by Rex Miller
“Come on you piece of shit. Keep coming. Get a little closer."
“I thought about killing you for a long time. Making you pay for what you did to me. I missed. I killed your friend. So we're even."
“Bullshit."
“The score is tied."
“There IS no score. This is no game, you're crazy as a fucking bedbug and you should be put to sleep.” Only one chance. When that trigger was pulled he was a dead man if he missed. God, if only about two dozen feds would come tearing out of those woods like the cavalry in a John Ford western.
“In due time,” the deep rumble said, “but not by you. Put the baby down you gutless wonder. Let's make it just you and I."
“A fair fight, eh?"
“If I'd wanted you dead at a distance I could have taken you out a couple of times already. At six-twelve you were parked at the red light at East Main and Buckhead Highway. I could see your head clearly through a reticular starlight scope. If I only wanted to see you dead I could have scoped you out with a gun. But I want a PIECE of you,” he said, and just as Eichord was starting to answer him, saying, “I'm suppose to—” something or other, the flexible club of tractor-strength chain came snaking, whirling, whipping low, boloing out like a flying chainsaw, aimed at the legs, a daisy-cutter, sure to cripple and maim, flung hard but low enough to miss the child, and the beast charging forward as Eichord pulled the trigger just as the chain reached him, jerking the shot for fear the baby would be hit by the deadly chain—throwing the little boy back into his nest in the car seat knowing that those two hot loads of poisoned pellets were gone and nothing was between him and Death and the hands taking him and powering him down to the ground, Eichord immobilized in a grip more powerful than any he'd ever felt. It was like being caught in a pair of huge, steel vises. The idea of putting any kind of move on this mountain of muscle was out of the question.
“Now,” the hard voice hacksawed into his ear, “you will feel my wrath, you insolent—"
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” Eichord screaming in pain, screaming over the thunder as he felt the little finger on his left hand being bent back but for some reason not just being bent back, the beast not stopping, bending it all the way, keeping on with it, breaking it easily as he intoned the word “insolent,” snapping it with almost gentle insouciance, Jack yelling into the rain and thunder as Bunkowski's steel cigar-thick fingers that had once furiously squeezed a FLASHLIGHT BATTERY began to twist and rip and Eichord passed out.
The pain was not of this world. It was like slamming one's finger in the car door again and again, and Eichord blacked out, collapsing, coming back, blacking out, coming back, the pain merciless but not quite enough to send him completely over the side into blackness. My God why would anyone want ... Ohoooooooooohhhhhhhhhhh the pain washed over him in a wave of dizziness and that fearsome voice grunted in its distinctive bass register, “A little souvenir for you,” Jack gagging as he felt the bloody thing being forced into one of his suitcoat pockets, the wet clothing wrapped around him like a shroud. “Your FINGER. From the hand that touched my picture that time on television.” Eichord began retching. It was a voice that made no concessions to the social amenities. Rough-edged like a hacksaw. Tough and sharp. Crude. Like a jailhouse knife ground from a file. Not pretty but it got your attention with its surprising edge. A voice made to cut. It said, “And now, Mr. Policeman, do you know what I'm going to do?"
Eichord felt himself being manhandled over onto his back. He screamed again in pain as his hand struck something. The monster loomed over him. He could feel the thing's hot breath on him. There was a shift in the massive body weight.
“Now I am going to rip your rib cage apart. It will be quite painful. Special Investigator Eirhoorrrrrrrrrrrrrrr aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” The rain or something hot and wet splashing down on him and he tried to turn and nobody was holding him and the huge bulk was starting to spin around, holding its throat where the carotid artery had been completely severed through and just then Jack caught a glimpse of silver in the bright flash of lightning and the blade arced down, the sword propelled with such—not ease, that isn't the word—perfection? SIMPLICITY. The movement like a choreographed ballet. A simplicity of movement. Simplicity not as design or format. Not as tradition or technique. Simplicity not as style. Simplicity as CHALLENGE. Seventeen syllables of flawless haiku. The perfect twelve bar blues. Subtle. Studied. Symmetrical as a Chinese brushstroke.
And the silver blade of vengeance made hard contact again smacking down through hair and scarred flesh and tissue and muscle and bone and tortured memories and making that awful wet thwocking sound of a cleaver whacked into a rotten melon as the long, razor-sharp and carbon-hard sword of honor and terrible retaliation came slashing down in those powerful hands slicing Chaingang's skull. The great blade split the head of the evil one in a foul horror of bloody bone gristle gray matter and only then did the immense behemoth topple and Eichord felt his consciousness ebbing away completely as the stealthy silent specter that to him would always be the Man from Kowloon melted back into the cloak of rain and shadow.
