by Rex Miller
Later he will take a pan and go out and get some river water and try to prime the hand pump. But right now all he wants to do is get off his feet and rest his swollen ankle. He sits down hard on one of the chairs and it groans, threatening to collapse under his weight. He props his aching foot up on the table and begins drinking from the quart of whiskey as he lets himself imagine how much fun he could have if the family who owns this cabin would suddenly arrive for a vacation visit. What a nice surprise he could give them all; Mommy, Daddy, and little Brother and Sister. He'd let the kids and Daddy watch him give a big surprise to Mommy—and that's what he thinks about, sitting in the dark of a stinking river rat hole, smelling dead fish, swilling booze, and thinking about taking folks down.
He knows that if he remains static he is finished. They will be coming for him soon. His trail is wide and clear. A giant, pregnant bear of a fat man in a stolen Mercury, hotter than hell's hinges, silver with a vinyl top—all it needs are fluorescent signs on the doors saying HEY, LOOK AT ME! His first problem is he must lose the car. Then he must lose himself. He has been doing something that he never does. He has been making mistakes: Lots of them. He knows the cost of carelessness. Unless he mends his ways immediately they will get him.
He drags the heavy duffel over to him and begins removing items until he comes to the large, blue ledger. It is a well-worn Boorurn and Pease accounts-receivable book; 439 of the five hundred pages are filled with meticulously rendered artwork and carefully researched data. The heading at the top of the first page is
UTILITY
ESCAPES
printed in neat, firm capital letters. This is Chaingang's Bible.
He takes a long pull at the Wild Turkey, shuddering slightly as it burns its way down, and he turns to page 106 and begins plotting out his first move. This is the book of plans that will allow him to remain free under their very noses. He will go back to Chicago and take human lives for his pleasure. Many, many of them.
Lee Anne Lynch
Come on, young lady, you know what we said about bedtime."
"I know," Lee Anne replied, marching off to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Edie was grateful she had a good kid. Not much of a whiner. You laid down the law and usually that did it. It was a lot tougher without Ed, though, even with a good one like Lee. At age eight there has to be a firm disciplinarian around. Fifty inches of potential trouble.
She came out of the bathroom rosy-cheeked and naked, still marching with knees high to some unheard parade drum no doubt, slick as a baby seal across her flat chest and abdomen where she was starting to get a little tummy from too many sweets. Edie was going to start watching both of their diets real close for a while. It wouldn't be a problem.
"Mom," came softly from out of the bedroom and she went in to tuck her little treasure into bed.
"Mom, tell me about Icky and Boo-Boo," she said sleepily, starting to suck her thumb and then remembering she was years beyond such childish activities and cuddling her favorite teddy bear, a talking panda she'd named George, and had cuddled so hard and so often that its synthetic coat was worn slick, and snuggling down into the pillows. Icky and Boo-Boo were an Eskimo and caribou invented or remembered from childhood by her father.
"Okay, but say your prayers first, pumpkin."
"Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take."
"Amen."
"Amen."
"Once upon a time, there was a little Eskimo boy named Icky—"
"A girl, Mom," she corrected as Edie took a deep breath.
"Once upon a time there was this cranky little Eskimo girl named— "
"Cranky? Come on, Mom!"
"I'm sorry. Okay. Now close your eyes and I'll start over. Once upon a time, way up north, there was this little Eskimo named Icky and she had this beautiful baby reindeer named Caribou. It had always wanted to be one of Santa's reindeer, but it was a caribou, so Icky named it Caribou so that it would know what kind of animal it was. But she couldn't pronounce the word caribou because Icky was just a little Eskimo girl and so she could only say Boo-boo and that was the reindeer's name." She thought to herself, Is it a reindeer that wants to be a caribou or the other way around. I've forgotten how Ed used to tell this.
"And Boo-boo went to Santa Claus's workshop to apply to be a Christmas reindeer. But Mr. and Mrs. Claus were out, so he asked to speak to Rudolph"—and Lee Anne was already breathing deeply, thank the Lord, because she had no idea what she was saying at this point.
