Stone Shadow

Dallas

Dog had spent the night in the sling chair, and as Jack got out of bed to let it outside, he scrawled a note for himself to find a good home for it and brushed against the unread medical abstracts. He glanced at the point where he'd stopped reading, where another logjam of technical mumbo-jumbo had collided with his lack of scientific training, and he'd passed over pages of “chorion” and “placenta” and “intrauterine” and “superfetation” to words and phrases better understood.

The last thing he remembered reading was the part about the physical criteria for determining monovular twins. The part about how their ears and teeth should be alike, that the hair color, texture and thickness be the same, their eyes identical in color, the same skin color and texture (had Joseph gone the Mantan route?), blood typing, et cetera, and he'd left off reading where the words “etiology” and “dichorionic placenta” appeared in the same sentence.

He tried to focus on the paragraph again, and “arteriovenous” and “polycythemic” slammed into his brain and he read “most twins are born prematurely, and maternal complications of pregnancy are more common than with single pregnancies.... Theoretically, the second twin is more subject to anoxia than is the first because of the possibility that...” and as he detuned he remembered something that Dr. Vinson had said about a split-second cutoff. A moment's damage that could wipe out a human conscience. And for the first time he thought there might actually be something in all that hocus-pocus about thought manipulation on a neural pathway.

And frighteningly he recalled the Hackabee story of an orphanage fire, and a pair of foster parents long dead, and the entire alumni of that Branson agency coincidentally deceased—save for the old gentleman who'd fortuitously found his way to Alaska, perhaps just in time, and Eichord felt a cold stab of deep and very real fear. If Joseph Hackabee was the killer, he would be an extremely lethal adversary.

He drove in to work early, stoked on adrenaline rush, fear, and the sense of a mounting climax. Not a nervousness or even a professional apprehension so much as a feeling of icy resolve. It was nearly there. The hard evidence would soon fall into place or there would be none. It was as much in the hands of the team, task-force computers and people now working in faraway cities, the vast resources of MacTuff, as it was his.

An irony was that the racial situation had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The press were back on the president's case, and with no new corpses, the best that media could do with the Grave-digger was to ponder some conspicuously missing persons in the Plano area. The tabloids had a Jackie-O in Noel Collier, and her beautiful face and flamboyant track record continued to appear whenever the Grave-digger updates got more print space and air time.

As Eichord drove to work he tried to get inside the head of the man in question. He worked to resolve the disparity between Le Face of Joe Hackabee and The Man. The mask he wore was all but impenetrable. For a handsome, talented, brilliant, successful and seemingly well-adjusted citizen to be, in private, a mass murderer—it was a tough sell. True, a couple of the perps who had taken down big numbers of young women had been in fact physically attractive and, at least superficially, “normal’ in their life-styles. But this was something else, this Hackabee thing. The sheer numbers alone made it so difficult for a sane person to fathom.

He'd barely parked his car and walked in the building when Mandel said, “Jack?” The voice had a sharp, serious edge of urgency.

“Oh, hello,” he said to the bulky figure standing in the doorway of the homicide squad room.

“Check it out,” Dr. Mandel said, laying a folder in front of him. He opened the file and saw Ukie's personal bio, titled Minnesota Multi-Phasic Personality Inventory. “Okay,” Mandel said, reading over his shoulder, “skip all this here"—he reached around Eichord and flipped past the lengthy history, past a Stanford-Binet—"here."

Eichord began to read the summary of the drug-induced test on SUBJECT: Mr. William Hackabee. He speedread word blocs about Ukie's very real fantasies. About his lack of a boundary between fantasy and reality. His fragile, schizophrenic personality, his frightening illusions of extreme power and terrorized vulnerability. He read Mandel's conclusions about Ukie's delusions and paranoia, and what he had said under drug-induced hypnosis. It sat him bolt upright in the chair and then he was pushing away from the desk even as he finished the paragraph.

“Where's the vid—” he started to say, but a nodding Dr. Mandel had anticipated him and placed the black cassette box in his hand. They headed for the monitor room, Sue Mandel telling him, “It was chancy, it was a gamble, but damn ... this new stuff is dynamite with pentathol, and it's super-potent. Opens up the old neural doors,” he told Eichord as he looked at him with a meaningful glare. They went in and Jack took out the tape and placed it in the machine, turning the power on and adjusting the controls.

The tape was marked and slated like a real movie, and then there was a period while the camera focused on Ukie, who appeared to be heavy-lidded but awake, and he heard Mandel's voice slightly off-mike saying, “Bill, how do you feel?"

