Chaingang (25 page)

“Oh, no. I wasn't about to sell no mineral rights. That was the first thing me and the wife talked about when Mr. Sam told me about the offer. I figured a—whaddyacallem?—geologist ... somebody'd done some testing and found something valuable. I made that clear from the start. He said no—I could retain all mineral rights. They just wanted that little bite out of my corner ground. At the time, I never could understand why they'd throw that kind of money on the table—but, hey, I wasn't going to look no gift horse in the mouth neither.” He shook his head, chuckled, and looked at the contract some more.

“But you never got a direct explanation out of them why they were paying so much for a small piece of farm property?"

“Yeah.” He looked up. “I felt like they were honest enough about what they wanted it for. You know how these big corporations are, they got more money than sense. They take it in their heads they want to do something, it's got to be the way they want it. Somebody out East drew a circle on a map, and I was just lucky enough to be part of the circle.” He smiled and handed the copy back. “Who'd turn down money like I was offered?"

“Not me. We just thought maybe—like you said—they'd found something like a rich gold ore deposit, or oil, or whatever. And when I couldn't find anything about you selling the rights—"

“It was the same with Lawley, ya know?” He meant his next-door neighbor to the east, Weldon Lawley, who'd sold his entire farm to CCC and the parent holding company. “He said—'Shoot, I'd gladly sold them mineral rights for reasonable money, if that's all they wanted.’ It was part of his package deal, but they didn't seem ‘specially interested in that. According to what he said to me."

The three of them talked some more, and Royce and Mary left, checking in with Mary's answering service from a pay telephone. She phoned Alberta Riley, and they made a couple of other calls, including one to Luther Lloyd's home, trying to see if anything had changed with respect to the missing persons. Mrs. Lloyd was no longer stonewalling it for the cops. Mary spoke with her, at Royce's suggestion, and the woman confided in her.

“They tol’ me not to say anything about Luther being gone and such—said I'd just be making folks panic. They're all in a panic now any which away. There was more killed yesterday—Kenneth Roebeck and Dub Olin and a feller that worked for him. Shot down in the middle of—” She caught herself, and Mary thought she'd decided she was overstepping her place to say these things. But she was weeping. Soft, muted snuffles into the telephone.

“It's all right, now. It's okay there.” She didn't know how to comfort the woman. “I've done plenty of crying, too. It's a terrible feeling—not to know.” This only made it worse, and the floodgates opened. Royce watched Mary. She teared up a little herself. Finally Mrs. Lloyd was able to get back under control.

“We don't have to talk anymore if you don't want to, Mrs. Lloyd."

“No. It's okay. I don't mind."

“Have you ever felt like there was something wrong with the deal they made to buy your ground? I wouldn't repeat what you say to me."

“I don't care if you do repeat it. Of
course
I've felt like there was something wrong with the thing. Luther would a never sold that piece of ground. It was slicked offa him some which away. I don't care how much money they give us, he loved the farm. It was no-account river ground that had just about been farmed out, and we could barely scratch a living off it, but by gols, his gran'daddy give him this ground."

“But yet...” She wanted to be careful how she worded it. “The contract and all ... That was Mr. Lloyd's signature on it, wasn't it?"

“I reckon so. But I went to the lawyer over in Maysburg, and he said that, aw, you know—if we wanted to try to go to court an’ that we might be able to prove that it wasn't done under the right conditions and so forth—"

“Or that he was under pressure of some kind to make him sell—something like that maybe?"

“Yeah. I forget all the things he said. I tol’ him go ahead and do it and I'd pay him best I could. And then he called up later on and said he didn't think he could recommend it on my behalf anymore. That I'd just spend all my money for nothing. He said he'd still take them to court if I insisted, but he was purty sure I'd lose."

“Why was that?"

“He thought they were too big. Some big company that had dealings with the U.S. government, he said. And they'd tie it up in court for years. I told him finally if he thought we'd best drop it, then drop it. If Luther was here and it was him and me, it might be different
;
he'd want to fight it. But I can't deal with all that and him gone too."

“I understand.” They traded wishes of sympathy, Mary thanked her and wished her well, and rang off.

