Slice (31 page)

He was scanning the paper as he always did, speed-reading blocks of words, his eidetic memory sorting chaff and wheat and saving only the survivalist data of possible importance to him. He saw the headline buried on page six: Bridge (contin.—Page 2)” and the words “southern Stobaugh County,” and he thumbed back to the second page and saw the big headline and the picture of the semi being hauled out of the water. There was a photo of the buried vehicle graveyard in a long shot from the road, a crowd of people milling around. The headline being 14 Bodies Found After Truck Drives into Creek, and he read:

Stobaugh County sheriff's deputies, aided by emergency workers and agents of the Major Crimes Task Force, pulled four vehicles containing bodies from the shallow waters of the New Cairo Creek, following an accident Wednesday morning in which a tractor-trailer rig was driven off a closed, abandoned bridge.

The tractor-trailer rig's driver, whose name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin, plunged from the long-abandoned bridge into the creek sixty feet below, instantly killing him. Passers-by noticed the truck in the water and notified authorities, who found the vehicles containing the other bodies while searching for additional passengers who might have been thrown clear of the truck.

“Some of the bodies have been identified but their identities are being withheld,” Stobaugh County Sheriff Bob Anderson said. Anderson would not speculate as to the cause of death of the thirteen other individuals whose bodies were found in abandoned cars and trucks that had apparently been placed in the creek over a period of many months.

“It is a scene out of hell,” one unnamed worker told reporters, “and I hope I never see anything like this again as long as I live.” Divers and emergency personnel were still looking for bodies as late as nine hours following the removal of the tractor-trailer rig from the creek. “In the first place, it was extremely dangerous to leave a bridge like that. Even with it closed on each side, there was always the chance somebody might have an accident here at night,” the worker said. “Nobody knows where these others came from."

The bridge is situated southeast of Mount Vernon, about twelve miles south of Hubbard City, Illinois. The Stobaugh County Army Corps of Engineers issued a brief statement blaming “insufficient funds” for the fact that the bridge over the New Cairo Creek had never been rebuilt.

The designer of the original bridge, which was built over forty years ago, said that flash flooding had originally been the cause of the erosion of the bridge supports which led to the bridge's collapse nine years ago. “I've built over six hundred bridges in my time,” B. L. Drake told one reporter, “and I never had any problems with any of the others.” Drake was head of the United Engineering Design Corporation of Chicago, the firm that built the iron bridge in the late 1940s. “It was extremely irresponsible not to rebuild the bridge,” he said.

Federal authorities on the scene would not speculate as to the nature of the—” Chaingang glanced over at the photo again, captioned with the bold title, “Bizarre Underwater Graveyard Holds 13 More Bodies,” and crumpled the paper savagely.

“This changes lots of things, little monkey,” he told the newborn infant. “We'll adapt accordingly,” he said, starting up the car and driving toward Buckhead. “We'll pay a little courtesy call on our good friend Mr. Eichord and then we'll find us a nice, temporary shelter. How does that sound, little monkey?"

As if in reply, the newborn baby did its best to smile and made a kind of contented gurgling noise.

“Monkey is a GOOD baby,” the huge man rumbled, thinking how much pleasure it would give him deep inside to rip the arrogant cop into shreds of bloody payback, how good the anticipation felt, how wonderfully his new life had come together, how bright the prospects were, how enjoyable it was to be alive and invulnerable.

“
O
h!” Donna Eichord was surprised by the little kitten, who had stood up on his hind legs sinking his tiny front claws into her leg. “Ouch! Don't!” she said, disengaging the cat from her flesh. “That hurts, you little stinkpot. You're so quiet. You nearly scared me to death, sneaking up on me.” She was cleaning a chicken and she put the naked fowl down, washed her hands, then picked the kitten up and carried him into the living room, sitting him down on the floor and dropping down beside him.

“Wanna play?” she said, and the cat meowed loudly. “Okay, come on.” And she tossed one of his toys. “Come on. You wanna play, let's play then. Chase it, Tuffkins.” She threw the fake mouse across the room. The cat cocked his head at her and let out a meow of disinterest. “Not into that, eh?” He yawned. “You sleepy? You couldn't be sleepy, little guy, you've been asleep half the day. You want your dinner?” The cat cried and she got up with a sigh and looked at the clock. “Okay. Dinner coming up."

She took the can opener and opened some cat food. Tuffy sniffed it a couple of times, then walked to the back door.

