Chaingang

19

WATERTON

According 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.

It was typically company-oriented and task-oriented, aimed not so much at determining what happened to the missing persons, but whether or not their absence was going to have an ill effect on the Ecoworld project. The summary was as Fisher had stated: It appeared that a serial murderer was killing and/or abducting random persons from the Waterton/Maysburg area. While the report did not have the data on Rusty Ellis, or the conclusions on the fire at Butchie's, it did contain the “Smith-Truett-Kelly-Doe” murders from Maysburg's police department, which indeed seemed to confirm the existence of a brutal serial murderer on the loose.

For the first time, Royce was not so certain about the land deal having been the focal point that linked the missing persons, Sam in particular. Inarguably, there was a serial killer who was taking lives at random.

“What did you think?” Mary had asked him as soon as they were in the vehicle and homeward bound, Royce behind the wheel, his mind going a mile a minute. He was trying to sort out two parallel worlds, make that three, at once.

“You mean Fisher?"

“Mm."

“Seems like a decent guy. Nice guy.” His voice saying something else altogether.

“Something's going on here, right?” Mary was no rocket scientist, but she'd always been proud of her ability to size things up. After all, this was the woman who'd loaned a former junkie lover five thousand dollars. What do the banks call it—unsecured? She trusted her BS detector—always had.

“Yeah."

“Well?"

“I don't know."

“Come on, Royce. Talk to me."

“I don't know, babe. What can I say? It looks bad. It's going to get a lot worse. And it probably is a helluva lot worse than that, but nobody's telling us. There. That pretty well do it?” She just looked at him. “Sorry,” he sighed, letting out air. “I—"

“But ... do you think...” she really didn't want to articulate it “Sam is..."

“Yeah."

“The idea of a serial killer in Waterton—it's ridiculous. Unthinkable. But why wouldn't we have found Sam if that was it?” The concept of a serial murder case in a town of less than seven hundred people, a town so rinky-dink, it grows 50 percent larger when the migrant workers come through, was absurd!

“Let's just talk about the things we know, Mary. We've got enough to try to sort out without running through hypothetical situations. Sam is missing. He's not dead. We're not sure. Let's remember that.” Funny. Him telling her this. As if she didn't know.

“Yeah. But you think he's dead too, don't you? Be honest."

“Yes. I do,” he said quietly, after a few seconds. It seemed noisy in the silence of the car. “I have nothing more to base it on than the others being missing. But I think he's gone.” He reached over and patted her arm. She felt stiff.

“Yes,” was all she said. Yes. That's what I think. That's what I feel. Yes was enough.

“As far as the Ecoworld deal having anything to do with it. I don't know. Five minutes ago I thought it might. At this second I don't believe that it does. Five minutes from now I may change my mind again. We don't have real facts. We're working from suppositions based on what others are telling us. And we know the legendary Marty Kerns isn't giving us anything. This CCC deal still looks fishy as hell to me, I don't care if there is a serial murderer out there somewhere."

“This thing says that World Ecosphere surveyed ‘small towns throughout the middle-American states, from the northern heartland to the South, in search of the perfect community for development.’ Jeezus! Royce—I just thought. Sam was supposed to make all this money by buying up surrounding land and what they called ‘access properties.’ This was supposed to be one of the perks for setting up the deal, see? He'd be in the know and all, and nobody else would know about it, so he could buy land at reasonable prices. Then when the Ecoworld park was promoted nationally, the ‘nothing ground’ he'd been buying up would have become choice real estate."

“So?"

“First—he was reluctant to wade in and invest. You know, he never totally trusted these guys—it was all so bizarre. And he'd seen some of these pipe dreams fall apart. But what I'm saying is, I just recalled that there was a big flurry of paperwork on it. The company had their access routes that they didn't want him ‘muddying up'—I remember that particular phrase. It was fine for him to cash in on surrounding land and whatnot, but there were certain areas he wasn't to mess with. This was when it was all real secretive, and they had a code name and stuff."