“Fine.” Ukie slurring the word. Fine sounding like “hiiiii."

“Are you comfortable?"

Eichord adjusted the volume up slightly. The doctor spoke to Ukie in quiet, reassuring tones as he began.

“Yes. Fine."

“Just relax, Bill."

“Relax.” (We-laaaahhhh.)

“You know I'm a doctor. And I'm your friend. I'm here to make you feel better.” Mandel's voice getting louder.

“Better."

“You're a little boy, Bill. And we want to know how you feel. Tell the doctor how you feel. Are you sick?” Emphasizing the last three words.

“No."

“You're not sick, are you?” A very loud voice now.

“No. I'm not sick."

“Are you hurt?” Mandel's voice like a steel chisel.

“Yes. Hurt."

“Where do you hurt, Bill?” Insistent.

“Here. Privates."

“Do you hurt in your privates, Bill?"

“Yes."

“Why do you hurt in your privates?"

“They hurt me there."

“Who, Bill?” No answer. “Who hurts you in your privates?"

“They do."

“Who hurts you in your privates, Bill?"

“Ma and Pa hurt us there."

“Ma and Pa hurt who there?"

“Yes.” The jaw fell slack.

“Ma and Pa hurt us there."

“Yes."

“Hurt Bill and ... who else?"

“Hurt Bill and Joe."

“How do they hurt you there?"

“No.” His face was contorted as he spoke. Words slurred.

“If you tell me how Ma and Pa hurt you I can make you feel better."

“Better."

“Yes. Much better. Now tell how Ma and Pa hurt you and Joe in your privates."

“No. Can't tell.” He was starting to move.

“Just relax, Bill."

“Relax."

“How do they hurt Bill and Joe?” Ukie shook his head violently. Mandel stayed with it a little longer but he seemed to be losing Ukie so he got him comfortable, relaxed, quieted down, and said, “Bill, you're a big boy now. All grown up. You feel much better."

Ukie smiled a heavy-lidded smile and nodded, “Yes."

“You feel so much better now."

“Yes."

“Bill, you like the doctor, because you know I'm your friend."

“Friend."

“Bill, I'm here to make you feel better."

“Yes. Better."

“Tell the doctor how you feel.. Are you sick?"

“Siiiiiiiiigh,” it sounded like he said.

"Are ... you ... sick?"

“Mmmmmmmm.” Not a word, more of a moan.

“Tell the doctor, Bill, are ... you ... sick?"

“Nnnn."

"ARE YOU SICK?” Mandel shouting so loudly it scared Eichord.

“Mmm,” grunted out, Ukie's head slumped over. Jaw slack.

“Bill. Talk to me, Bill.” Still in a very loud voice.

“Nnnnnn.” He seemed to be saying no.

“This is a crucial point,” Mandel said to Eichord as he continued to get only minimal and monosyllabic noises from Hackabee. “You have to take the subject just to that point where he can still function and keep him out there on the edge of the razor. When you're dealing with a new drug like this, and someone like Ukie, you have a lot of variables at work. Now he starts to come around a little and I bring him back but of course that's the meat and taters that you just saw.” His voice was loud and persistent as it came from the speaker system, “Tell me, Bill."

“Yeah,” more like a response this time.

“Bill—I'm here to make you feel good."

“Yes. Good."

“Are you sick, Bill?"

“Nnnnnn."

“Tell the doctor. Are you sick now, Bill? You're all grown up now. How do you feel now?” No answer.

“Are ... you ... sick?"

“Sometimes."

“What does sick mean, Bill?"

“Don't feel good."

“When you don't feel good, where do you hurt, Bill?"

“Head. Head hurts."

“Why does your head hurt?"

“Hurts real bad."

“Why does your head hurt, Bill?” Nothing. “You're all grown up, Ukie. Ukie is a man, now."

“Fine.” So the brothers had come from a background of child molestation.

“Ukie, how do you feel?"

“Fine?"

“Are you sick?"

“Yes."

Eichord had been riveted to his chair by the admission of Ukie's.

“Ukie, tell the doctor why you're sick."

“Angioneurotic edema, anaphylaxis, anaphylactoid purpura, treponema pertenue, renal impairment, intestinal amebiasis, systemic lipus erythematosus, chlamydia trachomatis, pericarditis, endocervical—"

“Ukie, tell the doctor where you saw those words."

“Words. On a paper thing."

“Do you like to memorize words?"