“Okay. I give up. I'm going to let you out but only on one condition: you have to promise you'll come in when I call you. No making me come chase you down like last time, okay?"

The cat blinked, or so she imagined, meaning, yes, I promise, and she said, “All right. Just remember, pal, a deal is a deal.” She opened the door with a flourish. “And it's little Tuff coming out of chute number one. Wheeee!” The small ball of gray flew past her into the freedom and excitement of the yard and the big, wild, outdoor world.

“
S
till no answer in Room 117?” James Lee asked the switchboard operator.

“No, sir. I'm sorry. I let it ring twenty-five times like you said."

“And the messages I left with the desk. No chance he could have come in and picked them up?"

“No way. Everybody knows it concerns official police business, and he hasn't come back here today as far as we know. I had a maid go down and unlock the door just to make sure he hadn't come back without any of us knowing it, and he's not in the room."

“Yeah. Okay."

“Sorry, sir. We'll notify him as soon as he comes in this evening."

“Yeah. Yeah. Good. Right. Thanks a lot.” Lee hung up and called the sheriff's number.

A man answered. “Yes. Is this the same gentleman I spoke with about half an hour ago? This is Lee out of Buckhead Station."

“No, sir. You're the one trying to reach Special Agent Eichord?"

“Correct."

“We have been unable to reach them since your call earlier. However, Tom D'Amico was with him just a little while ago. Would you like to speak with him?"

“Please."

A pause.

“Sgt. Lee? Tom D'Amico."

“Hi. Listen, you have any idea where the hell Eichord went to today?"

“We were together some of the day. I haven't seen him for the last couple of hours. They said he isn't responding to the radio, so wherever he went with the driver they've left the car. I imagine he'll be calling in anytime now."

“It's imperative I get in touch with Jack right away. Life and death, my man. Can you help?"

“Best I could do is take your message. Either give it to Jack when they call back in or have him call you right away. I guess you tried the motel, right?"

“I've called the Hubbard City Motel five or six times,” Lee said. Six times, D'Amico thought silently, according to our count. But he said, “Well, don't worry, he'll be in touch soon. Do you want me to give him any message or have him call you or what?"

“Okay, first give him this, then get him to call me right away. If I'm not here I'll leave word with the dispatcher on the phones. Okay. Tell him I want to make sure he's got everything on the Chattanooga killing. Prints has positives on the perpetrator. Daniel Bunkowski is still alive. Tell him that as soon as he calls in or radios in and make sure he phones me right away, okay?"

“Gotcha. Will do."

“Thanks a lot."

“Okay. No problem. Talk to you soon, then."

“Sure.” Lee hung up. “Shit! Goddammit.” Lee was worried. Mad that he couldn't find Eichord. Where the fuck WAS he? Why didn't the coppers up there know anything? Why didn't Eichord ever have his fucking call-beeper on him? He had to get the word to him. Somebody had to get Donna out of the house, put round-the-clock surveillance on Eichord's place, the station house itself. He tried to remember everything Jack had told him about the Lonely Hearts maniac.

He had made up his mind about the money that morning and it irritated him further that he couldn't say to Jack, “Hey, pal. You're right. I gotta do the right thing.” He'd figured a way to get it back to the bank without copping to it himself. He'd explain the whole thing to Jack. He knew he could count on Eichord to help him. Reluctantly, he'd already taken the first step. It was one he couldn't take back and already the weight of the guilt had lifted from him like a cross being lifted from his shoulders. He smiled at the thought of the Christian imagery, amused, as he sometimes was, to find that he no longer thought in Chinese.

“I'm a helluva guy, you know that,” he said to his fat partner sitting at a nearby desk, who blew an enormous raspberry-flavored fart at him without looking. “C'mon, super-pooper, we gotta go take Donna somewhere safe."

“I'll handle that. I'll take her to a motel."

“Good idea,” he said. “She
would
be safe with you in a motel, dinky-dick.” He took the stairs two at a time. “Hey, babe,” Lee said to the girl at the switchboard, who lifted her frizzy head and smiled at him, “do me one. Call Peggy and tell her I need her to wait around the house. I'm gonna be bringing Mrs. Eichord over there. Nothing's wrong, I'll explain to her when we get there. Just tell her—ah, just say that, okay?"

“Sure.” The girl started dialing his number.