“A code name?"

“Yeah. I just remembered that. He wasn't supposed to refer to the Ecoworld project by name in any fax or cable or whatever. There was a mound of telegrams and night letters and stuff—and I know he wasn't carrying all that around in his briefcase. I'll bet all the paperwork is still tucked away—either in the office or at home."

“Think you could find it?"

“I can't imagine where to start looking that I haven't already looked. It probably wouldn't tell us anything we don't already know. Joseph Fisher would probably let us look at their copies if we said something."

“Maybe ... What was the code word?"

“Oh...” She thought for a while. A lot of time had gone by, and her mind didn't seem to want to function. “Rampage? No ... mm ... something about the waterworks. Ramparts! That was it.

“The idea of a code name—Sam thought it was kind of silly. As if somebody would know what the heck Ecoworld meant. I just finished reading about it and I still don't know."

Mary had turned in the seat, and her skirt pulled up more than she meant it to. He kept his eyes on the road, but that was okay. He knew every sweet dimple and lovely curve. He knew all too well what those beautiful legs looked like.

“I'm sorry, Mary,” he told her.

“Hm?"

“You know—” He didn't say it. Just covered her hand with his. “Everything.” He let it go.

She thought he seemed different. In school he'd been the least likely guy to end up as some skanky doper. He was more like the Royce she remembered.

“Yeah,” she said, and it was as much a whispered prayer as anything else.

Royce took his hand away. Without saying anything, she'd spoken to him in the intimate language of old friends and lovers, and there was no way on God's earth he'd put a move on her. All he wanted to do was start over. Turn the clock back and start acting like a man for a change.

He'd told himself a thousand times he was over her, always knowing that was complete bullshit. You didn't “get over” Mary Perkins, with that soft skin and that mouth and those sweet ways and those legs. You didn't get cured of her. Mary was fatal.

She'd left a part of herself in every place where they'd been together, like a Persian cat shedding small, fluffy balls of itself, insubstantial but real legacies that would catch in the currents of the air like microscopic tumbleweeds, and come back to whisper to you.

Just about the time you'd kicked the Mary habit, you'd chance upon an errant long hair in an unexpected place, and you'd hear that lovely voice, her throaty, warm contralto, or you'd see that natural, sexy, skinny-legged, loose walk of hers in your mind, or you'd smell the fragrance of her memory, and—wham! No cure. Jonesin’ for Mary. It dawned on him that it had been days since he'd done lines. How weird. His new jones: Mary-wanna. Hey, Mary ... Wanna?

Mary knew she was feeling something toward Royce that she shouldn't. It was an emotion she'd been fighting.

What was it about some men? There were those certain guys who could get on a woman's wavelength. Her junkie lover of long ago, with the wide, lopsided smile so full of unexpected warmth and tenderness, he'd been one of those. He could send her into a mood swing the way north draws the needle of a compass. Explain it? She couldn't even define it.

All she knew was that they occupied two different worlds—physically, spiritually, and sexually—yet he nudged her at the oddest times in a way that could only be compared to the desire for a guilty pleasure. And it wasn't sex, truly. Sam had been a sensual lover and sufficiently ardent and gentle to keep her content in that department. Mary realized that it was something more than sex or romance, a deep and not insubstantial part of her that was drawn to this man.

That night she dreamed of him, watching herself enter a room where Royce Hawthorne was. She sees herself as a vision, suggesting the best of early Perry Ellis and most inspired Marc Jacobs, the classiest Geoffrey Beene tailored with flashes of striking Armani, the tearoomiest Ralph Lauren with a hint of Ms. Herrera, mixed and matched by the latest kids—the ones with the unpronounceable names—and just a spritz of Fredericks. The vision moves.

His beautiful eyes follow the deep V-cut of the double-breasted black gabardine with the gold buttons, devouring her with his gaze. She feels the heat of his look. The vision at her best, striding through the room in a scented cloud of Opium, Poison, and Serpent's Eve—her special bedroom fragrance that triumphs over Royce's masculine aromas and engulfs the room in heady perfume. Royce, captivated, comes to her.