“Yes. ‘Member words."

Eichord sat motionless.

“Do you hurt in your head, Ukie?"

“Yes, bad there. Hurt bad."

Jack was still nailed by the admission.

“How do you hurt in your head, Ukie?"

“Comes inside to do things."

Jack almost regarded anything else he'd hear as anticlimactic now. This was hard, clinical evidence. Inadmissible or not, it was sufficient.

“No,” slurring the word, his face a contortion of terror. There was no faking this. Ukie Hackabee was scared shitless.

“Tell me about the thing, Ukie—” And Mandel hung in there for a while but it was taking its toll on Ukie, who appeared to have clammed up for good. By the time the doctor brought the session to an end Hackabee's face was streaked with tears. He appeared to be a genuinely tormented man.

“Jesus.” Eichord felt the cold stab of fear.

“Want me to go back and play the part where he says that about Ma and Pa hurting them?"

“No, thanks. I've seen everything I need for now."

“As soon as he's rested I'm going to take him under again and ask him about the killings. I'll wager he'll say he didn't do them."

“Any chance he could be faking the responses?"

“Almost none. The drug is extremely powerful. When he was regressing, the little boy who had been hurt in his Privates—you're getting the truth as he remembers it. There's an almost nonexistent chance that he could have been preprogrammed to respond in a certain way but the odds would be greatly against it. This is an experimental drug that has been used on so-called brainwashed prisoners and what little evidence is in indicates it's a breakthrough deal. I think we can put stock in the tape."

“The conclusions being that Ukie and his twin were abused or molested children.” It had hit Jack so hard he had to force himself to get up and move.

“Right."

“Okay.” He felt like a crushingly heavy weight had just been placed on him, and he knew then, as he moved into action, how much danger Noel Collier was in.

“If Ukie's thoughts are open to his brother,” he asked the doctor, who was following him as he walked quickly toward the squad room, “I wonder how much danger he's in."

“Ukie you mean?"

“Yeah."

“I don't know."

“If he can take Ukie on this neural thing, can he pick his brain? Can he ask him about what he's told you? Will he have a way to probe and find out about the narcoanalysis session?"

“We have to assume he already knows. Yes."

“Can he force Ukie onto the neural pathway anytime he wants?"

“Who knows? It seems that he can."

“Could he force him to commit suicide?"

“Huh uh. I don't think so. I don't think he can force so much as emphasize and suggest. He can put ideas in Ukie's head the same way posthypnotic suggestion operates. He can underscore. Reinforce something that Ukie already thinks or something where he may be vulnerable or highly susceptible or easily influenced. I have trouble buying the mind-over-matter aspect. I just don't know. You can't rule anything out here, We're dealing with a unique and brand-new situation virtually without precedent,” he said as they went in the room and Eichord headed for his telephone.

Jack started to dial then stopped for a second and looked at Mandel and said, “Thing I don't get is the MO. A genius IQ. A man from a horror-filled background of molestation that somehow turned him into a mass murderer. The possibility of a birth disorder of some kind such as ... One suggestion was anoxia. Something goes wrong and creates a kind of conscienceless monster. His rage can be slaked only by taking lives. He hates his twin, whom he's always been able to influence, so he goes through disguises and all that rigmarole to create an airtight, elaborate frame that puts the abduction, rape, and conning of Donna Scannapieco into motion. But his next actions ... That's where I get fuzzy."

“How so?"

“He calls US, putting HIMSELF in the picture. Why the hell do that? He could have stayed in Houston. Gone to Cleveland on vacation. You name it. Why insert yourself into the thing when you KNOW you'd become a number-one suspect because of your tie to the primary suspect in custody, Ukie?"

“Whom he knew he could control as he always had. He was on top of it all the way. Even staying in the shadows of his twin's mind. Convincing Ukie that the buried bodies were the work of a taller man, tall as a basketball player. Making himself even more inhuman and invulnerable by the absence of an identity in Ukie's head."

“Yeah, but why put yourself into it at all unnecessarily and THEN on top of everything go to one of the best law firms in the state and latch on to the top defense lawyer? Why give your object of the frame that much of a shot at getting off scot-free? Makes no sense."

“Sure it does,” the doctor said. “What would be the quickest way to divert suspicion from yourself? Come from the most positive point on the compass. A model of cooperation. The devoted brother who wants the finest legal representation money can buy. It was the smartest thing he could have done. I'm sure he convinced himself of that when he was envisioning the way the headlines would look. What I want to know is how did he manipulate Ukie, to the point of digging a grave?"

