Slice (35 page)

The immense killer is not the same anthropophagous wild man who devoured the heart of a fresh kill only a few weeks ago. In fact, he can still feel himself changing. That
thing
that would come over him is growing weak inside him and he can feel its hold on him lessening. The thing that would force him to kill to appease the boiling pressure cooker, to make the awful heat subside, to do violence—the only kind of act that would slake the burning red thirst—no longer had its sharp fangs suck into his innards. He was changing.

All because of the little baby son. It was, indeed, a miracle. Bunkowski for the first time was acting out of regard for someone or something beyond his own survival. Above all else it was now crucial to him that the newborn be protected. His long-range plan, the creation of a self-sustaining safe environment for his pet monkey—involved the acquisition of money. To even make the move involving the computer hacker he needed lots of working cash. One more score on top of the recent windfall. Just a thousand, twelve hundred, would do it. Walking-around money.

“That be all tonight, hon?” the bored lady at the cash register said as he slid a quart of Wild Turkey along the counter together with a crisp new double sawbuck.

“That's got it,” he rumbled with a wide smile.

“How you been gettin’ by?” she asked with her usual familiarity. Having seen him five or six times he was filed away as a regular.

“Just so-so. I guess I can't complain."

“Well, you can complain but it won't do you a goddamn bit of good."

They both roared with laughter at this brilliant conversational diamond.

“That's for goddamn sure,” the big man agreed in his most jovial and pear-shaped approximation of ingenuousness.

“Ohhhhh, my God,” she said, stretching like a cat, pushing her chest forward to emphasize what Bunkowski suspected were outrageously padded breasts, “I got a back that's just KILLING ME, ya know?"

“Really?” he said. The state of her health and well-being was clearly the most important thing in the huge man's life. Everything about the sincerity of his facial expression, tone of voice, and the steadiness of his gaze said that her back pain was FASCINATING to him.

“I got the goddamnedest crick in my back I ever had in my life. I tell you it is MURDER.” She stretched again in the white sweater, moving her head from side to side as she did so. “I didn't sleep in my own bed las’ night and shit I tell ya I can't hardly move today. I stay over at my boyfriend's once in a while, ya know?” Daniel nodded. “An’ last night. God, I promise ya it wasn't cause we ... you know. BELIEVE me, we DIDN'T.” She shook her head knowingly, letting him know it wasn't because they'd done the deed hanging from a chandelier or anything. “But hell, you know how it is when you're not in your own bed."

“I sure do. I just don't sleep worth a damn when I'm not in my own bed,” he said.

“I can't even sleep good when I'm, you know, on VACATION or anything. I like my own bed.” Her head shook at the very thought of her own bed.

“Boy I hear that loud and clear. You know, I guess this job gets kinda
scary
once inna while, you know—guys coming in and sticking up liquor stores and that.” He said it innocently, shaking his head just the way she did as he slowly folded up the bills, letting her see the humongous wad of money he carried so she'd know he wasn't interested personally, just making conversation. A friendly non sequitur.

“The scaredest I've ever been was about four, five months ago this Mexican comes in here—well, I say Mexican, he LOOKED Mexican. Anyway he comes in somethin ‘bout a flat and hasta call somebody, he's lost his wallet, hell, I don't remember what all, so he's got a pint of whiskey and he comes over and he says. Put this on my tab."

“Uh huh."

“And I go. You haven't got a tab here, mister. I can't do that."

“Wow."

“And he says. You BETTER do it. And, you know, he just stares. And I stare back at him. And I mean he is STARING at me, you know. I figure he's gonna shoot me or stab me with a knife or somethin’ bad is gonna happen. And I move on across like this"—she moved down the length of the counter to show him—"and I said, ‘Listen, mister, if you don't get outta here I'm gonna step on this buzzer back here, and as soon as my foot hits THAT, the shit hits the fan down at PO-LEECE headquarters. NOW GIT THE HELL OUTTA HERE!’”

They both laughed at her amazing audacity in the face of peril.

“God! That's really something,” Chaingang said, amazed by this woman's bravery and quick thinking, moving around to look where the buzzer was as he told her how great she was. “That was really something!"

“There AIN'T NO BUZZER,” she screamed, and they both roared again with laughter.