He offers her his arm and she takes it, seeing his old leather jacket with the worn elbows, imagining his forearms bulging with thick, ropy veins between the ridges of hard muscle, wanting to feel his big hands touch her again.

In the car the vision's tousled hair is the colors of brandy and champagne, streaked with highlights, lips glossy and desirable, and as she turns, the skirt rides up on her legs—which he tells her are “still A-one.” She is in the front seat with Royce, in her cognac-colored wool jacket with the stone white poorboy turtleneck, and she watches him not look at her thighs.

Fear-shackled, tragedy-pinioned guilt speaks to her in a familiar man's voice.

“Mary?” She turns and looks for Sam, treading water, doing her best not to drown in the dizzying, unexpected waves of whatever this emotion is.

Royce wanted to open up to Mary. That was a problem. He couldn't. Not right now—the way things were hanging. Too much was going on. There was too much at stake. He was carrying too much baggage.

How could he ever begin to explain it to her—about the dope? He knew that she knew he'd fallen into the cracks, somewhere along the line. Royce could see it in her eyes sometimes, that how-did-you-let-yourself-get-this-way stare. Where does one start trying to explain a life? Your weakness and your vices and your mistakes look so easy to control when one is on the outside looking in.

He'd grown up in Waterton, just as Mary had. Born in 1962, in a hinterlands bump in the road that hadn't changed since the Second World War—Waterton, Missouri, was an American ghost town. The only thing good about it was, a kid could drive across the river to Tennessee and get illegal schooners of cold beer, vodka-laced watermelons, or home-grown reefer that just about everybody tried at one time or another when they were in their teens.

Grass was no big deal. Some kids smoked wacky-tobacky and some drank. Some—like Royce—did both. It was something to do. You fired up a joint, got in somebody's ride with a half dozen close friends, and cruised.

He'd been withering away. He'd have died if he hadn't gotten out of Waterton. He'd wanted all the sex there was, all the high times he could find, and he'd wanted out. Mary'd had a marriage jones that he felt snaking out for him like a hangman's noose. He'd run. Things had happened. He'd met women. Fast-lane types. Big-city junkies who'd taught him how to get his nose open. He'd never been that crazy about weed anyway. One thing had led to another. No biggie—hell, George Washington had been a hemp farmer.

Royce had gotten jammed up in the worst way and had taken the only way out left to him. That's how he'd got himself inserted into this king-shit jackpot. He knew he was going to have to open up to Mary about it soon. She deserved to know. No. That was bullshit. She most certainly did not deserve any part of his act. But he'd already used their friendship—just because she was there, and handy—and he owed it to her to run the whole thing down. He had to make it right.

He locked the car, a study in pensive concentration and gloomy dope-fiend rumination, his mind far away, as he headed for the door of his cabin. He was not alert.

There was a huge presence in the shadows. Hulking. Silent. A man standing very quietly waiting for Royce Hawthorne.

The man was good. Very quiet. As Royce walked by the large trees, the shadows moved. Like a gigantic animal, the watching man stepped out from this hidden nocturnal post, and moved behind Royce.

It was only as the man stepped heavily on a dry twig that Royce realized there was someone behind him. He flashed on the massive apparition he'd seen out on Willow River Road. The presence chilled him and dried his throat. He was frightened to the bone. He'd let all his powers of concentration become lax—what an idiot!

He froze, barely containing himself as he felt fingers of steel grip him from behind.

They say you see your life flash before your eyes. He did not. He only saw huge fingers, a hand, the long arm, squeezing his shoulder and pulling him around. Nearly scaring him to death, as he looked into a frightening scowl. The menacing, bearded face of the ex-boxer, Luis Londoño.

“Hey."

“Jeezus! Man, don't do that!"