“Right,” Eichord said, dialing a number.

“That's where this thing loses me. It's hard enough to come to grips with the phenomenon of thought manipulation and telepathy on this kind of a scale, but when you change a physical situation—when you actually put the shovel in Ukie's hands—then you start to lose me."

“Go,” Eichord said into the phone and hung up. Dialing again. Saying to Mandel, “Maybe Ukie was telling us the truth. He wanted to see if the thoughts he was getting in his nightmares were for real.” He began talking on the phone, “Wally. We've got everything we need so far as sufficient cause to protect Noel Collier's life. Dr. Mandel's drug-induced session with Ukie Hackabee indicates both he and Joseph Hackabee were sexually molested children. It's...” There was a pause as Michaels spoke, interrupting him, and Jack replied, “Yes. Circumstantial. But that's still sufficient that we have to move. I mean it meets the life-threatening criteria, He's going to know by now. She's in grave peril. We've got to find her and isolate them, he's certain to be close to her. And we have to do it without tipping him off.” A pause. “No, that's out. Too much chance he'd find out. I need you to personally shepherd this thing through Jones-Seleska. Try to find out where they've gone. The thing we need to do is isolate them wherever they are or get her to return home long enough that we can protect her.” Pause. “Right. I've just put them in place.

“Okay. I'm going to go through the motions of trying to contact Hackabee, and we'll play it by ear from there. I'm going on into the house immediately and hope they'll have some reason to come back. Maybe Noel will come in to get some clothes or something."

Joe would be weaving his spell now. Moving in on her in some secluded location under the guise of the two of them escaping from the glare of the notoriety attending the case. He'd have to act fast. Today or tomorrow at the latest. She'd be wanting to contact Ukie again soon and he'd only be able to keep her out of circulation for a few hours.

Jack phoned Hackabee and wasn't surprised he had checked out of the Mansion, leaving his California forwarding address, and that he could be contacted during the interim through Jones-Seleska. The legal firm had instructions to hold all communications official or not. Only one other person besides Noel knew where the safe house was and he was out of the country and unreachable.

There was no more time. Jack gathered up his emergency kit such as it was and walked to the door, glanced around the room a final time, shrugged, and headed for his unmarked car and a lonely ride.

Time did what it always does so well. It ticked away.

0817: Eichord is driving. The level of paranoia begins to rise in the nocuous flood of changing events and swiftly moving data stream. The car, heading on a more or less septentrional course, goes with the flow, Highland Parkbound, Jack Eichord powerless in the whirlpool of occurrences.

He is suddenly quite afraid, and thankful there are task-force personnel on the scene. It could be lots worse. He could be on the job alone, heading for a house where a killer might be inside and waiting for him.

0851: The first of eleven phone calls is placed to Eichord at the Dallas cop shop. Michaels fields the calls as agreed. He will not relay the contents of any of the phone conversations so it will be much later, and of little significance, when it becomes commonly shared knowledge that

A. The Branson hospital records, like so much else in this case, turn out to have mysteriously disappeared. It was as if the Houtcheson family had vanished from the face of the planet. And that itself is but one alarming, isolated scrap in a shadowy paper trail of dark coincidental death and disappearance.

B. 1500: Midafternoon, the most important of the calls coming in to Jack, nominally, is from a Wyckerly Asylum. An employee matching the shot of the twins’ image had disappeared subsequent to a rash of unexplained deaths of patient/inmates. The man's references, primarily a recommendation by the chief of staff of another mental hospital, turned out to be spurious. “Jon Hinderman” a/k/a half of the Houtcheson-Hackabee siblings, was only a hazy memory. All trace of him obliterated.

Eichord would learn none of this, severed as he was from the mother task force by all but a slim, invisible umbilical of a two-way transmitter-receiver to the cops out beyond the perimeter of the trap. But the transceiver was an emergency unit only. The rule will be absolute radio silence. There will be no eyeball surveillance extrinsic to the Collier home. Hackabee is too devious and bright. The house must look squeaky clean.

1930: Eichord waits quietly. Prone. Behind the sofa. Relaxed as much as conditions permit. Not bored. Not scared but it's getting a little hairy now. He really thought that Noel would show before now, It's one thing to wait in an empty house alone, waiting in the sun-streaked shadows of a late afternoon. But it's quite another to wait in an envelope of darkness for hours on end. The smallest creaks sound like footsteps. The floor lamps begin to resemble the silhouettes of gunmen. He will wait, according to plan, until 2400. If she has not made an appearance he will change places with Don Duncan, who is in a surveillance van two blocks away.

