Iceman

Buckhead Springs

Driving home that night, he felt his mind sinking down into a slimy pit where he'd never allowed his thoughts to take him. Shit. He'd done everything else. He thought about the child. The child of evil. He wondered it ... Good CHRIST but he hated to let himself think it. But it might be better for everybody if he'd find a way to do away with the kid. There.

A blast of static over the radio made him almost jump out of his skin.

“Kay double A-Three.” Eichord's call sign to go over to the tac channel for a personal.

He switched the radio control and picked up the handset, keying the mike.

“Kay double A-Three."

“Call Mrs. Severn, please.” The dispatcher's voice.

“Ten-four. Thank you. Kay double A-Three out.” He pulled over to a bank of phones in front of a grocery store and dialed the number of a telephone in a 7-11 near Dana's house, as per their private code.

“Yeah,” his friend answered.

“Nu?"

“Yeah, okay. Listen. Just, uh, don't say shit. Just listen to me. Don't say anything more. I mean, just be real quiet and listen. I know how you must feel, if I'm right. If I'm wrong—fuck it, but don't say a word. Just hear me out and don't make any comment. Don't say zip. I'll say my piece, and when I'm done with it, I'll hang up and you hang up and we'll fuckin forget about it. Forever, man. I wanna tell you somethin. I know you know how much I love you, man."

Fat Dana was choking up, about to start bawling. The sentimental putz. “Fuck you. What I want to say is. I know YOU, too, asshole. And I know how something like what you done can eat at you. NO, DON'T TALK. DON'T SAY SHIT. If I'm wrong, fine. I think you offed those fuckers. I know you like a fuckin’ book. And if you did, you'll put yourself through seven kinds of hell over it. I have this to say to you—DON'T.

“We both know it's sometimes necessary to take a life in cold blood. We know sometimes there ain't no other way, Daddio. And we know that the end DOES justify the means. That's why there's wars and laws and cops and all that shit. I don't have the words to give you any comfort about it. It takes some big balls, and I just want you to know—right or wrong, I love you, and I'm always with you. Now fuck off,” he said, slamming the phone down as he often did to Eichord.

Jack got back in the car and turned his radio off. He smiled at the thought of Dana. I love you too, Fatso, he thought to himself. But he still had the bad feeling inside.

He got home and closed the garage door, went in and kissed his wife, and walked back to the room where Jonathan was playing. He looked in at the child, who immediately flashed small, bright black eyes in his direction, held for just a fraction of a second, then looked away with disinterest. Eichord stood there looking at the kid, thinking. Should I or shouldn't I? Knowing, sadly, that it would be a no-win deal either way.

The cold, hard pain in his chest was still there, but Jack Eichord knew all too well what it was. So it was hardly an unexpected discomfort. After all, nothing sits quite as heavily in the chest cavity as a heart of stone.

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