“Wow! Goddamn, you sure were great. That's pretty fast thinking.” He obviously admired her for her cleverness.

“Well, you know, I had to do somethin'. It was all I could think of."

“I don't think MY mind would have worked that fast."

“Wally don't have nothing in here. We don't even keep a gun."

“Hell. Looks like they'd have an alarm to that—whaddyacallit—that security company deal."

“Naw. We ain't got shit in here."

“Well, don't that beat all. Hell, I bet if some stickup guy hit you now he'd get a thousand dollars cash!"

“Shit. He'd be lucky to get a hunnert and a half.” She leaned on the counter. “Weekends when the money stacks up good."

“Bet you could hit a liquor store like this on a Friday, eight, nine o'clock, come away with plenty."

“No.” She shook her head. She knew what she was talking about. “I'd make it Saturday night about ten or ten-thirty,” nodding firmly, “yep, that's when the most cash would be on hand."

“Hell, a guy'd probably get two, three thousand on a Saturday night,” he agreed.

“Ummm.” She shrugged, obviously disagreeing. “He might get fifteen hundred, MAYBE two thousand on a real good Saturday."

They bid their friendly good-nights after a bit and Chaingang got into his car and drove off. It never failed to astonish him ... the remarkable degree of openness with which people revealed their innermost secrets to casual strangers. He in particular had this ability with people. He could just look at someone and they'd be telling him their life story inside of five minutes. Something about the look of him. A trust thing. Something across the bridge of the nose, in those doughy wrinkles and crinkles, ail be lacked was a white beard and a ho-ho-ho. And now—a pillow for padding.

He had a reason for every move he made, if only subconsciously. He'd picked this liquor store to patronize for a specific reason. He was going to hit it, and this imbecile had just told him when the best time was and how safe it would be for him. She'd even given him a guided tour of her behind-the-counter surprises and a peek at her hole card.

It was what he did, this matter of sizing up situations and making instant assessments of the vulnerability and access quotients. He'd gone into the mall nearby and turned at the third light instead of the second light, by mistake, and seen this little cluster of stores and services.

A fast-food chicken shack, a car-care center, a disreputable-looking motel, a busy gas station, the package store, a small ma-and-pa operation, and the assessment printout was there in that first heartbeat.

When one looked at the chicken shack one saw food; Daniel saw a bustling interior full of witnesses and a drive-in window with one of those shatterproof, revolving Lok-Tite jobs, and looked away. The car-care center smelled like easy money but there were eight, nine bozos milling around. Again, too many people. The run-down motel was okay as far as the access, isolation factor and vulnerability quotient went, but it was TOO run-down. Paint chipped from the doors. No guests. Nickels and dimes. The busy gas station. Impossible for his current needs. He wanted no witnesses and no MO. He'd probably cold-cock the clerk as soon as he had the money, pop them into the open trunk, and be gone before the next car pulled in. He'd hit the store right after dark Saturday. Daniel figured it to be his last small job.

The next step was the cop. He needed to summon all his powers of persuasion. He'd charted it out on paper and it could work. The policeman Eichord was a known quantity within certain boundaries. If he didn't overreact to the killing of his friend, and to Bunkowski's track record, it boiled down to a simple trade-off. Would the cop be willing to guarantee him unofficial amnesty of sorts in return for Bunkowski's guarantee that the killings were over for good? It was a shot.

What did the detective have to lose? He didn't know, of course, that Daniel had lost his taste for murder and mutilation. That at last the normalcy of building a regular life and raising a child had pulled Chaingang's head out of the sewers. Such was the uniqueness of Chain's madness that he could have this dream, and it was so real to him he now believed it. And for this strange, bizarre killer of hundreds, to believe was to be.

He would first try to convince the cop that the killings had come to an end. He knew this arrogant man would let him get close. The lure of a confrontation would be irresistible to him. And he would pay for his temerity with his dying screams and the thought of this filled Chaingang's head with a hot crimson wave of overwhelming need. A final kill.

B
ack inside the cop shop, Eichord stared at his messages. The first pink call-back note was from the task force, and he tried to place it but all the lines were busy. It would only be more corroboration of the obvious now. The next one was a call to the 312 area code. He dialed it and asked for the extension number specified.