She got off the bed as soundlessly as she could and tiptoed over to the light switch. She put the room in darkness and started easing the door closed and a little voice came out softly, muffled by the covers and sleepiness.
"Mom, you get that story all messed up. Boo-boo's a caribou not a reindeer."
"Okay. You can tell me about it tomorrow. 'Night angel."
"G'night, Mom. I love you thiiiissssss much."
"I love you this much too, sweetheart," she said, shutting the door softly.
Jack Eichord—the Cop
You know how to get a nigger out of a tree in Mississippi?"
"How's that?" Eichord dutifully responded to the big cop standing next to him in Curley's, the cop bar where every-body in the 18th Division hung out. The guys off the four-to-midnight tour were coming in, all raunchy and thirsty, and Jack was nursing a Stroh's Light in between two guys from Property Crimes, longtime partners, standing on either side of him. The big one in the leather coat had a silk shirt on that must have cost seventy-five dollars, big, bad Fu Manchu, gold chains, ID bracelets, a miniature Mr. T, and the black one built like a fireplug, another open shirt and lots of chains, the white cop looking at Jack but talking to his partner, jiving around with him like they always did.
"You get a goddamn knife and CUT him down." Everybody at the bar laughed, Eichord laughing politely as he felt a tap on his right arm and turned.
"You know how to tell a plane in the Polack air force?"
"Shit, you dumb cacknacker don't you even know how to tell a joke fer' Chrissakes, it's how do you tell a Polish airplane not how do you tell a plane in the Polack fuckin' air force you wooly-headed Watusi midget."
"Listen, ya' big, smelly chuck piece of dog shit, if it's good enough for ya' Mammy it's good enough for you. Anyway, ya' know how to tell a Polack airplane?" Eichord's smile muscles are still bunched up and he shakes his head in the negative. "It's the one with the hair under its wings!" The black cop just about gets a hernia laughing. Eichord has heard all this stuff a hundred times.
"Ya' know what you call six niggers in a Volkswagen?" the big cop asks the bar.
"A stinkbug!" Everybody roars.
"You know why it takes a hundred lawyers to change a light bulb?" Curley, the bartender, interjects.
"It takes one to put in the bulb, and the other ninety-nine to make sure it gets SCREWED!"
When he first quit drinking Jack wouldn't even walk by a saloon but after he'd stayed off the sauce a few months he realized that was a little absurd. You were either under control or you weren't. It was just that simple. If you could walk into a package store and stare all that Daniel's and I. W. Harper and Seagram's right in the face and walk out with a sixpack, you could do the same thing in a noisy, smoke-filled tavern. The kind of work he was in you had to go into bars frequently, and if you didn't you could miss something here and there. Also, he knew how important it was to appear sociable. And he could go into the drunkest joint in town, sip a couple of Oly Lights or whatever, and enjoy himself, go home and maybe top the night off with a strong cup of instant and hit the sack.
Curley's was typically dark, salty, and noisy. A little heavy on the groupie action, more than he was used to anyway, and the fact that these guys he didn't know from up in Prop Crimes asked him along was an okay sign, the word was getting out that he was all right. He was waiting because Bill Joyce, one of the homicide detectives who'd drawn Sylvia Kasikoff, was goin
g to stop by and have a drink with him.
The 18th Division, they didn't call them precincts in the windy, was a fairly high-crime division that embraced a good part of the downtown Chicago area. The vast Chicagoland Megaplex was divided into areas, those then subdivided into divisions which were led, on paper, by division commanders. Eichord was on loan to the homicide unit in the 18th, a division that shared most of the town with the First. They had explained to him where all the jurisdictional lines were but after so many "Eleventh and State's" shot back and forth like ping-pong balls he tuned out on all of it. He was just starting to remember his way around after a lot of years. The main thing he knew was, it was a lot of city to get lost in.
"Walk south till yer hat floats," the white cop was saying and everybody was laughing at a cop story. Eichord smiled and tried not to look over at the clock.
