Duet for the Devil
Page 42
“Yeah, Rios, & how about where he mentions that two of the three yielded multiple non-negroid pubic hair specimens tangled among their own. Carter’s informant examined them himself, with the coroner’s permission, of course. The official report went into great detail in medical-jargonese. But he described them as ‘short,’ ‘very dark brown or black,’ ‘gently curled, not kinky,’ ‘soft & downy.’ Off the record he told Carter it was ‘jailbait beaver fur, without a doubt…’ Carter said he didn’t ask where he’d gained his inside expertise on the subject…”
“But the bottom-line was the examiner’s report that bore it out—pubic hairs from a single WFJ, approximate age of twelve-to-fifteen years. Same general age range as this girl you’re sure is one of Zodiac’s two companions—right? Some were broken off, others ripped out by the roots with portions of or the entire follicles still attached, further indicating violence involved in the sex act.”
“You’ve got the program, Rios. Definitely a gangbang, & most probably a rape, as it’s rather hard to imagine this young white chick was so desperate for the licorice-stick or so far into ‘rough stuff’ that she’d have willingly been pulling train for at least three or more gang spooks in an alleyway littered with broken glass, garbage & god knows what else—”
“Cool the racial epithets shit, will you, Frank? Sometimes you come across sounding like a total rednecked White Supremacist Aryan Asshole—Church of Jesus Christ Christian or Church of the Creator or KKK— & I know you’re not, or I wouldn’t be working with you. Okay—?”
“Sorry, buddy, it’s just when I get torqued, it starts those old tapes playin’—the Wichita WASP upbringing, the Rangers & ’Nam, the cop-talk programming. What Judy Lynn always calls my ‘macho bullshit.’”
“No prob, pard. Apologies accepted but unnecessary. Guess I’m a bit sensitive sometimes, being an occasional target of minority-hate-talk myself, & all…”
“Powder burns on the gun-sodomized boy’s buttock area were consistent with the altered pattern the coroner expected, given the use of a silencer on the 9mm’s barrel. I mean, give me a break, Rios, what the Hell would the kid be doin’ droppin’ his drawers in the middle of a dope deal ripoff or gang fight, lettin’ somebody shove a pistol up his ass? I think he’d’ve showed signs of puttin’ up one Helluva struggle if he knew what was goin’ on. No. He had his pants down already, & he was shaggin’ away, when the girl’s companion/rescuer bushwhacked all three of ’em! Carter’s informant feels so, too. Says the positioning of the corpses makes sense in the case of an interrupted rape/revenge bit. The rest was all blowin’ smoke to cover what had really happened, & the hit was pro all the way—the shooter’s a cool, experienced death-dealer, not a touch of the amateur about it. Readin’ ‘Mob’ or—”
“Serial slayer—either Brittain or His male accomplice—”
“Not Brittain. Definitely not Brittain. The hit was pro, but he lacked the Zodiac’s paranoiac attention to detail. You see, he failed to eliminate several important clues—matching fingerprints on the emptied needle packet & the torn plastic & cardboard blisterpack from a pack of Gillette Super Blue Blades… & a cash register receipt dated the same day (from the late-night drugstore just across the street & down about a block), that listed two sundry purchases that synced with the price tags on the aforementioned bits of evidence…”
“So, Frank, what did the folks at the drugstore have to say? Were they able to identify your rape-victim/serial slayer bimbette…”
“Wellll, catch a load of this—” Frank says, tossing another fax face-up on the table—like a winning trump card.
TWO SLAIN IN DRUGSTORE HOLDUP.
