Slice

BUCKHEAD STATION

“Still no answer in Room 117?” James Lee asked the switchboard operator.

“No, sir. I'm sorry. I let it ring twenty-five times like you said."

“And the messages I left with the desk. No chance he could have come in and picked them up?"

“No way. Everybody knows it concerns official police business, and he hasn't come back here today as far as we know. I had a maid go down and unlock the door just to make sure he hadn't come back without any of us knowing it, and he's not in the room."

“Yeah. Okay."

“Sorry, sir. We'll notify him as soon as he comes in this evening."

“Yeah. Yeah. Good. Right. Thanks a lot.” Lee hung up and called the sheriff's number.

A man answered. “Yes. Is this the same gentleman I spoke with about half an hour ago? This is Lee out of Buckhead Station."

“No, sir. You're the one trying to reach Special Agent Eichord?"

“Correct."

“We have been unable to reach them since your call earlier. However, Tom D'Amico was with him just a little while ago. Would you like to speak with him?"

“Please."

A pause.

“Sgt. Lee? Tom D'Amico."

“Hi. Listen, you have any idea where the hell Eichord went to today?"

“We were together some of the day. I haven't seen him for the last couple of hours. They said he isn't responding to the radio, so wherever he went with the driver they've left the car. I imagine he'll be calling in anytime now."

“It's imperative I get in touch with Jack right away. Life and death, my man. Can you help?"

“Best I could do is take your message. Either give it to Jack when they call back in or have him call you right away. I guess you tried the motel, right?"

“I've called the Hubbard City Motel five or six times,” Lee said. Six times, D'Amico thought silently, according to our count. But he said, “Well, don't worry, he'll be in touch soon. Do you want me to give him any message or have him call you or what?"

“Okay, first give him this, then get him to call me right away. If I'm not here I'll leave word with the dispatcher on the phones. Okay. Tell him I want to make sure he's got everything on the Chattanooga killing. Prints has positives on the perpetrator. Daniel Bunkowski is still alive. Tell him that as soon as he calls in or radios in and make sure he phones me right away, okay?"

“Gotcha. Will do."

“Thanks a lot."

“Okay. No problem. Talk to you soon, then."

“Sure.” Lee hung up. “Shit! Goddammit.” Lee was worried. Mad that he couldn't find Eichord. Where the fuck WAS he? Why didn't the coppers up there know anything? Why didn't Eichord ever have his fucking call-beeper on him? He had to get the word to him. Somebody had to get Donna out of the house, put round-the-clock surveillance on Eichord's place, the station house itself. He tried to remember everything Jack had told him about the Lonely Hearts maniac.

He had made up his mind about the money that morning and it irritated him further that he couldn't say to Jack, “Hey, pal. You're right. I gotta do the right thing.” He'd figured a way to get it back to the bank without copping to it himself. He'd explain the whole thing to Jack. He knew he could count on Eichord to help him. Reluctantly, he'd already taken the first step. It was one he couldn't take back and already the weight of the guilt had lifted from him like a cross being lifted from his shoulders. He smiled at the thought of the Christian imagery, amused, as he sometimes was, to find that he no longer thought in Chinese.

“I'm a helluva guy, you know that,” he said to his fat partner sitting at a nearby desk, who blew an enormous raspberry-flavored fart at him without looking. “C'mon, super-pooper, we gotta go take Donna somewhere safe."

“I'll handle that. I'll take her to a motel."

“Good idea,” he said. “She would be safe with you in a motel, dinky-dick.” He took the stairs two at a time. “Hey, babe,” Lee said to the girl at the switchboard, who lifted her frizzy head and smiled at him, “do me one. Call Peggy and tell her I need her to wait around the house. I'm gonna be bringing Mrs. Eichord over there. Nothing's wrong, I'll explain to her when we get there. Just tell her—ah, just say that, okay?"

“Sure.” The girl started dialing his number.

“Peg'll worry now, schmuck,” fat Dana said to him as they went to the car, “all the time till you get there. She'll wonder if Jack and her had a fight or something. What a dummy."

“Hey. That's show biz,” Lee said, starting the car and roaring out toward Buckhead Springs in the fast lane.

Twelve minutes later they were pulling into the street leading to the Eichord's subdivision. Daniel Edward Flowers Bunkowski and his newborn son were a half-mile away, driving at the speed limit, and looking for the street in the newspaper piece on which the Eichords lived. Bunkowski had the newspaper that he'd had photocopied by the Buckhead Library spread open in the seat between his massive body and the baby's nest. The microfiche had made grainy but usable copies. He had found the street and now had the chore of spotting the house that matched the one visible behind the smiling couple in the photo.