The Property Crimes dude in the leather coat was in the middle of a slightly loud and rather embarrassing recounting of an amorous adventure in which he'd starred when Bill Joyce came in and motioned toward Jack Eichord. Eichord whispered see-ya'-laters, patted both his drinking partners on their backs, and left a couple of bills and change on the wet bar.
"What's up?"
"Come on." He followed Joyce out to the car. Joyce had the light bar going but no siren. "They caught another one. Over in the First this time."
"Four Ocean Six," the police radio crackled.
"Four Ocean Six responding, over."
"Four Ocean Six, please switch to Tac-two, over."
"Four Ocean Six, switching to Tac-two." He reached over automatically, turning the scanner and switching the setting to Tactical/two for a personal. This would enable the car to transmit and receive a message that you could not monitor on the open channel. He squeezed the handset.
"Four Ocean Six in service, over."
"Jack, is that you over?"
"That's Gomez," Joyce said.
"That's a rog."
"They caught a bad one over here. Same MO as
Sylvia Kasikoff and the others. Female Cauc, mid thirties, ME's just pulling in, gotta' go. Out."
A minute or so passed as they navigated the Chicago streets. The radio spat again.
"Four Ocean Six, what's your twenty over?"
"I'll get it," Bill Joyce said, taking the handset.
"Hey, Gomer, we'll be there in about five, six minutes." He gave him the location. "Is Lou there yet?" he got an affirm and signed off saying, "We'll see ya' in a couple of minutes kay." They were there and Eichord found himself getting out at the crime scene, following Bill Joyce and a feeling of troubling premonitions that hit him the moment they got out of the car.
Sylvia Kasikoff was what they called the whole serial murder package but Sylvia Kasikoff herself had been a young, good-looking housewife from Downer's Grove, found on one of the few fields left within a short drive of where they were right now. She'd been found rolled up in a blanket and the killer had not taken the heart. She'd been tied to the others by the semen traces in her mouth. One of the other heart murders had been a matchup on the semen in the mouth, vaginal, and anal orifices, and that victim had also been found with neck broken. It looked like the perpetrator was on a roll now and back in business.
Eichord could feel or imagined he could feel the presence of death before they walked through the police line and around to the back. Joyce spoke to a couple of uniformed patrol officers who told them where Arlen was. A crime scene will sometimes give off a strong aura, particularly a type of homicide or messy suicide. Or perhaps you're only expecting the hideous and the frightening and all the lights and grim faces and black humor just creates an atmosphere conducive to those kinds of thoughts and feelings. But real or imagined, Jack sensed or felt something strong.
"Hey, amigos," Vernon Arlen said.
"Lou."
"Got a Jane Doe," the lieutenant told them, gesturing at a metal container where a photographer was popping flashes, "maybe thirty-five, nude, mutilated, heart missing. Bag lady found the body when she was going through the trash dumpster. ME says semen, and all the rest of it. Slashed down the front the usual way. Blood all over inside the box but none outside. Perp might have killed her somewhere and wrapped her in plastic or a rug or whatever and dumped her in and taken the heart inside, which would explain the blood there and nowhere else." He opened a plastic-encased map of the downtown area and pointed as Bill Joyce moved in closer.
"We're about here—and we'll all work out in a straight line. Bill, you and Jack can take the alley on down that way if you will and just take it on straight out that way when we get done here. Probably won't find anything but we'll give it a shot and then meet back at the office." They were walking over to the dumpster.
"Anything from the bag lady?" Eichord saw an old, disheveled-looking woman slumped over by one of the units.
"Zip. Forget it. Worthless," he said, turning to Eichord. "Have a go but she's just a schizzy old whackadoo. You won't get much." "Right."
"Showtime, folks," the lieutenant said, and they looked down into the horror of the dumpster.
"Jesus Christ."
