Chaingang

“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 something 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.