But they are not coming. Not yet. Joseph Hackabee, in the hopes of averting another session of lovemaking, has set the woman on a course of conversation about Ukie and the legal battle she plans to wage in his behalf. Two hours of this have passed and Joseph is so bored by it that he opts for a sexual intermission as the lesser of evils. At 2110 he has had his fill of the woman had he decides enough is enough. He will put her under now.

The home has a large Olympic-type pool and tennis court. There are two nicely appointed poolside cabanas, and in one of them he has ripped up the floor of the utility area off the laundry room and painstakingly created a shallow but adequate coffin to house the 112-pound corpse of Ms. Noel, adequately covered in a shroud of lye. He enjoys the tingling appropriateness of interring her within the Jones-Seleska safe house. Noel is standing beside him in a white bikini with matching heels and he says, “Darling, I'm so famished. I've got to have some nourishment before I can go on,” whispering to her in that gentle, teasing tone, and she leans up on tiptoe flicking a long wet tongue into his mouth.

“You want something good and nourishing ... to eat?” she teases him back as she kisses him.

“Yeah, darlin',” he breathes in a husky approximation of faked desire.

“I'd have thought you would have eaten your fill.” She slurps his mouth again.

How tiresome this creature is, he thinks. “To be sure. But right now a sandwich is in order. Must refuel the old tanks.” He takes her head in his strong hands, resisting the temptations that well up within him. “Be a love and go rustle us up some grub. Anything. Meanwhile, I want to try out the wet bar in here. Drinkie sound good?"

“Anything you say, lover.” And she gives him her drink order, another wet kiss, and trots off fetchingly to prepare his feast, the obedient, wiggling, jiggling, bikinied maid. She goes around the pool, casting her tall, curvaceous shadow into the floodlit water. Any other man would have but one thought. Only lust at the sight of her. But Joseph goes into the cabana thinking, I'll have earned this one. He smiles to himself, whistling softly.

He will take her under right there in the Jones-Seleska pool. Watch her fight him as she goes through the ballet of reflexive laughter and disbelief, anger, fear, surprise, panic terror, death awareness. Be watching her fill her lungs with pool water and chlorine as she screams in a shock wave of mindless struggling, her voice muffled by the water, laughing at her as she fights without hope. He will show her the penalty for having forced her foul affections on him. He will show this pretentious female scum the dues to be extracted from one who would interfere with his plans. He will make this bitch pay, he laughs to himself, through the nose so to speak, as she feels every sensation of her impending death.

But she is there watching him prepare a hiding place in the floor, an excavation the size of a body, and she comes within a hair's breadth of speaking, of asking him to explain what it is he's doing making that hole in the nice floor and why the lye sacks but oh my GOD no she knows that she is looking at a burial place even though the signals to her brain have not arrived yet and the overload of information freezes time for her momentarily and she is on Central Standard Opium Time now, time that stops completely. Halts. Ceases ticking. Comes to a dead end. Tick.... Nothing. Then time reverses. Goes backward, rewinding sooooooooo slllloooooowwwwwlllly-kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk-ccccccccccccccccccccc ccccc-iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-TTTTTTTTTT! And a foot stops in midstride. She has come in to change her choice of potables, a woman's eternal prerogative: to change her mind. And she comes in soundlessly through recently oiled hinged doors coming in the cabana and in a quick take her mind puts her body on Opium Time and it is in this first microsecond that her time-shifting brain saves her lovely butt because as she opened her mouth to speak Opium Time freezes her face and it would take thirty seconds to say the first word of her soundless query, “W H A T” in real time, so she has plenty of opportunity to stop the movement of the foot in midstride, making that fraction of a second rewind as some miracle of survival instinct warns her and she kicks off her shoes and the former tomboy Noel is backing out, creeping out of the room just the way she came in, afraid even to swallow, time now

