Chaingang (20 page)

The honcho led the VIP civilian into the deadlock between the two nine-and-a-half-inch steel-sheathed doors, a “lock vault” in the jargon, and they stood there for a few long seconds waiting for the duty sergeant to pop the inner door.

“Evening, sir,” the duty man said smartly.

The honcho nodded and escorted his guest past a desk where a rather attractive woman sat, staring at them as they strode by. Neither rank nor civilian brass impressed anyone inside the control complex. There were no salutes here. The attractive woman was too busy to salute, for example. In her left ear she was listening for the order to execute, which in this case was a literal order. It would mean that the individual or individuals who had just gained admittance to this highly secret chamber were not to be allowed to leave. There was no such order, and she removed her right trigger finger from the .22-caliber pistol concealed under the desk. She happened to be a world-class handgun champion, and she'd miss her period before she'd miss a head shot at that range.

“Who has him?"

“Red tracker."

“Good.” They walked over to the appropriate cubicle where a civilian sat with his hands on a control console and his eyes glued to an electronic display.

“That's the subject. That little blip right there,” the honcho explained. “Probably gone nighty-night, but—” he shrugged “—one never knows. We stay on him right around the clock. Change these monitor teams constantly. Helluva lot of manpower, but it pretty much assures us that he doesn't take off. He's in a twenty-five-mile radius of protection—that's his kill zone. And if he sets one big toe outside it..."

“You guys pick him up?"

“No, sir. We dust him right there."

“How do you keep an eye on him? It looks like there would be so many places he could go, you know?"

“We've got two hundred people in place. Eyeball surveillance. Every move recorded—sound-on-film. Overflights. Infrared. Satellites—he belongs to us every second. We own Big Boy."

They watched the tiny, glowing pinpoint of light with a mixture of unspoken anxiousness and proprietary pride. There was a kind of pioneering feeling inside the control center, a sense that one was part of a history-making endeavor.

The COMSEC and NEWTON SECURE systems interlinked with the on-line terminals served by OMEGASTAR, the mobile tracker that had been developed to monitor the man who was the core of SAUCOG'S continuing experimental research program.

Inside his weird brain a microscopic servomechanism (one that had cost a millionaire CEO his job when a Japanese firm beat his San Jose chip company to the punch and delivered the goods to Uncle first) happily rested, sending out its perpetual emission to whosoever might receive it.

Whosoever, in this control complex, watched the glowing screens of the Omni DF MEGAplex Secure Tranceiver Auto-lock locator Relay unit and movement-detection monitor.

Every telephonic, radar, infrared, seismic, satellite capability known to engineering science (and whose battery never needed replacing) tuned in, hooked up, plugged in, switched over, clicked on, and down-linked the signal from the eye in the sky—the cyclops that received the continual transmission that emanated from inside Chaingang Bunkowski's head.

Owning “Big Boy” was one thing. But
taming
him—ah, that was an altogether different can of worms.

WATERTON

A
ccording to the official record, the incident report, Officer Harold Schaeffer was “investigating locked premises, gained entrance to Waterton Pharmacy at approximately 10:39 A.M., at which time I found the decedents.” But Marty Kerns had the tape where Harry Schaeffer, crying, throwing up, on the job for eighteen months, had stepped into one of the worst multiple homicide scenes in memory, run in flat-out panic, mashed the handset of the two-way, all radio procedures and call signs and codes thrown to the wind, and screamed, “Oh, Jesus, help, Christ, there's two dead people maybe more. Waterton Pharmacy. There's blood everywhere and they're all cut up—Jeezus somebody
help me! Hurry!"
Not exactly “One Adam Twelve requesting backup.” And this about a hundred feet away from the chief's office.

Bob Lee, the pharmacist, and Trish Clark. Both corpses mutilated. Huge footprints in the blood. No witnesses. Perpetrator had come in about the time they opened and somehow done the deed without any screams being heard, or passersby observing anything going on. If Mabel Dietz hadn't gone on so about having to get her prescription, and Mrs. Lee saying that her husband had gone down to open up the drugstore “over an hour ago,” it might have been noon before the bodies were found.