He fought to hang in. Clothing soaked in Bunkowski's blood. Some of his own. He tried to stand and slipped and fell in the bad wetness and almost went down again from the pain and OHHHHHGODDDDD who would believe a little finger could hurt so much and Oh Dana Jimmie if you guys were only here to make jokes about it and help me and he tried to retch again and again but couldn't and spat some more, backing away from the fallen monstrosity and the blood and filth that was soaking the wet ground and he saw the shotgun thing.
1. Gun, and the lid of the box, and
2. Glue. He walked through the glue. Each step a major effort. Slogging through the bloody gluepond.
3. Tree. He fought to keep from going under and something or someone was near the tree, moving toward him, and
4. Door. He was there beside the car door now, and
5. Hive. The killer bees swarmed in his ear, buzzing noisily as he continued unsteadily on his feet, someone helping him and trying to lead him away from the vehicle and he could bear the cry over the sound of an approaching siren and he managed to get “wait” out of his mouth and with the most massive effort of will he'd ever made he leaned down and focused on the interior of the nearby car.
“The baby,” he could hear himself say, “get it,” He could hear his own voice over the bees buzzing.
“Frawfer mansions through horse pistols,” someone said. How irritating to hear that sort of gibberish in an emergency.
“Bring the baby,” he managed to say, and the man who spoke nonsense was doing something and then and then and then his knees buckled and
6. Sticks. The sound of broken sticks. Sticks and stones will break my bones, but I will still get to
7. Heaven, and the sweet arms of the blessed savior Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeezzzzzzzzus going dooowwwwwwwwwwwnnnnnnnn and he could feel himself losing it for good and being swallowed by the cold dark jaws of shock.
SAINT FRANCIS MEDICAL CENTER
“Here,” he heard a voice saying, “we're rejoining the living,” which Jack thought to be an unusually appropriate choice of words.
“How long was I out?” was the question he framed in his head, but it came out as smiling silence because he'd forgotten to open his mouth as he spoke, so he only smiled. It was amazing how much coordination is required to verbalize a thought, and the realization of this tired him. He left himself sink deeper into a sea of feathers as the doctor told him about sewing his finger back on—how could this be?—telling him how Jack should check back in a few days and something mumble-mumble nighty-night.
“—look like you're ready to go anywhere,” and a hearty laugh. And Eichord thought he must have just drifted off for a couple of seconds, and he wished people would shut up so he could doze off but these fellows had him propped up and he was on his feet or maybe he had always been on his feet and something mumble buzz, “Gets too strong call me and we'll fix you up with a shot.” He no
dded at the kindness and rightness of it all.
He heard a friendly voice speaking to him but for the life of him he couldn't focus and he was sitting down again or for the first time and moving and he tried to speak but once again only a halfhearted smile reached his mouth.
The next time he woke up he was in a bedroom somewhere and Donna Eichord was sitting across the room from him and there was a lot of attention to his every need and he kept telling her to find out about the baby and she kept saying, What baby? and it confused him so badly that he was able to snap out of the druggy fog completely and he said, “Hey, darlin'."
Or so he thought he said, but it was more of Aaaaaaaay sound without consonants and he tried to bear down and concentrate and managed to say it aloud.
“Hey."
“Hey yourself."
“Hey. Hey darlin'."
“Yeah,” she said softly to him. “How ya doin?"
“Hey.” [SOMETHING MUMBLED.]
“What, honey?"
“The baby?"
“What about a baby?"
“Yeah. Howaza baby?"
“Oh. The baby that was in the car. Bill had the baby checked over while we were at the hospital with you. He's going to be fine. The little baby's okay, hon."
“Thass good."
“Yeah. You feelin’ pretty rough?"
“No. Feel ffff—fiiiiiiiine.” He grinned and she smiled with him and patted him gently.
“That's great."
“I lose my finger?"
“No, honey. The doctor will tell you all about the procedure later. It's a new technique and they think you'll regain use of it, at least partially. They said it went real well.” She smiled.
After a few minutes he could feel himself snapping out of the deepest part of the drug fuzziness but he knew he was only halfway out. He didn't want to lose that glow now. It was a good buzz and he figured when he started to lose it the pain would hammer him to his knees. He looked at the thickly bandaged hand and felt nothing.
When he felt himself coming to his senses he talked with Donna about the confrontation asking her about the killer.
“I got him, didn't I?” he asked. “I got him this time?"
“Yes,” she assured him. “You got him this time."
“No!” He started to tell her about the Man from Kowloon and he changed the subject. “Know what? That little baby is going to be in a big world of trouble. I wish we, you know, could take care of him or something."
“I know what you mean,” she said, and then she wondered if she did. “You mean like adopt him?"
“I know he had a killer for a father but that wasn't his fault. He's still a little baby."
“Sure."
“So tiny. All alone. I mean, we'd do the same thing for a cat or dog."
“I know."
“Would you be against it?"
“Adopting the little boy?"
“Yeah."