starting to

slooooooooooowwwwwwwwwllllllllyyyyyyyyy move

forward again

oh no no NOOOOOOO

don't start moving yet TICK Oh Godddddddddd TICK

TICK TICKTICKTICK moving now and she is running like hell for the car knowing deep inside that for days she has made love to a man who is who is oh oh oh oh ooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhGodnoohno no no no inside her secret heart she knows that she is running from DEATH! Running behind her now she can hear the footfalls thudding behind her and mindless of the pain she runs barefooted across the drive and oh jeez the keys are inside in my purse she thinks and then no she remembers the emergency key in the small metal thing under the bumper and she snatches at the magnetic box and it won't come loose and she feverishly rips it off, ripping her long blood-red nails in the process, and fumbles with the key, lurching in behind the wheel and smashing the door locks down as she grinds the ignition on, his hand grabbing the door just as she locks it, his arm back in a killing mode as she guns the motor, smashing out with a deadly elbow as she tromps the accelerator peeling out in a scrrrrreeeeeeee of smoking tires as, the window beside her spider tracks in a heart-attacking explosion from the thrown elbow strike and he leaps into his own vehicle and grabs the key off the visor but behind the wheel of a car Noel Collier is his equal and the Rolls roars away through the night, the killer close in pursuit.

She will drive to the police station. He won't dare follow her there but she remembers who this man is and he is already closing on her fast. She heads for her own house nearby, operating by reflex now, squealing into the drive with her hand on the automatic door opening a block away and she is running inside and oh my Christ he is in there waiting for her in the darkness and she feels his strong grip knock the automatic from her hand and her heart almost leaps out of her beautiful chest as the voice of the cop Jack Eichord whispers in her ear, “Get down in the spa room."

And she is almost in shock and starts to ask, “What...” the first word only a quarter second from her mouth. “What? W H A...” barely out and another hand clamps her mouth hoarsely saying, “Don't talk. Hurry. Move!” Shoving her rudely toward the desired direction and she stumbles through the door and down the stairs and into the stone room just as the killer slams out of the vehicle and he is so fast and deadly, and he smiles at the sureness of his movements as he moves toward the woman who is in the house.

All of Eichord's concentration now is shifted from a defensive posture to an attack mode. And the thoughts you think at a time like this come in a lightning blur, intensified by the survival instincts and triggered by the clutching talons of danger, Eichord watching both the image recognition pattern of the DEtection MONitor and the doorway to his right knowing the killer is coming and then seeing the conflict and wondering who or what but no time now and in the midst of all this a ridiculous thought.

He thinks, If this was a movie the music would be playing a woodpecker electro-motif. The Wizard of Oz ad told him about it the other day. Something the Soviets had once used on areas of the recalcitrant populace they wanted to punish. Ozzie Barnes had played a few seconds of it over the phone. It was an incessant variant of the Chinese water torture, a note repeated staccato endlessly, the sort of thing that was punishing enough just to hear via a taped shortwave monitor, and it would have made a nice background score for that second in time. That was the absurd thought his mental defense mechanisms evoked as he thumbed back the hammer on the Smith and when the dark form crashed through the door he squeezed one off just a hair below the eye slits. No “Freeze! Police!” Just forearms resting on a chair back, trying not to make any mistakes, no freeze—just a squeeze, and the maggie loud in the house, pyrotechnics momentarily blinding as his bullet smashed out drilling the intruder smack dab between the running lights.

It was never over until you made sure. Making sure was the hardest part, but it was the next step and he slapped the wall a couple of times with his left hand, right hand still in the weapon-up position, not hearing the screams of the terror-stricken woman down in the stone room, hammer thumbed back again, smoking muzzle pointing at the prone man's head, and he stepped over on the muscular wrist as a precaution and reached over to touch the head, instantly realizing it had been a mistake.

Joseph Hackabee a/k/a Joseph Houtcheson was about half empty of gray matter. Eichord's single shot had covered Noel Collier's nice white wall in red, dripping mist and assorted nasties and brain-burger bits, and some of it was on his hand. He fought bile back and wiped it off. Joe had a fourteen-inch Randall-type fighting knife which Eichord picked up and walked out of the open door and into a crowd of police.

“(something).” Michaels was patting him on the back and he caught “IAD” and “shooting team” and he popped his neck and it cracked, and he swallowed, and he could hear a little now, still half-deafened by the gun report after all the silence.

Noel Collier ran up to them and tried to say something to him but he was already moving, and he acted like he hadn't heard her and just kept going.

There were guys everywhere. Three or four cars had their bubble-gum machines on and the light bars were throwing eerie shadows everywhere. A medical dude said his name and he turned and the guy said, “You all right?"

And Eichord said, “Are the Kennedys gun-shy?” And he kept walking in the direction of his unmarked car.

Yeah. Shit. I'm great. Never better. I'm in Dallas fucking Texas and I just shot a man to death. I'm fine. Wonder how late it is anyway? Gotta call a lady about a dog. See if she takes in strays.