She filled Royce in on the other side of the conversation, and he voiced the question that had occurred to her as well:

“It would be very interesting to know what Mrs. Lloyd's lawyer found out, and who told him. I wonder how difficult it would be to get any information out of him."

“You know lawyers.” She shrugged.

“Right. But what if we had Mrs. Lloyd call her lawyer and ask him where he got his information. Just have her hint around. You know—she wants to know so she can decide whether or not to pursue the thing against the company for maybe forcing him to sell the farm under duress or whatever?"

“Do you know Mrs. Lloyd?"

“Umm. Yeah. I see what you mean. She's good people, but I can't really see her bringing that off either. What if you were to go to him—as a friend of the family considering the same kind of lawsuit? Think that could work?"

“I'd be willing to try."

“Tell you what, Mary, let's see if we can find out any more information by poking around out there at the construction site. We'll see what we can find out this evening. Maybe we can learn something that will point us in the right direction. Tomorrow—if nothing's changed—we can go rattle the bars on Mrs. Lloyd's lawyer's cage. Okay?"

“Yes. What do you think we'll find out there?"

“I don't have a clue. But all that traffic and massive concrete work and whatnot—there have got to be some plans around, maybe in a trailer or something. Surely we can get a better idea of what they're doing out there in the middle of the boonies."

“Won't it be guarded?"

“Typically a job site like that might have a guard—a retired cop glued to his TV, or a kid sitting around in the trailer getting high. They don't even make builders get construction permits on unzoned county ground—and if they do have a construction guard, he won't be any big thing.” He'd have good cause to reconsider the wisdom he'd just dispensed.

The first thought that occurred to Royce had been that they were building some sort of military airfield in the middle of nowhere—there was such a vast expanse of concrete. Poured concrete had covered much of the construction project, from the center of what had been the Lawley farm to the northernmost edge of Bill Wise Industrial Park. The great span of concrete reminded one of several airstrips viewed side by side.

But this was no airfield. The concrete formed a sublevel, a gigantic flooring and walls. A shallow-walled fortress? Some kind of NORAD deal maybe? A defense command to be housed in this immense subterranean bunker? For what purpose? The North American Defense Command was buried under the heart of Cheyenne Mountain, and impervious to nuclear strike. This one was only a few feet down—too vulnerable.

He tried to imagine a Disneyland for adults. What would it resemble? A fanciful landscape of spiraling turrets and minarets and geodesic domes as drawn by Alex Raymond? Perhaps this was the beginning of an environmental theme park, a showcase for earth-sensitive projects of research and development just as World Ecosphere, Inc., claimed. Maybe they'd had the misfortune to concoct a land deal at the worst possible time and place, coincidentally picking a small town targeted by a serial killer.

Royce turned to Mary, bundled up in sweaters and a heavy coat, and whispered, “Let's get closer.” She whispered okay and they moved as quietly as they could, going over the top of the embankment where they were parked, and down the fairly steep hillside that was adjacent to Russell Herkebauer's drainage ditch, and Lawley's northern ground.

There was a wood line at the base of the hill, and they stopped there, hiding in the trees.

“That's the place where we want to go, I think.” He pointed to a rectangular-shaped building about the size of a trailer-truck bed. “I think that's the office trailer.” There was a similar-size affair without side doors, which he knew was a place where tools were locked up at night.

He was starting to get up, almost ready to reach for Mary and tell her they were going to check out the trailer, when the first guard came out of the trees beside them. Royce grabbed Mary, shushing her and pulling her down all in one move, and only luck kept her from making a noise.

“Jeezus! I didn't see him at all,” he whispered, when the man and his dog were well away from the trees. Mary was frozen in terror, literally speechless. She tried to swallow. Realized, suddenly, she needed to take a breath.

“That was close,” she said, gasping.

An armed man, carrying what appeared to be, by its silhouette, a rifle, with a leashed guard dog, had been in or very near the wood line at the base of the hillside, not fifty feet from where they'd just come down the embankment.

“Right. Just stay chilly.” In a couple of minutes, scanning the dark shapes, he spotted a second man. This one carrying what was unmistakably a small machine gun of some kind. No dog.

“Come on,” he whispered after a bit, “we're going back.” In the vehicle he told her.

“That cinches it. You don't put guards with silent attack dogs and machine guns on an environmental research park. No way."

