Chaingang (16 page)

At approximately the fifth “thence,” he would start to fog up.

All of the general warranty deed documents were signed with the formal “TO HAVE AND TO HOLD the premises aforesaid, with all and singular the rights, privileges, appurtenances, and immunities thereto belonging or in anywise appertaining unto the said parties of the second part, and unto their heirs and assigns forever, the said

[Cullen Alberson and Regina Alberson, his wife]

hereby covenanting that they are lawfully seized of an indefeasible estate in fee in the premises herein conveyed; that they have good right to convey the same; that they will Warrant and Defend against the lawful claims and demands of all persons whomsoever. IN WITNESS WHEREOF, the said parties of the first part have hereunto set their hands and seals this the day and year first above written.

(Signed) [Cullen Dale Alberson] (SEAL),

[Regina Louise Alberson] (SEAL)."

A notary public had stamped her stamp in testimony whereof, a copy of the thing had been microfilmed, the instrument had been filed for record in the recorder's office by the clerk of the circuit court and ex officio recorder of Waterton, one Elizabeth Smythe.

On all of these documents the party of the second part was a very well heeled and anonymous buyer calling itself the Community Communications Company, headquartered in Alexandria, Virginia.

He drove to the nearest isolated pay phone and punched in money and the 703 area code for Alexandria, Virginia.

“Jean, what city please?"

“Alexandria."

“Yes?"

“May I have the number of the Community Communications Company, please?"

“One moment ... Hold for the number.” A recorded voice dropped the digits into the long lines:

He hung up and dialed direct. An operator asked for money. He complied and the line rang.

“Communications Company."

“Yes. My name is Royce Hawthorne and I'm phoning long distance about a piece of property your company has purchased. I need to speak with your general manager or president, or whoever acts as chief executive officer for the company. Who would that be, please?"

“You want Guy Kelber. Would you like me to connect you with his secretary?” Royce said yes, and when a female voice identified it as being Mr. Kelber's office, he repeated his message. After a wait of nearly a minute, she came back on the phone.

“Who did you say you were with?"

“I didn't say, but I'm representing a law enforcement agency in regard to the disappearance of a man who had dealings with your company. It's vital I speak to Mr. Kelber.” He kept a hard edge to his tone. He waited, hoping the “law enforcement” bit wouldn't come back to kick his ass.

“Hello. This is Guy Kelber."

He went through the routine again. Kelber had never heard of the land deal or Sam Perkins. Nor had he ever talked with a Sinclair.

“This is the Community Communications Company of Alexandria, Virginia, isn't it?"

“This is the Communications Company, Mr. Hawthorne. You apparently have the wrong firm. Sorry.” Royce apologized and rang off.

He redialed directory assistance. Went through his request from the top.

“Sorry, sir. We don't show a Community Communications Company in Alexandria."

“Do you show a Community Communications Company in Washington, D.C., or is that a different area code?” Knowing.

“That would be two-oh-two, sir.” He thanked her. Dialed. Ran it by another operator.

“We show a Community Communicators in Bethesda. And there is a Communications Company in Alexandria and Arlington, Virginia. But we do not show a Community Communications Company. Would you like to try one of these other numbers?"

He told her yes, he'd try them all. He wrote down the three numbers, including the one he'd just dialed. The Bethesda, Maryland, number proved to be for a school that taught teachers who specialized in learning-impaired students. The Arlington number was a separate listing for the first place he'd called. They were in the broadcasting business. Had no land holdings. Yes. Mr. Kelber was chairman of the board. No, he'd never heard of a Community Communications Company of Alexandria.

Royce Hawthorne's adult life, much of it, had been lived on phones, or through events and transactions that had transpired or gone down with the aid of that instrument. He knew people who were very much “into phones.” It was one of those persons he called next, leaving a terse message on a recording, and hanging up.

If there was a more nagging brand of angst than doper paranoia, it had to be “phoneman” disease, a uniquely lethal strain that apparently spawned in the invisible energy bogs that surrounded high-voltage transformers, microwave transmitters, and Lord knows what else, and that headed—like iron to a magnet—for the nastiest dope burns it could find. Telephones and junk—what a combination!