“No. I, uh, I just haven't thought about it. But no, hon, I think it's a sweet idea. If you, you know, wanted to adopt a baby. I don't know if we could do it, if they'd let us, but—"
“What do you mean?"
“I don't know if it's that easy?"
“How do you adopt a baby like that? What happens to it?"
“I don't know. I suppose the baby gets placed in a foster home eventually. I don't know exactly what the procedure would be in a case like this, though."
“Why don't we look into it?"
“Okay. Just remember, darlin', this is a serious commitment. I mean, if it's something we both really want I'd say give it all we can to make it happen, but I'm just surprised you want THIS baby, you know. Considering everything that happened."
“It breaks my heart to think he wouldn't have a good home. He had such a bad start.” Eichord thought about the little infant being taken from the slaughtered mother and he shivered as he had in the woods.
“You cold?"
“No, I feel GOOD,” he said. She kissed him softly and whispered several secrets then, so grateful that he was alive. And as tired as Jack was, it felt good to feel her touch and her nearness, whispering to him these secrets of romantic love and Romeo and Juliet and the love songs of troubadours and sonnets and bonnets and white dresses on virginal flesh, and he heard her whisper as he drifted off, “You're my dream man. There's nothing I'd like more than to be the mother of your children. You'd make a wonderful daddy.” And he tried to tell her about the baby and how he felt, but the effort of holding his heavy eyelids open was finally just too much and as he fell into a deep sleep he thought that he was every woman's dream: a monster's kid, a one-eared cat, a nine-fingered copper. He'd given her everything, that's for sure. But he went to sleep smiling anyway.
BUCKHEAD COUNTY MORGUE
“I think it's stupid. What the hell you wanna put yourself through this for?"
“Just let's do it, okay?” Tuny had stayed with him like a Siamese twin. Watching over him. Bodyguarding him. It was absurd, but Jack didn't have the heart to make him go away.
“It's stupid. Y'r a dumb fuck ta come down here. Doc told you stay in bed another day anyway."
“They don't know everything. Come on.” They walked through the door simultaneously, but Eichord was amused Dana didn't bump him. “What a turkey,” he said.
“I'll catch ya next time."
Jack made a morgue attendant pull out the stitched, headless cadaver. He ran a set of prints for his own files, checked known scars—the whole bit. Finally he made them show him the decapitated head, the autopsy reports.
Dana said, “Hey, fuckface, enough awready. We gonna stay down here all fucking day or what?"
“I thought you might like to eat down here. We could order some lunch sent in?"
“Key, asshole. What d'ya think I look like anyway—a fucking GHOUL?"
“Yeah,” Eichord said, leaning over and giving his fat friend a little gentle punch on the tit. “That's what you look like around the mammaries. A fucking girl.” But it wasn't funny like when Jimmie did it, so Jack just looked at Dana and smiled. “I guess it's all in the timing.” They went back out into the hot Buckhead sunlight of the more or less real world of the living.
When he got home that night there was quite a bit of mail, but his heart sank when he saw the package that was waiting for him. He couldn't find any markings or anything on it. Obviously Jimmie's printing, with a joke return address from “I.P. Freely, of Vlasic, MASS.” But even without the printing he knew what it was—that soft, rectangular heft of dirty money, so innocent-looking in the IGA brown paper wrapper and transparent tape. Rubber-stamped “RE-ROUTED BY BUCKHEAD MAIL CENTER."
“How did this come. Donna?"
“It came today."
“HOW did it come? In the mail or UPS or what?"
“In the mail."
“It doesn't have any stamps. How was it delivered. Where's the address?"
“OH! Sorry babe. The thing came off and I put it in the trash.” She bent over and plucked something out of a wastebasket. “Here you go.” He looked at the stick-on label and the cluster of postage stamps.
“Thanks,” he said. He wouldn't open it for a while. He'd deal with it later. He didn't want to think about it right now. He took the package back to the bedroom and tossed it into the back of a closet shelf to gather dust along with the crazy, homemade shotgun and a cowboy hat he had paid too much for and never wore.
Much later Jimmie Lee's last note would be found, in with the stolen money. For now that was temporarily forgotten. Eichord's big concern at the moment was the baby boy. He'd been jacked around half the day by the bureaucratic jumble of the adoption process. He told Donna about it over dinner promising her, “I'm gonna hang in there. I'll find out tomorrow if the Major Crimes Task Force has any serious clout with the Department of Family Services.” He laughed with her about fat Dana, who had said to him with his usual tact and diplomacy, “What makes you think they'd let YOU adopt a kid?” And he had to smile every time he contemplate
d the idea that he might find himself becoming the father of a baby son.
Later that night. Donna did the dishes and Jack went outside for some fresh air. He stood looking up at the dark sky, and he said to himself silently, “What the fuck am I going to do with a baby?"
* * *
Visit www.ereads.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.