Waterton Pharmacy. Next door to the jail and the city administration building. That was what really got Marty Kerns going. Kerns sealed off the crime scene best he could. Took a thousand pictures. Measured. Lifted. Dusted. Tried to think like a big-city evidence technician, and remember everything he'd learned from those criminology seminars. He called Doc Willoughby over at the clinic, who served as me, coroner, undertaker, and lab man.

First thing he learned was “some kind of sex pervert” done the deed. There was sperm in just about every one of Trish's orifices other than her ears. And there was one other small detail that wouldn't require an autopsy: her heart was gone.

He was on the phone screaming to the FBI, both the regional SAC and Washington. They'd send agents in, but go ahead and “shoot us the lab work,” they said.

Meanwhile Marty Kerns was sitting on a spate of murders and missing-persons cases and suspicious-looking “accidents,” the likes of which he'd never encountered.

Kerns got his gig through patronage. He was an old-time Waterton pol with a half-assed record as a cop. Once upon a time he'd run the local Eagles drinking emporium, where he'd acquired a couple of small scars and a rep for being a tough guy. Paunchy, jowly, corrupt, stupid Chief Kerns was simply not up for this:

Rusty Ellis. Missing.

Butchie Sutter and Connie Vizard. Dead in a suspicious-looking tavern fire. Nobody was crying over them—not even the Sutter bunch. But they were on the list.

Betty and Gill Poindexter—missing.

Luther Lloyd—missing. One of Kerns's only modest successes: so far he'd been able to convince Mrs. Lloyd to keep quiet about his disappearance.

Three dead over in Tennessee. Maysburg PD found ‘em along with a fourth John Doe, wired into a car: Gordon Truett, Walter Smith—a fine old boy—and Slug Kelly. Those three shot to shit with some kind of machine gun, it looked like. The John Doe with the heart gone.

Sam Perkins gone.

Now two more for the list. Bob Lee and Trish Clark. Whoever this crazy bastard was, he had the balls to take two people down right next door, and in broad daylight.

That was fourteen dead bodies, maybe. He wasn't sure about the fire at Butchie's, but all the others—he had a real bad feeling. He was certain they were all tied in somehow. What would Mary Perkins have said if he'd told her he knew there were five, not four, missing folks who'd been in the land thing together? He still knew damn well that was pure coincidence. This killer was doing away with people at random.

Why weren't the Feds already moving in, the way they always did on a big serial case like this? Why did they keep blowing him off when he tried to get outside help?

Marty Kerns had learned to trust his big gut. And his gut kept telling him this thing was going to get a lot worse before it got any better.

It hadn't helped that old goofy C. B. Farnum had called, swearing up and down that he'd been driving down Market Road and he'd seen “Bigfoot” heading into the woods. That was all he fucking needed now—a raft of goddamn Sasquatch sightings.

“I'm going to turn the heater off for a little while—you mind?"

“Go ahead.” She shook her head absentmindedly, looking out at the bare earth. A vast circular hole in the ground that had once been the center of Weldon Lawley's farm—now the foundation of “THE FUTURE LOCATION OF ECOWORLD,” according to the black and white billboard that had been erected the day before.

It was cold. Only ten minutes to seven in the morning, but they wanted to be present when Joseph Fisher made his appearance. He was supposed to be on hand in person, sometime “around seven,” they'd heard. He was the ramrod with the elusive CCC, the firm that had paid Sam to set this deal into motion, and—in Mary's as well as Royce's mind—the outfit responsible in some way for his disappearance.

“Let me know when you get too cold and I'll turn it back on."

“Okay,” she said in a small voice. There had been more tears last night than all the weeks since Sam had vanished. When she'd returned home yesterday, she'd had a call from her neighbor and friend Alberta Riley, who had asked her if she'd heard about the awful massacre in the drugstore.

When Mary had learned about the killings and told Alberta the latest, and they compared notes, it finally hit her. She was sure that she was not going to find Sam alive. It had shaken her to her core.

Royce had been a big help to her. He'd tried his best to be some comfort, but there wasn't much he could say or do. She knew now that Sam had met a bad end. It was still there, an awful thing in the pit of her stomach that felt like acid eating its way through, as she tried to make some logical sense out of it all.