“Peg'll worry now, schmuck,” fat Dana said to him as they went to the car, “all the time till you get there. She'll wonder if Jack and her had a fight or something. What a dummy."

“Hey. That's show biz,” Lee said, starting the car and roaring out toward Buckhead Springs in the fast lane.

Twelve minutes later they were pulling into the street leading to the Eichord's subdivision. Daniel Edward Flowers Bunkowski and his newborn son were a half-mile away, driving at the speed limit, and looking for the street in the newspaper piece on which the Eichords lived. Bunkowski had the newspaper that he'd had photocopied by the Buckhead Library spread open in the seat between his massive body and the baby's nest. The microfiche had made grainy but usable copies. He had found the street and now had the chore of spotting the house that matched the one visible behind the smiling couple in the photo.

He looked at the monkey with the little tiny hands and feet all bundled up in the pile of blankets and thought he could make a perfect and safe bassinet out of his camouflage tarp and the enormous piece of mosquito netting he sometimes used in his night ambushes. He looked back at the houses, driving slowly, and missing nothing, every house automatically checked against the image retained in his mental computer, he concentrated fiercely with the total dedication that marked all his moves in combat situations.

Bunkowski spotted the house, the name “EICHORD” across the side of the mailbox at street level, and mashed the accelerator a little, heading for the shopping mall he'd seen. All the time the mental computer gears whirred, sorting possibilities, permutations, ways and means, options and escape routes, logistics and countermeasures. Was parking the baby on a darkened side street, hidden on the floor of the DeVille, the best way? The only way? Ample oxygen? Peril assessment? It was the last calculated gamble he'd make with his little monkey. He'd park two blocks from Eichord's. Make the car switch within seconds of the “calling card."

While Chaingang was taking care of business Chink and Chunk were parking out in front of Jack's and Donna's house, feeling oddly out of place to be here on cop business instead of socializing, and they headed up to the door and rang.

“Wait here, I'll go around back.” Dana stood on the front stoop and Jimmie ran around in the back yard. No Donna Eichord in sight. He banged on the back door. Nothing. He went back around. Tuny shook his head.

“I'm gonna see if I can slip the lock."

“Eichord have yer yellow eggs for an omelet if you go walkin’ in on her in the can,” Dana said, followed by something else Lee didn't catch as he was halfway around to the back again, slipping the back door lock only to find the door was open. He went in, thinking about his Magnum almost as an afterthought, the way one does when one goes through a door and nobody's there.

“Donna?” He called out louder as he walked through the home, “DONNA, ITS JAMES LEE.
DONNA
?” Nobody. He opened the door for Tuny.

“She ain't here,” Dana told him as he came in, unnecessarily.

“Yeah, I can see that, Jumbo. Listen. Uh, whyncha go hit the neighbors’ houses. Maybe she went next door for a cuppa coffee, whatever. I'll wait in case she comes back."

“Yeah. Awright,” his fat partner said, and went out the door and down the stairs, taking off at a brisk waddle.

Lee went over and sat in the front window, where he could see Dana going up to the door to the Eichords’ east and ringing the bell. Waiting, then moving off and trying the next house. Lee turned back to the window and put his feet up on the ottoman and waited impatiently. He picked up a magazine and thumbed through it. Put it down. Listened to the clock tick. Picked up Jack's old Mets cap. Fooled around with it, trying to spin the bill on his finger. Stuck it absentmindedly on his head, whistling softly, waiting.

Chain parked in the center of the street, the motor running, in park, door open, came out hard and fast and tough and mean. An amalgam of pent-up, murderous emotions housed in the body of a twisted giant, controlled by the tortured mind of a genius, a physical precognate, running up the bank on those steel tree trunks, not an ounce of fat on the enormous body, lightning-fast now, so far from the Chaingang of old as to be unrecognizable in motion, none of the inertia problems of the massively ponderous, no pachyderm ludicrousness, all fast well-oiled blur, the hands, fingers, muscles in the arms and shoulders rippling, the muscles capable of squeezing a flashlight battery, those HANDS, the steel-fingered hands that could rip a human's rib cage apart, that could rip a girl open in a steaming stinking ghoulish goulash of horror, three-hundred-plus pounds of rock-hard killer hurls the satchel charge through the front window at the image of the man in the Mets cap, grainy microfiche trigger of data retrieval feeding the on-line terminal, the body flattening on the bank as it blows upward and outward.