Chaingang (4 page)

“Okay,” he laughed. “It sounds good."

“It is good. It is golden, my new friend. You're in the real estate business, and we're funding you to buy up a bunch of it and put it all together for us, and keep it confidential and one hundred percent professional all the way. You do that—” he tilted his large, silver-maned head and grinned—and you'll never have to put together another deal. This can set you up for life, Sam."

“I hardly know what to say. It sounds too good to be true, you know?"

“I know. But here it is in black and white. Are you our man for this?"

“I'll do my best,” Sam said.

“That's what we want. And we're going to make it the best, sweetest thing you've ever been a part of.” He reached inside the breast pocket of his suit coat. “Let's start with the easy ones and work our way around to the toughies, okay?” Sam nodded. “Why don't you get Cullen Alberson on the telephone later this evening, and see if you can't get him to take this off our hands."

“Jesus!” He couldn't help saying it when he looked at the numbers on the cashier's check.

“We want
him
on our side, too,” Christopher Sinclair said, sitting back with a look on his face that Sam would later recall as “industrial-strength smug."

The basics were laid out, and they parted company, Sam with the heavy-duty check and the thick sheaf of contracts in hand. Sinclair headed back out of town with Sam Perkins's promise.

He would have many occasions to chew over their conversation. Many things about the deal bothered him, shook him to his core if the truth be known, not the least of which was the awesome amount of money. He was certain he'd stepped into something that was way out of his league.

But the one thing that disturbed him the most was the “why” of it. Why would any party, Japanese, Arab, or extraterrestrial, spend major sums of cash to buy the edges of ten prime pieces of Missouri gumbo? They could buy ten times that amount of ground, better ground in reality, for a tenth of the prices they were going to pay.

The answers, some technical double-speak about “suitability for organic research” according to “soil data” made not a whit of sense. Mineral rights—that's what Sinclair's after, Sam figured at first—until he read the contracts with care and saw that in some cases they weren't even
buying
mineral rights!

Something was jarringly out of place, and though he couldn't isolate what it was, the deal was as unsettling as anything he'd ever been involved with. And that night when he went home after an afternoon of talking with Cullen Alberson, who almost fainted when he saw the size of the check for his “corner ground,” he sat and stared for a long time at the title sheet on the summary given to him by the mysterious Mr. Sinclair.

Even the hokey cloak-and-daggerish code word nagged him like a note scrawled on the bathroom mirror in lipstick the color of blood.

The deal was obviously not what it was presented to be. Or perhaps Sam Perkins was suffering from a case of professional paranoia. He'd know a lot more when he found out whether that monster cashier's check was going to float or not. That kind of money had a way of speaking volumes to a man.

MARION, ILLINOIS

“
H
ow sure are you of the security elements, Dr. Norman?” the stern, faraway voice asked.

“Completely, I assure you.” Norman was writing as he conversed, being one of those individuals capable of more than one simultaneous act of logical reasoning. “Two hundred monitor units, that is to say assets, will be in the field.” Translation: two hundred armed shooters. “As you know, we have all the technology at our disposal. The coverage on the subject will be total, around the clock, across the compass. Now that the implant has been perfected, there is no way the subject can escape."

“This bug thing—whatever the implant is—it can't suddenly malfunction? The battery can't die or whatever?"

“No.” Norman stopped writing and looked at the phone in wonder. He was genuinely offended by idiocy. “The implant is guaranteed to outlast the life of the subject.” He went on, seemingly oblivious to the joke he'd made. “It's a perfect opportunity for first-generation research."

“I suppose so. I understand the need for the school, but the idea of letting a killer loose and observing him under field conditions seems ... I don't know..."

“Insane?"

“Right. Insane!"

“Sir, every revolutionary idea has appeared to be insane before it was proved. The first airplane, the first firearm, these things always seem implausible until they work. Look, if I may say so, what are the options? Our resources are not what they once were. The country is being swallowed by foreign interests. We've had to wage costly, terrible wars because of one or two madmen. Had we been able to call on expert assassination teams, we could have saved thousands of American lives. If we must sacrifice a few lives now, to save a great many—perhaps even change the destiny of our country—in the future, then that is a price we have little choice but to pay. Don't you agree?"

“In theory, one agrees. But in actual practice things go wrong. This could explode in our faces. Equipment malfunctions. Computers make errors. Human beings make mistakes. Things happen."