Royce felt it prod him like a hard jab to the kidneys, and he suddenly visualized Happy and a couple of cartel wire-tappers: alligator clips, recorders, headset all in place, tapping into
Jefe
Hawthorne as he set them up for double-digit bits in the slamarooney. They would not be amused. Happy would not be happy.

Royce's hand was slick with sweat as he reached for the pay phone again, stopped in midair by a frightening apparition, a sight that froze him in the warm noonday sun of Willow River Road. He saw someone or some
thing
coming out of the woods.

Shades of Beaudelle Hicks's kid appearing from out of nowhere, but my God—this was the most frightening-looking man Royce had ever laid eyes on, just gigantic, a hulking behemoth moving through the trees, carrying what looked like a couple of large wooden cases under one arm, and a thing like a heavy punching bag slung over one shoulder. It came through the trees, and Royce saw the behemoth look at him just as he saw the huge man moving out of the woods.

This fearsome giant, bigger than anything imaginable, looked at Royce with the most venomous stare he'd ever seen, and it chilled him to the bone.

There was just a beat when it looked like the man was stopping in his tracks, trying to make up his mind whether to come over and kick Royce's ass for the fun of it, but he turned and kept going, moving across the road and disappearing into the brush again.

Who the fuck was he? Royce had never seen him before, and for a few seconds he got mixed into the dope equation—he sure as hell could have passed for a stone killer—but then he regained control and realized how he was letting his imagination screw him around. He took a very deep breath, hopped back in his ride, and headed out Cotton Avenue to talk with Cullen Alberson, if he could find him, visions of “Bigfoot” still stomping around in his head.

Royce Hawthorne had spent the better part of two days calling and visiting and calling again. He'd come nearly full circle, and only managed to actually interview—if that's the word—two persons who'd sold ground to the mysterious Community Communications Company of Alexandria, Virginia. Weldon and Cullen, the first two guys he'd tried to reach, had both been open and accessible. But as luck would have it, he'd spun his wheels the rest of the next day trying to make contact with the other eight property owners.

He was now around to the tenth seller, Bill Wise, who owned, among many other holdings, Bill Wise Industrial Park, a precariously prosperous gamble that had once held great promise for Waterton. Wise, who'd made a fortune in used office furniture down in Nashville, had moved to Waterton thinking it was virgin investment territory. He'd set up a used office furniture outlet in Maysburg, which had done well, and purchased large pieces of ground in both Maysburg and Waterton, calling them—optimistically—industrial parks, and landscaping them for the flood of industry that would someday push out from Paducah, and Memphis, and St. Louis, looking for low-rent settings for plants, factories, offices, and other building sites. When the industrial parks had withered on the vine, Wise had filled them himself: with office furniture showrooms, warehouses, and sprawling flea markets that always seemed on the verge of going under.

Bucky Hite, another drinking/smoking/snorting buddy of Royce's, was one of a dozen men working in the corner of Wise's northeast property, on the piece being developed by Community Communications Company.

There were several cats and backhoes at work, and some heavy equipment Royce wasn't familiar with, and he was parked at the edge of the field waiting for Bucky, who was busy being harangued by a man who appeared to be the foreman on the job. He looked at his notes that summarized what he'd learned on Mary's behalf during the last couple of frustrating days:

1. CULLEN ALBERSON—He had been presented a “killer offer,” his words, fifty thou, so much money he hadn't even talked it over with the missus—he just signed the deal then and there. He'd had no further contact after the deal was consummated with Sam Perkins, and no dealings with any Mr. Sinclair or the buyer.

2. WELDON LAWLEY—Sam had done the initial leg-work, and Lawley had looked at the contract. Said okay. The company sent him a bank draft. (It had taken a visit by Mary to pry the info out of First Bank of Waterton's office manager Lester Peebles.) The draft came via a New York bank, Chase Manhattan. Another hour of LD calls had netted the information that the draft had been purchased by Merchant's Bank in Washington, D.C. They had no information, or were not able or willing to find out, about the initiation of the large cash draft.

3. GILL POINDEXTER—Sam had finalized the deal, and they had again deposited money. This time First Bank was unable to help. The family was apparently out of town, and neither Royce nor Mary had been able to get hold of Gill or Betty Poindexter.