“OHHHH SHIT!” Rios moans. “The same night? The same frigging’ drugstore? & nobody caught that it was no mere coincidence? HOW…”
“There was excellent circumstantial evidence tying it to yet more black youth gang activity: paint & metal scrapings left on the brick wall of the adjoining alley as the killer made a too-hasty getaway in a car stolen or borrowed from a black kid with two drug priors, both dismissed; missing cash & drugs; stray scalp hairs from a late-teen or early-adult NM; some traces of cannabis ashes & cocaine powder; a discarded stiletto, a bloodstained metal baseball bat, as you know, a standard gang-weapon; &, in a nearby dumpster, the .38 Police Special also used in the slaying of the druggist—the lands & grooves of the expended slugs were a perfect match with those from an unsolved “drive-by” shooting, several months back…
“&, the head honcho of the Detective Division chose to overlook the evidence of an apparent vigilante slaying/coverup, & used it as a political ploy to go for a hefty appropriation to beef up his pet project—his Gang Violence Unit…
“Oh, yeah. Here’s one last item.”
POLICE SEARCH FOR CLUES IN
LOCAL CHILD ABDUCTION CASE
[ 252 ]
Hawkes & Rios stand on the neon-splashed sidewalk just outside of Neptune’s Grotto.
“Take care of Elijah for me will you, Rios? Just until the vet says he’s okay to travel, then I’ll fly him home. I hate to admit it, but I think things have just gotten too hot for a return visit—for whatever reason—for the foreseeable near future.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll drop in to see him every chance I get. & I promise I’ll do my best to smuggle him in some goodies to chow down on in the meantime.
“By the way, Frank, be careful, man, real careful. I got you a little going away present—“
Rios hands Hawkes a clear plastic cylinder with black endcaps, perhaps an inch-&-a-quarter in diameter & six inches long. It weighs heavily in his palm, its appearance most deceptive. Hawkes guesses its weight at perhaps a pound, though the sensation suggests two or three times as much.
“What the Hell’s in here, Rios, a lead pipe?”
“Better. Much better. Read the label.”
“ASP Tactical Baton…? But it’s too short for—”
“Expandable. Compact. ‘…gives the plainclothes professional a serviceable intermediate weapon,’ a direct quote. Nifty, huh?
“These things are available only to the law enforcement in-crowd. Man, oh man, Frank, catch this—it’s ‘American made of the highest quality aerospace alloys & ordnance synthetics. Its non-reflective, low-profile finish is rust resistant. The textured handle is not only attractive, but produces a firm, durable gripping surface.’”
“Christ, Rios, what did you do, memorize the fuckin’ flyer…?”
“You bet your ass, pard. This here is a gen-u-wine magick wand, & I ain’t kidding. ‘This baton provides you with a compact, inconspicuous & yet extremely effective impact instrument.’ ‘…bridges the gap between hands & the use of a firearm.’ ‘For the first time a practical baton available for the investigator or Federal Agent.’ Pop it open. Words cannot describe this gadget—it’s total kickass!”
Frank digs his right thumbnail under the soft, flexible endcap, gripping the opposite side with the tips of his fingers, & works the tight-fitting stopper off slowly, a motion reminding him of a shapely girl tugging on a brand-new pair of skintight, preshrunk denims, inching it over the clinging curves…
He slides out a matte-black rod with a textured surface like rawhide or buckskin, but obviously synthetic. The far end of the six-inch cylinder sports a raised chrome-silver “button.”
“How do you use this thing?”
“Well, just like that you can use it as a Persuader or Yawara—a control tool. But grab it in your strong hand, give it a brisk flick down or up, & the two telescoping inner shafts whip out, extending it to just over fifteen-&-a-half inches worth of Holy Terror. The end tip is a rounded knob so it won’t catch on an assailant’s clothes or rip him up. Strike the pressure points, man, WHAP!—you know, the appropriate muscle groups & nerve centers. But don’t hit his head, his face, or his neck—or it’s Humpty-Fuckin’-Dumpty Time, man, you’ll crack his goddamn noggin… that is unless you’re aiming to get lethal…”
Hawkes gave it a try. “WHOA! I’m duly
impressed.”