“What is this all about?"

“I don't know ... I know one thing.” She looked at him quizzically. “If the wind had been coming from the other way and that guard dog had picked up our scent—we'd have been in a world of bad news."

“Is that what happened to Sam, you think? He found out what they were up to?"

“Maybe so. We've got to get some help. Whatever this deal is, it's a lot bigger than you and yours truly can do anything about. And Marty Kerns—forget it!"

“If this is something to do with the government, maybe the FBI is in on it somehow. That would explain why they haven't done more about the missing people."

“Yeah. Let's get out of here.” He started the engine and they headed for the county highway that would take them over to Market Road, and eventually across the bridge into Tennessee.

“I got a bad feeling,” Royce said. “And I've got you in over your head, too. I've turned out to be some friend to you."

“You've been a good friend,” she said softly, touching the back of his hand. “I'm the one who got
you
in this mess, remember?"

Little did she know. Little did they both know. Royce had nothing to go by but his vibes and a lot of experience running games on folks, and having games run back on him, but one thing he knew: They were in deep shit. And everything he did, every new fact he gleaned, seemed to leave them in a more precarious situation, and knowing less than they knew before.

NORTH QUARRY BAYOU

T
he beast crosses an open field of wild pastureland, keeping close by the protective thicket that divides the piece of ground, a dense border of interwoven bushes, thorn-studded trees, and commingled vines. Moves in the direction of swampy bayou, dark glade, secret hollows made for hiding, killing, and burying.

From the distance you see a huge waddling clown man, fatso bear, limping a bit—if you look closely—favoring the tired right ankle that supports its share of the quarter ton, but begins weakening when the beast grows tired.

If you have the bad luck to view him from closer range, you will see he is not the grinning simpleton the stereotype suggests. Mean, hard, unforgiving intelligence flashes in the strange, doughy face. Eyes as cold as graveyard stones flicker constantly, registering every sign and movement of life. His breath mists in the cold air as his sensors scan for the presence of humanity.

Should he see your footprints or your recent tire tracks amid the Hereford cattle and water moccasin sign, he will lock on to your heartbeat and find you. His present mood gives new meaning to “obsessed.” Killing and torture have become a relentless and insistent need.

Last night he slept in a frigid box of a cramped automobile, and tonight he will spend it in a warm house—if he has to leave Mommy, Daddy, Bubba, and Sissy with RIPPED ABDOMENS, TORN KIDNEYS, BLEEDING HEARTS, AND PILES OF STEAMING DOG SHIT to do it. He sleeps inside tonight.

As he scans he thinks of BELLY BILE, GUT JUICE, VENTRICLES, VISCERA, OFFAL, FAT, SMILE, BLOOD, GUTS, GORE, GRUE, GOOP, CHITLINS, SHIT TUBES, RIPPED RENDERED DEAD FUCKING MONKEY PEOPLE.

The field is crossed and he is in dark woods. It is colder here. Cow flop. Snakeskins. Wet, green clumps of shadowed moss thriving in the rankness of deep, canopied murk. His sensors pick up his own sewer-main stench, the fragrance of pastureland manure, compost, humus rich with a mulch that he imagines as decomposed flesh—what a superior burial site!

Out of the cold shadows now he tops a ditch bank over a bayou. A viscous green scum lies across the surface of the water. He leaves his deep 15EEEEE indentations along the top of the bank. Follows a cattle path. Skirts the bayou. Reaches the edge of the world.

Chaingang peers over the side of the cliff. He is looking down into what appears to be a bottomless pit, an old marble quarry, fathomless, deep beyond measure, going down beyond visibility into the darkest, blackest core of the earth. He throws a rock in and listens, but does not hear it strike bottom.

No stairs or steps or paths lead down into the quarry. How has the rock been retrieved? He idly speculates on this oddity, initiating a query about the queer quarry, smiling broadly at the potential of this gaping, grand invitation. What a mass monkey grave this would make!

By nightfall he is on the other side of the black hole, snug and warm in Frank and Lucille Stahly's farmhouse. He has the heat cranked up, a big bowl of chips and Mrs. West's Party Dip in his lap, and his muddy boots rest on Lucille's coffee table, waiting for them to return home.