“This is Jack Eichord in Buckhead, returning a long-distance call,” he told the male voice that answered.

“Just a second, please."

He waited.

“Jack Eichord?"

“Speaking."

“Can you hear me okay?"

“Yeah. I can hear you fine. Who is this?"

“Having one helluva time hearing you.” There was an earsplitting burst of static on the line.

“In Chicago. You remember me?"

“I'm sorry your voice cut out just then.” Jeezus. The fucking telephones. It was like living in a goddamn war zone. “I didn't hear you just when you answered me. Who is this please?"

“Scheige in Chicago. Remember?” A little pause as Eichord tried to place the name. “We worked together when you were on loan to the Eighteenth on the Kasikoff case."

“Oh, hell yes. I'm sorry. Sure. How ya doin'?"

“Good. I'm outta the West Erie substation now. Listen I [STATIC] know if Lee told you about me calling him?"

“Sorry. The phones cut out again."

“Yeah. We have problems with the telephone system here. Anyway, I didn't know if James Lee got that message to you about me calling him. I Just heard about it, man. Very sorry. Helluva thing."

“Thanks. No. I didn't get the message, I guess.” He glanced through the stack of notes as he spoke.

“Well"—Jack could hear a sizzle down the line like bacon frying—"I think we had a tip on this Bunkowski. A fuckin’ HYPE came in here trying to sell it to us—how he'd seen him right after you killed him and so on. We didn't give it any credence naturally, but now, I mean, I saw the new circular and the sheets on those killings and I put two and two together. It looks like it was on the square, you know?"

“Yeah. Hey, Scheige, I appreciate it. But I gotta get going on something here, so was that all you needed?"

“Sure. I just thought you might want to know.” Eichord realized how rude he was being and how abrupt he must sound. No point in being a horse's butt and telling Scheige it was too late to be telling him what he already knew.

“Hey, I really appreciate your call. Might be a big help to us. That's good policework, Scheige—thanks."

“No sweat,” he said, and they rang off.

Eichord took a very deep breath and stared at the cursed telephone hoping no more bad news would come across it, searching for his ear, working its way into his head. If only the madman wouldn't kill again as he had only the day before with that fucking .22, if only hell had ice water. If only elephants could fly.

The next phone conversation was in an elliptical sort of doublespeak between Jack and a federal marshal, confirming the brief rites that would be conducted for the immediate family early in the morning. Neither Donna nor Bev Tuny would be allowed to attend, for security purposes. Only Peg, her son, Dana Tuny, and Jack, with a couple of marshals riding shotgun. It'd be a very fast graveside service, what the funeral home guys privately call a “peekaboo,” and then back into hiding for the family. The latest word he'd had from Peggy was that there'd been a problem in getting her husband's family in China flown here in time for the service. Jack had never fully understood—either the brother had tried to board without his passport, or somebody else had used the wrong passport, but there'd been some problem. The Chinese contingent might not be on hand. As if that mattered to Jimmie...

I
f you wish to see with. the killer's eyes you must first think with the madman's brain. What you and I will see on our way to the remote, suburban cemetery are the broken boards of a deserted loading bay behind a J. C. Penney's with the legend RCVNG 8-12 & 1-2. We pass a mobile-home park and what appear to be three or four hundred mailboxes in an endless row of letter Quonsets. We see a small field of graves backed up against a pastoral, wooded setting. But what you and I see are not what he sees.

He sees beyond the superficial. When we see the ordinary and the obvious he looks beyond to the extraordinary and the remarkable, and his mental computer files them away for planning. Instead of a loading bay, mailboxes, a burial place, he sees victims, opportunities, hiding places. And his eyes lock on to the woods, a vantage point, and a method of evasion and escape.

It was almost as dark as night at 6:48 a.m. Heavy black clouds threatened to open at any moment. It was the gloomiest, saddest possible time for this gloomy and sad event.

Peg's son helped his mother out of the blue Thunderbird with the privacy glass—what would have to do as their courtesy limo. Eichord patted the boy on the back, and Peg came and hugged Jack, who had breathed enough of his own alcoholic fumes so he could spot the scent easily. His mind left the images of Chink for a moment as he realized how hard this would be on Peg.