“Via con dios, amigo. Be CAREFUL. I’ve got BAD vibes, I mean, BAD. Too much weird shit going down here—
“This mind-control psycho you told me about…
“Mermaid’s Inn & its spooky disappearing act…
“All that astrology & occult jive that Zodiac is into…
“Like Palo Mayombe… Like Abakua… Like the darkest of imagined Black Magicks… I’ve never believed in this shit, not even the relatively well-known stuff, not Santeria, not Vodun nor Voodoo nor Hoodoo—whatever you want t’ call it—none of it…
“But The Rules just aren’t working. The maggots are hatching, wriggling in the meat of Reality right now, &, man, the flies are going to be buzzing thick & furious before this weird shit is over with. I’ve never been superstitious…but…”
[ 253 ]
Frank’s fingers tap out the seven digits of Cherry’s number on the chrome push-buttons of the pay phone’s keyboard. The Plexiglas curves of the kiosk’s wraparound windscreen are splashed in a gaudy rainbow of neon afterglow reflected from the tavern lights above, He lets it ring. Five. Eight. Thirteen. Seventeen. Twenty-one…
Nada.
The Big Zero.
A strikeout. Just like earlier. Just like when he’d tried from the phone in his motel room. Just like the numerous attempts from his car phone. He knew what the outcome would be before he tried. But the nagging thought that maybe it was some insane glitch again in his cellular, a hope bordering upon the superstitious, spurred him to action.
But as that folksy old Midwestern saying goes: ‘wish in one hand, shit in the other, & see which one fills up faster…’
[ 254 ]
Once more, the white blips of lane markers dissolve away mile upon mile in the tight-focused swatch of sole reality marked by the headlight beams of the Stingray, as enveloping darkness & the Endless Highway flow past Hawkes like the River of Night’s Dreaming…
An occasional road sign…
The white-hot blaze of all-night truck stops burning holes in the solitary black of moonless, post-midnight, unseen storm clouds gathering above the speeding glint of the silver bullet…
Nameless cities twinkling far off…
The jagged neon of motel strips, deserted streets awash with streetlamps’ chill pools of luminosity, swimming with shadow patterns, shapeshifting inkblots keying split-second associations, alongside or overhead the offramp info-boards announcing meaningless street after street in a whispered blur of white-on-green…
Taillights ahead…
Headlamps behind, as the Stingray slithers past…
The eerie glow of the dash lights across his huge, scarred knuckles, tensed & clawlike, clenching the curve of steering wheel…
FM stations laying down cool blues riffs from the Kenwood’s speakers, the bass tingling up & down the arched bow of Frank’s spine, plucking at the dull ache of knotted muscles, the sharper pain of bandaged wounds… Charlie Parker’s alto saxophone superimposing substituted chords in double-time above the background rhythm… Miles Davis’ innovative modal patterns from “Kind of Blue”… John Coltrane strangling the music with the mad harmonic shiftings of his tenor sax… Thelonius Monk… & Blue Öyster Cult… & Lou Reed with Velvet Underground… Shaw’s voice whispering so low the words twine within the blue notes… whispering of Devil’s Fucking Valley & darker, far darker, secrets beyond any measure…
Friday morning, again, another cycle of existence nearly come full circle…outbound…homebound…time & transformation…
The shark’s-mouth grille & sculptured curves of gunmetal-silver Stingray lancing down the strip of Endless Highway…
Beneath its underbelly, a tiny black box attached remora-like…
Upscaled protection, the H&K G11 & its fifty-round magazine concealed from sight…
Taillights…
Headlamps…
& the empty seat beside him…
[ 255 ]
Frank’s eyes are getting heavy-lidded.
Again. & again. He’s been forcing himself back to wakefulness, yawning, stretching his neck & back & shoulders, listening to his tendons creak & pop, shaking his head to exorcise the waves of sleep that swirl inside his brain.
“Switch the station. News, Man, I wanna hear what’s breakin’ on the newsfront—” Shaw says. Quite clearly.
Frank whips his head around.
Shaw’s battle-ravaged body with its spilling guts is seated next to him, the white jut of bone piercing through his black-seared facial flesh burning phosphorescent greenish-white in the glow of the dash lights. His bony left hand reaches out, punches the selector buttons on the radio to a news station.