“All those things have been factored in. Just remember this, sir, we're dealing with an art or science that is relatively virgin territory. The subject gives us the chance to study a Bundy, a Green River Killer, a Gacey, a Son of Sam, and the Boston Strangler all wrapped up in one execution machine.

“The implant will function flawlessly. We can obtain instant recovery or—if need be—termination at any moment during the operational phase.” Norman could hear the party on the outbound end of the distant connection attempt to voice another cautionary note, and the shielded long lines hissed in disgust.

“When are you planning to do the surgery?"

“Very soon. One more test with the Alpha Group II drug, and we'll bring in the brain implant team from Walter Reed."

“Umm."

“The new drug has been remarkable so far. In fact—” he couldn't help but smile—"there's a curious side effect on the subject. It almost renders him—dare I say it—normal for brief periods following the IVs!"

“Outstanding."

“Yes,” the doctor agreed.

They'd come to him nearly a quarter century ago, when he'd been a young doctor with a brilliant future, and they'd challenged him to give them unstoppable killers. He'd put his career on the line for the mysterious agency USMACVSAUCOG, working with his phenomenal find—a subject unlike any other. Everything he'd worked for, every program he'd managed to put in place, had brought them to this point.

He countered a few more flimsy objections, helping another witless bureaucrat to rationalize the impossible and think the unthinkable: they were building a school for covert executions, and the central program would be the study of a mass murderer unchained and allowed to kill or—perhaps—be killed.

For all the man's unknowledgeable questions, he'd learned nothing of the doctor's real agenda, nor had he learned of the secret that would, in fact, control the subject when all else failed. These components would remain as guarded as the equipment that carried and secured their conversation: the OMEGASTAR mobile tracker, which was the electrolink between the COMSEC and NEWTON SECURE systems. These were Norman's trump cards.

“We're good to go,” the man finally said, into the ultracomplex guts of the
O
mni DF
MEGA
plex
S
ecure
T
ranceiver
A
uto-lock locator
R
elay unit and movement-detection monitor. Diode detectors buzzed, freq-counters purred, high-gain preamped scanners searched, mag-field finders countersurveilled, feedback loops engaged, timesharing codes interfaced, spectrum analyzers pulsed, servomechanisms clicked, microcircuitry fed, diffused, flattened, bled into parallel bug-jammers that probed and pried and silently shrieked through subaudible white-noise generators and whose
battery would not die!

He inserted a patient history form into his typewriter and typed up the brief notes on a subject always near and dear to his heart:

CONFIDENTIAL AND PRIVILEGED INFORMATION

NOT FOR DISCLOSURE TO INMATE

FACILITY:
Marion

PATIENT'S D.O.B.:
estimate 1950

PATIENT'S NAME
:
Bunkowski, Daniel Edward Flowers

REGISTER NUMBER:
none/see rider

RACE:
Cauc.

SEX:
M

HEIGHT:
6 feet 7 1/2 inches

WEIGHT:
475

HAIR COLOR:
Brn

FACIAL SCARS OR DEFORMITIES:
wounds. see GSW diagram for adult head

BODILY SCARS OR DEFORMITIES:
see childhood burns, wounds

HISTORY OF ALLERGIC REACTIONS:
none

HEMOPHILIA CHRONIC ALCOHOLISM DRUG ABUSE DETAILS:
psychotrophic drugs incl Haldol, Thorazine, Sinequan et al. Have been ineffective in trtmnt of antisocial, aggressive acts. Drugs such as sod. Pent., Amytal, the paradyzines et al ineffective (hypnosis therapy: See notes re Alpha Group II.)

FUNCTIONAL IMPAIRMENT:
nonapplicable/morbid obesity

MENTAL DYSFUNCTION:
schizophrenia, paranoia

EMOTIONAL DISORDER:
psychoses not resp. to med. trtmnt.

