thought to look: under his fat roll!

There were even prescribed methodologies for such unthinkable, unspeakable, unnatural acts as the monitoring of cell 10 occupant's bowel movements, the cleaning of and disposal of dejecta, and the post-excremental inspection of his anal aperture. (Talk about your scut work! But in these matters no stone could be left unturd.) A record of the occupant's feces production and wiping patterns was seriously kept and examined. It was known colloquially as the log log. Rectal, nostril, oral checks, and routine examinations of Bunkowski's head, armpit, and pubic hair were made by unlucky correctional personnel. They parted his toes, looked up his nose, and made him spread his rose looking for ... well, anything. He found their efforts embarrassingly amateurish.

No one considered that anything of practical use could be hidden under a mountain of surplus gut. After all, he was constantly subjected to metal detectors, and, frankly, if anyone had looked the experience would have been traumatizing in the extreme. The beast was careful never to wash there, cultivating a moldy green scum of toxic tummy-jam that gave off a powerful stink when exposed to air. Sewer shit, sour diapers, and gas line breaks were Chanel No. 5 by comparison to the paint-peeling, stinging, blindingly odoriferous nightmare of Chaingang's belly-slash stench. By the time Dr. Hodge returned, the mini-grapple and line were neatly lucked away under the mastadon's rubbery truck-tire-sized fat apron.

"Well now, where were we? Oh, yes, Dan, we were discussing your mother—” The doctor jumped at a loud sound escaping through the biter mask. It sounded like a lanyard being pulled on a chainsaw, the startling noise that Bunkowski made in lieu of a human laugh. He couldn't help himself. The bound, shackled inmate was amused at the thought of catalog number V-C-1238 arriving. He wished he could have sent Dr. Hodge the practical joke item from Illinois Novelties, Inc. It was fun to imagine the good doctor opening a package, finding Chaingang's “gift donor” card, and then the “realistic bloody heart."

Clearwater Levee Road

A
kind of unusual thing, not a bad thing, but certainly out of the ordinary, surprised Keith Glenn and his father Thursday night, the twenty-third. They were watching a Goldie Hawn movie Keith had seen before but his dad hadn't, and he was mildly annoyed to hear the doorbell, till he discovered it was Doc Royal. Surprised, to be sure, because there was no sound of a vehicle out in the road.

“Hey, Doc! What-chew doin’ out here in the rain?"

“Evening, Keith,” the older man said, in his friendly tone of voice.

“Doc Royal?” came a loud call from behind the young, bearded man. “Get yourself in here, man. Keith,
get outta the way!"
his father bellowed cheerfully.

“I can't. Let me stand here. This heat feels good.” He took off his rain hat and hung it up on one of the pegs by the door, taking a handkerchief out to mop his face. “I love a good old wood stove."

“Come on
in here!"
J. G. Glenn extended his hand and Royal shook it. The man put his arm around Royal as if he weren't wearing a dripping raincoat. “Gladaseeya! We didn't hear your car.” He pulled the doctor into the living area.

“I'm down the road a ways.” Royal gestured vaguely.

“Come in and watch TV with us,” the son said.

“I can't, Keith. My boots are muddy and—"

“Get yourself in here. Keith, get that blamed thing off.” J.G. hopped around turning on lights, pushing a chair over. “Sit here. Get outta that coat.” The man issued an incessant stream of orders to anyone within earshot, as was his habit.

“Go on and watch your program. I thought I'd drop in just for a second. Don't let me interrupt. Keep your program on."

“We wasn't watching nothing,” Glenn the elder said, scurrying around putting water in a pot and setting it over the flame. “Keith, get in here and scare up something for the man to eat."

“I'm not—"

“How about some Girl Scout cookies? Daddy just bawt ten boxes off of Andy Henry's girl and ain't no way in hell we gonna eat ‘em all. Here, take a box home.” He placed a box of unopened cookies in front of Royal on the nearby table.

“You two been doing all right?” the white-haired man asked, hoping the answer would not be drawn out. He was rather in a hurry to go about his business.

“We been getting along fine, me and the boy,” J.G. Glenn said.

“Time helps heal."

“It surely does.” The man got moist eyed as he talked about Myrtle Glenn, who'd eventually died from a number of debilitating diseases including disseminated sclerosis, for which Royal had treated her the last eight years of her life. It was easy for the doctor to commiserate. He'd shared the loss.

There hadn't been a day of those years she'd been entirely free from severe pain, and this expert in manufactured anguish, this man who knew and comprehended the complexities of the nervous system and the mysterious codes of the brain, had made her into a pet. Watching, measuring, testing, savoring her days of tremors, killing headaches, pneumonia, paralysis, and finally the death that came to mercifully claim her.

Mistaking his motives and never knowing his secret brutalities, the men thought of him as a saint, who'd given of his time selflessly to help their loved one.

“J.G., I wonder if I could impose on your kindness?"

“Whatcha need, Doc?"

“I know this is a big imposition, but I was wondering, could I ask Keith to give me a lift into town?” He could as easily have asked to borrow five hundred dollars, the man's best suit, anything imaginable, and the answer would have been an immediate, unconditional yes. They'd both told him often enough how they would appreciate it if he'd ask for something—anything—to help lessen the sense of debt they felt toward Doc Royal.

Even as he made his gratuitous thank-yous he was being escorted to the truck, helped into the front seat, a cup of coffee and a box of Girl Scout cookies in his hands. Keith was putting the key in the ignition and J.G. was yelling instructions and orders from the front door.

“Say, by the way,” he added as a smiling afterthought, “don't say too much about me being around here at night like this. I get yelled at by everybody when they find out I drive after dark.” Both men chuckled knowingly.

“You come here any time, Doc, night or day,” J.G. hollered, giving a big stage wink, a clowning co-conspirator, “and we won't say
nothin!"
They waved a fond good-bye and Keith Glenn pulled onto the darkened blacktop. “Don't be so long before you—” he could hear the man still shouting from his doorway as they drove off into the wet night.

Bayou City

R
ay Meara came across the levee road slower than usual, trying not to think about the water that seemed to draw closer by the hour as he splashed through the punishing potholes. But what would he do? If he lost this crop he'd owe for last year and this one as well. It took thirty to forty large just to get fifty to sixty back. How could he make it? He'd end up going to the man and putting his farm up. Wouldn't that be a bitch? Gamble with his ground just to pay debts? What was the point of thinking about it? He flipped the radio on.

“—woman looking through a trash bin in north St. Louis found the body of her twelve-year-old daughter this morning, according to police. The mother of the girl had found a trail of bl—” He flipped to a station playing music, and mashed the gas medal.