Then shimmers out, along with the rest of him…
“& on a somewhat weirder note, in Lafayette County, Missouri, yesterday afternoon, two boyscouts discovered a cache of Bibles, tossed into a ditch & desecrated with human urine. Authorities credit this crime to the work of a Satanic cult…”
He was heading for Quincy, IL. But, now, Frank knows where he will recross the tracks of the Beast…
[ 256 ]
Frank has driven all night & on into the morning.
Following Interstate 75 all the way through Atlanta, & on to Chatanooga. There he catches I-24 North. It’s noon by the time he reaches Nashville. Fourteen hours, a handful of caffeine tabs, a dozen or so cups of coffee, & about 910 miles to go the distance. & everything becomes a jitter & a white-line blur.
He finds himself in the Nashville Hyatt Regency. A bit upscale for his normal tastes. Glassed-in elevators yo-yoing 25 floors up & down the inner canyon walls of plant-lush atrium like some transplanted rainforest.
He blows off the bellboy’s offered help. Stashes his own bags. & decides to grab a quick bite before he crashes…
The balcony restaurant overlooking the foyer looks great, but the service sucks bigtime. He orders a BLT on white & a Bud. The brew comes through. He dozes off. An hour-&-a-quarter later the sandwich is still on standby status.
“Screw this!” he says.
Drops cash on the counter to pay for the suds.
The cashier wants to hit him for the balance of his tab.
He snarls. Whips off his shades. & lets her take a long deep peep into his fevered, Dirty Harry stare.
“Thanks, sir,” she says, “sorry for the wait,” & hands him back his change.
He catches a few winks. Not many. His exhaustion is so extreme he just can’t sleep. Just tosses & turns, & ties himself up in the sheets.
[ 257 ]
The Vette is a sleek meanmuthuh mako shark, gobbling the miles, chewing them up & spitting out the whiteline trail of littered bones…
Seven o’clock sees Nashville disappearing in the rearview mirror…
Seven-thirty-eight, & the lights of St. Bethlehem & Clarksville are winkin’ & blinkin’ to the west, & his head’s already nodding to the lullaby of steelbelt hum…
Seven-forty-seven, & the Kentucky state line passed beneath from going-to to coming-from…
Jingle-jangle nerves, shoulders hunched & tense, the highway markers shouting in Frank’s head, “I-24,” “I-24,” “I-24,” “I-24,” “I-24,” a berserk bingo caller’s litany caught in the groove, the needle skipping & tripping him back to Friday nights in Wichita, smoke-thick air, the smell of sweat & felt-tip markers, his mother indulging her sole vice, Little Frankie nodding off, his head nestled against her shoulder…
His scarred right hand reaches out, turns up the volume on the radio… Coleman Hawkins’ tenor sax wailin’ hot, fragmentary phrases coalescing into conjured substance, full-bodied & melodic, yeah baby yeah… Frank’s fingers snapping, Paris & 1937, Hawkins’ backup some crazy cosmo Frog-band, wailin’ sweet on his classic, “Out of Nowhere…”
The silver bullet shooting that long, slow-swingin’ “S” curve, ’round the northern tip of Land Between the Lakes, passing by Paducah, the whipsnake flood of the Ohio a wash of moonlight sparks on moving water, flowing by beneath the bridgespan,
the firefly glow of Metropolis filling the nightsky to the west, then, too, vanishing into the distance…
Stations fading in & out.
Another fistful of caffeine tabs, washed down with scalding “black-as-my-luck” coffee at some nameless all-night truckstop just before the Shawnee Forest.
T-top opened to the night sky, the big wheel of stars turning ever turning in a slow spin overhead…
Focusing the white-hot core of his meltdown-ready mind on a mad mantra of the Beast’s bombastic braggadocio bobbing up through a dizzying well of years & mostly-unshed tears—
The score of His claimed kills forever rising:
Zodiac-10 SFPD-0
0-12 SFPD-O
SFPD = 0, Zodiac = 13.
DEAR EDITOR:
You’ll hate me, but I’ve got to tell you.
THE PACE ISN’T ANY SLOWER! IN
FACT IT’S JUST ONE BIG thirteenth
13 ‘Some of Them Fought