Both she and Royce were certain that whatever fate Sam had met had been shared by these others, the Poindexters and Rusty Ellis. Now, this morning, they felt as if they had added another name—Luther Lloyd. Royce had insisted they drive out to the Lloyd place at six, to confront the man whom he could never reach on the telephone.

Luther Lloyd, of course, was not home. Mrs. Lloyd confessed that he, too, had vanished. “The police told me not to say anything,” she told them.

Mary wanted to call the FBI again, but Royce had asked her—convincingly—if she thought there was any point to it. After the reaction she'd received the day before, she admitted there probably was not. Clearly the law enforcement agencies, for whatever reason, were not letting the spouses of the missing persons know any details of the ongoing investigation. Assuming there was an investigation.

“Somebody comin',” Royce said. It was a couple of pickups with some of the early work crew. They continued to wait, watching the heavy-equipment operators begin their day, until nearly seven-thirty, when two vans and a truck pulled in together. Some of the men getting out were in business suits, and Royce started the engine and drove over to where they were.

Mary and Royce got out and talked to the group, introducing themselves, and being introduced in turn to Joseph Fisher. Suave, soft-spoken, a lawyerly type in his late fifties, Fisher seemed solicitous and genuinely concerned about Mary's situation.

“When we couldn't find your company listed, and we couldn't reestablish contact with Mr. Sinclair, we became worried, Mr. Fisher,” Royce told him.

“I understand that. It's all rather easily explained. I only wish that this frightening business of Mr. Perkins and others being missing could be explained. I'm extremely concerned about all of this. As far as CCC goes, it's actually just a name on paper for the holding company, World Ecosphere, Inc., which holds stock in and supervises the various companies such as Community Communications. We're located in Washington, D.C., and have been for twenty-one years."

“But why wouldn't Sam have known all this, as the real estate agent responsible for setting up this deal here?” Royce waved his arm in the direction of the great circular hole in the ground.

“Oh, I can assure you he did, Mr.... uh....?"

“Hawthorne."

“Mr. Hawthorne. He was given all the background on our company.” Fisher motioned to an aide. “Let me have a brochure, Mel.” The man smiled pleasantly and removed a thick booklet from his briefcase. “This tells all about World Ecosphere, Inc., Mr. Hawthorne, and Mrs. Perkins.” He handed the lavishly printed brochure to Royce. “And you can get some idea of the scope of our project here."

“We couldn't find Mr. Sinclair listed in the phone directory, either, and his number had been disconnected."

“Again—it was just a timing thing. He was working out of that office temporarily. He lives in New York. He goes where the job is. Mr. Perkins would have had all those facts and so on, you see. And I suspect that some of his personal effects must have been lost, because he had a clear and comprehensive understanding of the way our company was set up and how this Ecoworld project would be brought to fruition."

“Where is Mr. Sinclair?"

“In the Orient,” Fisher said, easily. He glanced at the expensive-looking watch on his wrist. “Sound asleep, as we speak, I should think. I think there's a real problem here, but we're not part of it."

“What do you mean?” Mary asked.

“Folks, I think we have to face facts: an awful lot of missing persons in a small community, and within a short time, are very suspicious.”
Tell us about it
, Royce thought. “We've been in touch with the authorities too, as I'm sure you know by now. When they reached us about Mr. Perkins, and the Poindexter family, we sent our own investigator in, and his report in a nutshell is this: there's the possibility a serial murderer has targeted the Waterton area.” For a moment neither Royce nor Mary spoke. Then they both tried to speak at once.

“How—"

“Why—” Royce nodded and said, “Go ahead."

“How do you know that?"

“The murders at your town pharmacy yesterday seem to confirm it. But there are some things you may not know. And I'm in a rather ticklish situation here. I want to help you folks, but I've been asked by the chief of police not to divulge certain information our investigator obtained from another law enforcement agency.

“There is evidence of more than one murder. Near Waterton. And I think we all understand and sympathize with Chief Kerns wanting to keep the lid on what could be a panic-inducing situation, but on the other hand, you folks have a right to the information, it seems to me, because of Mr. Perkins."

He told them a lot more. Voluble, helpful, straightforward, and surprisingly forthcoming, Royce thought. After having obtained Mary's and Royce's word they'd not repeat the information, he shared the corporate investigator's report.