“Come on.” The massive head jerking to the side. Body like a small car standing on end. An immovable object.

“Yeah. Sure.” What was he supposed to say—no? I have to take a piano lesson first?

He didn't recognize the car.

“What's Happy been up to?” he said, trying to make conversation. Luis only grunted and drove. Royce was aware of the little toy knife in the holster taped to his leg. He could feel it. He let his knee move slowly, inching his left pant leg back just a bit with the weight of his left hand. No way. First, he would never get it out fast enough, and if he could—what then?

The heavyweight was as tough as nails. He'd picked up both his purple and green wings when he'd been a biker. The green was for having oral sex with a dead woman confirmed as having active gonorrhea at the time of death. Royce had never asked what the purple wings were for. Royce might get his little toad-sticker out and take his shot, and while Luis died, he'd rip his face off and wipe with it.

That had never been the idea. The last thing he was going to do was get into some physical conflict with Happy Ruiz or his goon. The idea was to buy weight. And that was what he would do, or die trying, he thought—humorlessly.

Being summoned by Happy was somewhere on the pleasure scale between eating road kill and struggling with a bad yeast infection, but he had to put the danger completely out of his mind. He wanted to look anxious to talk with Happy when he got wherever they were going. And there'd be no reason for him to be apprehensive—after all, wasn't he the man's business partner? He calmed his mind as they bumped along in the direction, presumably, of The Rockhouse.

He remembered parking in front of the bikers’ “cantina” where Happy and the guys like to hang. Standing between them. Reaching for the money. Louis, again, on his left.

He tried to recall the signs over the back-bar. Carnes Finas—something like that. Some kind of beaner faro game or whatever going on in the corner. Remembering him telling old Fabio he was for real, and getting the jefe treatment. Walking on very thin ice again. This time with megaserious weight in the balance. Killer weight.

They stopped. Got out. He went in first. Vandella not at the bar. The place “after hours” now. Closed sign out front. Junkies and dealers and degenerate gamblers—the clientele.

Once upon a time nookie and sports had been his whole life, and not in that order. He wished it could be like that again, that he could turn back the clock and live it over with the advantage of that twenty-twenty hindsight.

Right now he was going to have to summon up his wits and dazzle Happy with some real fancy broken-field running.

“Yo. Where the fuck you been, amigo?” Happy was decidedly unhappy.

“Hey, dude. I was gonna ask you. We gonna do a thing or what?” Bluffing like a bandit. See if those head fakes still worked.

Brown. Slot. Motion. Two. Jet. On One.

No pain, no gain. No first and ten—no win.

Gut up, Burt, and play through the hurt. Pray for those key blockers.

“Who the fuck are you to ask me if we gonna do a thing?” Happy had his lapel in hand, and he was whispering his burrito breath in Royce's face. “I already told you twice we had it set. You said go ahead and do it. I do it with my people. I overextend based on your word. The word of a trusted amigo. You gonna carry the big time, you say. I got to come looking for you for my money now? What is this bullshit?"

“Hey, dude—cop some Valium or something. I never stiffed you five dollars five seconds. Can you dig that? Who the fuck are you to come muscling me, man?! All you gotta do is ask and I'm here, Happy!” Letting himself get very righteous and loud. Selling it. It either flies or it doesn't.

“All I gotta do is ax. Okay, jefe. I'm axin’ you. You got it?"

“Of course I got it! I got my shit covered, mano."

“Uh-huh. Well, where is it?"

“I'll bring it to you in the morning. Will that get it?"

“In the morning.” The serious black eyes stared at him from under the oily Presley-colored hair. He met the gaze, letting his eyebrows come up a little as if to say—yeah? Any problem? A long couple of seconds ticked by.

“Whatever makes everybody happy,” Happy said, smiling. “Let's catch a buzz.” He turned away, and Royce tried not to take a deep breath.

Brown Slot Motion Two Jet had looked a little raggedy from the sidelines, but this time the big guy was ruling it a completion.