4. RUSSELL HERKEBAUER—He and his sons were on a hunting trip out West. Would be gone for a couple of weeks. Mrs. Herkebauer did not know the details of the deal, or she wasn't talking without her husband's okay.

5. DOYLE GENNERET—Gone on a business trip. His foreman, Dean Seabaugh, was busy with the animal auction and didn't have time to talk. Royce had tried to get him to open up, telling him a man had disappeared and that if Seabaugh didn't talk to him, he'd eventually have to talk to the cops. This had really frightened Seabaugh, who had said, “Big fucking deal,” and slammed the door on him.

6. LUTHER LLOYD—Gone. Mrs. Lloyd said he was “running around somewhere” and didn't know when he'd be back. “Probably late.” Royce left word. When nobody called back that evening, he dialed the Lloyds’ and nobody answered.

7. RUSTY ELLIS—Gone. Nobody had seen him around the farm in a while. Royce had driven out to the farmhouse and found some papers in the driveway. He peeked into the mailbox and saw a collection of junk mail.

8. CELIA and LETITIA BARNES—Out-of-town owners. He had not been able to reach either of them by telephone. Their sharecroppers knew nothing about the land deal.

9. AUGUST GROJEAN—Just about took his head off when he called. “I ain't saying nothing about nothing without my lawyer.” He'd just been through extensive legal battles over his ground, and he refused to listen to reason. He had given Royce his Memphis lawyer's number for a telephone contact, and so far he'd been unable to reach the lawyer by phone.

10. BILL WISE—Last on the list. He had just missed Wise, somebody said at the flea market, and was waiting for a word with Bucky, whose voice carried across the field.

“They do that to everybody. They do it every damn time. I don't see how the crooked sum'bitch stays in business."

“I called him,” the foreman shouted from his truck. “I told him, ‘You short me two yards every time you pour out here, goddammit, and I ain't taking that shit off you people again. If you short me again, I'll buy from fuckin’ Flat River if I have to, but I won't use you again.’ I told him."

“What did he say to that?"

“'Oh, I never shorted you no two yards,’ he says. Well, I know better.” Another comment was drowned out by the equipment noises.

“He's nothing but a fuckin’ crook."

“I'm going."

“All right."

The truck pulled out across the bumpy field, and soon Bucky Hite made his way to where Royce was waiting.

“Sorry about that. The boss had a bug up his butt."

“Sounded that way."

“Fuckin’ Jerome Thomas crooked us outta some more concrete. Nothing new there.” He frowned.

“So I've heard."

“Got anything?” Hite asked.

“Say what?"

“You holding?"

“I got a joint."

“No. I mean blow."

“Not right with me,” Royce said.

“Oh well, no biggie."

“I wanted to ask you about this deal. What's cooking with all this?"

“Some big company, man. Outta D.C., I hear. Going to make a big park like Six Flags. That's confidential. Going to mean a shitload of new jobs.” He raised his eyebrows. “You know—some of us got to have them things."

“Fuck you.” They laughed. “Six Flags? Out here? Bullshit."

“No—really. That's what I heard. Foreman says in a few days they going to pour footings, and man, it's going to be big. You trying to get a gig?"

“Not so's you'd notice. I'm just asking for a friend.” He decided he'd tell Bucky. If anybody in Waterton hadn't heard about the disappearance, this would take care of it. “Sam Perkins? I don't know if you heard yet, but he's missing. I'm a friend of the family. Just, you know, asking around."

“Yeah. I heard. Cops asked everybody already. They got hold of some dude that he was doing business with, and he told the cops he didn't know anything. So I heard.” This guy driving a backhoe knew more than the man's wife, Royce thought.

“What dude? Somebody Sam was dealing with?"

“Yeah."

“Was it a guy named Sinclair?"

“Beats the shit out of me.” He shrugged. “Ask the cops, man."

“Me and the cops aren't on the best of terms."

“Yeah, I hear that,” Bucky said.

“Where'd you hear that anyway?"

“Foreman. No ... shit, I don't remember. Maybe it was some guy at Judy's. Hell, I can't remember."

“Try."

“We were eatin’ at Judy's. Seems like—oh, I know who it was. Kelly McCauley's husband."

“Who's Kelly McCauley's husband?” He was getting very tired of this. He wanted to go back to the cabin and do some tootski and get his shit together.