Chaingang

If one of them in the car turned or if the driver looked in one of his mirrors at the wrong moment ... well, what was the point in worrying? He had to force himself out of the safety of the ditch, hurting his hands and knees on the rocks and finally making it to the car. It occurred to him it would be just about his luck to have them start the engine about that time. He could hear small talk through the open windows of their vehicle.

He got the grenade wedged between the underside of the bumper and the gas tank, feeling his hands sweat as he attached the wire to the ring that pulled the cotter pin out. He'd already put a twist in the thin wire at the other end. Now was the tough part.

He tried to slowly peel some of the duct tape from his arm, where he had the little Legionnaire Boot Knife taped in place. It made way too much noise and he took what he had and secured the wire and the grenade as best he could.

Taking a deep breath and clenching his jaws, he crawled back into the ditch, found a root that he trusted, and fastened the wire around it. Would this work? He had no idea. Maybe he should just throw the thing in the car. Too late for that now.

The hairiest part of all was the four or five feet from the ditch back into the woods. It seemed to take about half an hour, and the whole time he felt the gunshot—imagining what his scream would sound like when the first bullet hit his back.

He made it, though, and he and Mary were going to come out of the thing okay—one way or the other. He promised her that, starting the old Ranchero and heading back toward Maysburg. He didn't want to be around when they decided to move that car up on the hill. He didn't even want to know about it. He'd also found the limits of his curiosity.

35

MAYSBURG

"Yellow Cab?"

“Hi. This is Mr. Conway over at the Tennessee Motor Courts on Central. Would you send a taxi over please?"

“Okay. What's your room number?"

“Have the driver come to the office please."

“Okay. Will do. Be about ten minutes."

“Fine. Thank you.” He put another quarter in and redialed...

“Tennessee Motor Courts, good morning."

“Morning! This is Conway with General Discount Stores—I'm going to be checkin’ in this afternoon. Say, listen, I've got an envelope there with some cash in it, don't I?"

“One moment, sir."

“Sure."

“Yes, sir. There's an envelope for you."

“Does it have fifty dollars cash in it?"

“I don't know sir. We haven't opened it."

“Do me a favor please. I have a cab driver on his way over there. Would you open that? I'll take the responsibility."

“All right ... Yes, there's money in here."

"Fine. Would you please give the driver—no, I'll tell you what—ask him to pick up a package for me in Waterton. It's addressed to me in care of general delivery. Tell him there'll be a nice tip in it for him if he'll come back to the office with my package—save me a lot of driving around. Okay?"

The clerk agreed. But by the time the cab made it back to the motel with the large box full of clothing and accessories, Daniel Edward Flowers Bunkowski, née Conway, was back on the phone, this time wanting to speak to the driver. By coincidence he'd timed the call just as the man was coming in the office—but it helped that he was dialing from across the road.

This time he wanted the driver to bring the box to him and leave it at Discount Thrift on Central—just down the road from the motel. He instructed the office clerk to give the driver forty dollars “and keep a ten” for a gratuity.

He asked the driver if he knew where Discount Thrift was.

“Sure—couple blocks from here."

“That's it. You know the stone wall to the left of the front door?"

“Yeah?"

“Just toss the box up on the bank there. Okay?"

“If you say so, but don't blame me if it gets ripped off. Don't you want it left inside the door?"

“No. Not necessary. Just throw the box up on the bank to the left of the front door. Keep the forty for your trouble. Fair enough?"

“You got it.” People never failed to amaze him, and they kept getting loonier by the day.

The watchers with eyeball surveillance on Chaingang saw him park his car, the same car they'd watched all along, on the gravel service road that ran in back of the busy Maysburg Shopping Center.

As always, the surveillance team leader kept a running account of movements on the battery-powered recorder all the agents carried:

“Blue Tracker Six: subject getting out of vehicle again ... going over the fence between Taylor Chemical and the shopping center ... moving on into the wooded area there.” The two men in the front seat of the unmarked government car saw the huge man appear to unzip his pants, glance around, and then move behind some trees.

“Looks like he's going to urinate.” They joked with each other about him going in the woods for a quick piece of fist. When he hadn't materialized in a couple of minutes, they looked at each other.

“What dya’ think?"