"You get something like this, man, it can just paralyze a town. I've seen it happen once before here, like Atlanta, L.A., Boston, New York—it just terrorizes everybody. I want to make damn sure the papers and the TV don't turn this thing into another Jack the Ripper. Missing hearts, they get anything to run with, it'll be worse than fuckin' Dracula." He nodded agreement and looked at the mutilated Jane Doe.
The old bag woman was moaning now and Jack Eichord was tired of looking into the dumpster and he started walking over to where she was slumped up against one of the radio units, realizing he'd been holding his breath and taking in a big gulp of oxygen.
One of the young patrol cops was looking like he was just about to lose it and Eichord said quietly, "How you makin' it, pardner?"
"Awright," the young uniform cop mumbled and turned and heaved up nothing into the weeds. Eichord fought to pull his mind back to the matters at hand, as there wasn't much that could make him sick but one of the exceptions was listening to somebody else tossing their dinner.
He concentrated on what to ask the bag lady as he came up and said softly, "Ma'am?"
She turned and said something that sounded like,
"Govayesell."
"Ma'am, ya' doing okay?" he repeated.
"Go for yourself." Then he realized she was saying go fuck yourself.
"I'm sorry. I know this must have been—"
"Ummmmmmmmmmmmmm." A sharp keening noise was coming out of her. He reached over instinctively and patted her gently and she twisted around and looked at him, but she stopped making the keening noise.
"You gonna' be okay, ma'am?"
"God chose me to be a beekeeper." Or at least that's what it sounded like. He asked her to repeat it and she said something else.
"People don't know what it's like. He sends me all the signals and I have to deal with it handle it somethings some time some time some people and then and then and I and some sometimes some people and it gets and it is—"
She sagged a little and very gently he said, "God speaks through you, does he?"
"Yes, that's correct Mr. Police Person Man. God speaks through me does her yes that's is one hundred percent." She looked at him more closely, perhaps to see if he was making fun of her or teasing in some way.
"I've heard about that," he said, "it must be a big responsibility to carry around with you." She said nothing. Lowered her head again. "When someone does this kind of thing," he went on softly, "we want to find out who did it and stop them before they hurt someone else. That's why I need to know if you saw anything before—"
"I have eels and snakes in my hair and electrical energy voltage that runs up and down my arms and back into here and then that's we that's the that's how someway you see that they are here and that's and then and so I and can and what happens is you get it all mixed up and backward."
"Yes." He nodded at what sh
e had just said as if it made perfect sense. "I know what you mean. And then when somebody does something awful the police have to stop them. You know?"
"Uh-huh. I know." She nodded sagely. They were having a real good discussion. She cocked her head at Eichord.
"I haven't seen you around here before. Do you live here?"
"No. I live a long ways away."
"I live a long ways away too. I live on a planet beyond the moon and on the other side of the stars and God speaks his wisdom through my electric tongue and I know you don't live around here because I have never seen you before and I know how to remember who I have seen before and who I have not and you I have not and so that is how I know you have not. So, there, and there, and—" He interrupted her with his soft, soothing tones and all the while gentling her, calming her down. "So you knew you hadn't seen me around before. You knew I was a stranger around here, didn't you?"
"Yes, that's right." She smiled, revealing blood in her mouth.
"Ma'am, you've got some blood there in your mouth, did you cut yourself?" he asked solicitously.
"Huh?"
"Your mouth. Have you hurt your mouth?"
"Uh. I—" She dabbed a filthy rag at her mouth. saw blood on it and laughed and said, "I have bad gums. My teeth are real good, it's my gums that are bad and sometimes I hurt there and uh—so—" She trailed off.
"You knew I was a stranger around here. You must know everybody around here."
"I know everybody around here."
"If somebody was messing around over there"—he pointed toward the dumpster where a team were working with a body bag—"and you'd never seen them around here before you'd know it, wouldn't you?"
"Uh-huh."
"And I'll bet you could even describe them," he whispered to her softly.
"I can describe them easy, and I speak in the many tongues so that he can fast know the way that what can come of being in the part where I can see something and then they come and take it back and I don't and I will never can be able to see that I wasn't and— "