He looked at the monkey with the little tiny hands and feet all bundled up in the pile of blankets and thought he could make a perfect and safe bassinet out of his camouflage tarp and the enormous piece of mosquito netting he sometimes used in his night ambushes. He looked back at the houses, driving slowly, and missing nothing, every house automatically checked against the image retained in his mental computer, he concentrated fiercely with the total dedication that marked all his moves in combat situations.

Bunkowski spotted the house, the name “EICHORD” across the side of the mailbox at street level, and mashed the accelerator a little, heading for the shopping mall he'd seen. All the time the mental computer gears whirred, sorting possibilities, permutations, ways and means, options and escape routes, logistics and countermeasures. Was parking the baby on a darkened side street, hidden on the floor of the DeVille, the best way? The only way? Ample oxygen? Peril assessment? It was the last calculated gamble he'd make with his little monkey. He'd park two blocks from Eichord's. Make the car switch within seconds of the “calling card."

While Chaingang was taking care of business Chink and Chunk were parking out in front of Jack's and Donna's house, feeling oddly out of place to be here on cop business instead of socializing, and they headed up to the door and rang.

“Wait here, I'll go around back.” Dana stood on the front stoop and Jimmie ran around in the back yard. No Donna Eichord in sight. He banged on the back door. Nothing. He went back around. Tuny shook his head.

“I'm gonna see if I can slip the lock."

“Eichord have yer yellow eggs for an omelet if you go walkin’ in on her in the can,” Dana said, followed by something else Lee didn't catch as he was halfway around to the back again, slipping the back door lock only to find the door was open. He went in, thinking about his Magnum almost as an afterthought, the way one does when one goes through a door and nobody's there.

“Donna?” He called out louder as he walked through the home, “DONNA, ITS JAMES LEE. DONNA?” Nobody. He opened the door for Tuny.

“She ain't here,” Dana told him as he came in, unnecessarily.

“Yeah, I can see that, Jumbo. Listen. Uh, whyncha go hit the neighbors’ houses. Maybe she went next door for a cuppa coffee, whatever. I'll wait in case she comes back."

“Yeah. Awright,” his fat partner said, and went out the door and down the stairs, taking off at a brisk waddle.

Lee went over and sat in the front window, where he could see Dana going up to the door to the Eichords’ east and ringing the bell. Waiting, then moving off and trying the next house. Lee turned back to the window and put his feet up on the ottoman and waited impatiently. He picked up a magazine and thumbed through it. Put it down. Listened to the clock tick. Picked up Jack's old Mets cap. Fooled around with it, trying to spin the bill on his finger. Stuck it absentmindedly on his head, whistling softly, waiting.

Chain parked in the center of the street, the motor running, in park, door open, came out hard and fast and tough and mean. An amalgam of pent-up, murderous emotions housed in the body of a twisted giant, controlled by the tortured mind of a genius, a physical precognate, running up the bank on those steel tree trunks, not an ounce of fat on the enormous body, lightning-fast now, so far from the Chaingang of old as to be unrecognizable in motion, none of the inertia problems of the massively ponderous, no pachyderm ludicrousness, all fast well-oiled blur, the hands, fingers, muscles in the arms and shoulders rippling, the muscles capable of squeezing a flashlight battery, those HANDS, the steel-fingered hands that could rip a human's rib cage apart, that could rip a girl open in a steaming stinking ghoulish goulash of horror, three-hundred-plus pounds of rock-hard killer hurls the satchel charge through the front window at the image of the man in the Mets cap, grainy microfiche trigger of data retrieval feeding the on-line terminal, the body flattening on the bank as it blows upward and outward.

“BLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMMM!” Wood asbestos insulation glass flesh offal intestine steel rock earth kidney face iron shingle shutter door fingernails doorknob window lungs skin nails screws balls sparking sizzling shooting red yellow white blue hot slag sparkling flying metal melting wood splintering shrapnel whistling people screaming sonic booms crashing autos diving planes bomb blasts ripping the quiet suburban air in a molten metal blast furnace of death and destruction putting an end once and for all to the earthly woes of one Detective Sergeant James Lee in a million microscopic shrapnel bullets designed to cut, rip, tear, mutilate, shred, cut off, cut out, cut down, and permanently excise.

And Chaingang Bunkowski is in the car and gone, his maddening hunger for vengeance slaked, as the terrorizing blast still echoes in the litter-strewn street.