DETAILS:
see rider note that patient is graded Level 7/Violent

CURRENT PROBLEM UNDER EVALUATION:
require brain implant of loc. device

SERVICE:
Neurosurgery—Walter Reed

CLINICAL RECOMMENDATIONS AND FINDINGS:
require implant be undetectable by patient

NOT FOR DISCLOSURE TO INMATE

CHIEF MEDICAL

ADMINISTRATOR AUTHORIZATION:
Norman

PRIMARY CARE PHYSICIAN:
same

RECOMMENDED PATIENT STATUS (CHECK)

OUTPATIENT
X
INPATIENT

NATIONAL SECURITY RIDER

The following is SECRET AND SENSITIVE and is not to be disclosed, divulged, copied, or disseminated:

A prefrontal lobotomy is not indicated although patient cannot be controlled by drugs, due to field requirements. Patient is rendered submissive and potentially nonaggressive by IV admin. of ALPHA GROUP II. A locator implant (laser) is needed.

See attached X RAYS, LAB WORK, CULTURES, CHILDHOOD PATIENT HISTORY, SPECIAL EQUIPMENT REPORT (on implant device)

DISCLOSURE OF ANY OR ALL PARTS OF THIS DOCUMENT IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY THE NATIONAL SECURITY ACT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

WATERWORKS HILL

A
ll afternoon it had looked like it was going to rain, and Royce Hawthorne was not about to sit in his tiny, cramped cabin like some victim, hung and blasted and hurting. He was lurching out the door, still half-ripped, but the shock waves of reality had him moving up the hill paths in the direction of The Rockhouse, as soon as he remembered the impending deal.

He'd slept until nearly 1:00 P.M., coming awake, in search of Darvon. His head was a swamp. There were too many gators and snakes loose in there. He downed two Darvon capsules, washing them down with warmish Olympia Light. By the time he popped the top on his fourth Oly, the Darvon had kicked in and he thought he might live after all.

The stash was empty. There was nothing in the pantry. He put on the shirt he'd worn the night before and extracted a small vial, which was nearly empty. He tapped coke out, straightened it into a line, and did it, rubbing his gums with residue and licking his finger.

That's when he suddenly remembered the deal, and the pressure of it snapped him into action. He had fourteen dollars in his greasy blue jeans. He found a crisp hundred in the dictionary (i-MUR-jen-see: Noun. An unforeseen set of circumstances. A pressing need). When he realized that in the entire world he owned the cabin, a half acre of worthless hill, and the awesome sum of $114, he realized what a world of trouble he was in and lurched out into the depressingly wet day.

October spruce trees stood alongside the pathway up Waterworks Hill, boughs heavy with moisture. Hillside milo, russet and golden, seemingly untended, fought to stand tall in fields of rampant blotches of relentless weeds.

Gray clouds the size of aircraft carriers trailed damp tendrils over the upturned face of the Missouri countryside that flanked the hill above the small town waterworks.

Royce Hawthorne had a guy who wanted weight. David Drexel—money in
el banco
. Drexel was so frightened of copping burn, he'd come to Royce for the connect. Homeboy Royce with a rep for dealing and using, emphasis on the latter. Drexel had not blinked at the tab.

Royce could buy weight from Happy. Keep a piece of the rock for recreational usage, turn the balance for a solid profit. Free enterprise in microcosm—right? On the surface it was too cool.

Never mind that it put Royce-baby in a world of shit. That it might hang him up by his num-nums. Why quibble over the little details?

Happy said he would do the thing, but Royce “better not be jerking his chain.” No way, Royce promised. You get it—I buy it. How had he let himself get squeezed into this nasty jackpot?

Today Mr. Happy was coming with the Right Stuff. Three thousand down. He'd carry Royce for the balance due. If Royce pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of his pants, he might as well pull his cock out too, and piss all over Happy's $550 kicks.

Happy would have his goon break Royce's knees, stand him in a fifty-five-gallon Treflan drum full of Sakrete, and drop him into the deepest part of Bluehole Trench. That is—if Happy was in a good mood. The man had all the forgiving warmth of a napalm strike.

“The thing"—as he often thought of it—hovered over him, even while he slept. Within minutes of waking he'd always be slammed back to reality by the dangerous game he'd been coerced into playing. What had it taken to pressure him into becoming a secret player, this guy approaching the big three-zero whose sum total of accomplishments was the shack of a cabin, cool enough in summer but freezing in winter, and a funky cocaine jones the size of a big fat dog? It hadn't been easy to bollix and jumble up so many parts of a life that had once been brimming with potential, as his parents, teachers, friends, lovers, and employers had often said. It had taken an iron will, a steely resolve, and the flinty maturity of a nine-year-old whacked out on LePage's Model Airplane Glue. It had taken a mutha of a jam-up.