Chaingang

“Fuel cost me fourteen hundred dollars more this year,” the man pounding on something behind the combine said, “and two days later I swear if it don't drop nine cents."

Both in view now. This is what they mean by targets of opportunity. He keeps moving, stepping out where they can see him clearly. The one with the hammer turns.

“Hey,” he snarls, in a cautionary warning tone. Trigger pressure.

BAM.

BAMABAMABAMABAM.

BAM.

BAMBAMABAM.

Nobody near us to see us or hear us, he whistles, waddling across to the bodies.

The hammer of justice. His face is contorted in a maniac's parody of a smile. The hammer is dwarfed by his fist.

Italians have a joke they sometimes tell in restaurants and at the dinner table. Ever eat any Sicilian chicken? No? It's the same as regular chicken, but all the bones are broken.

21

WATERTON

Royce Hawthorne had kept his bargain with the phonemen who were supposedly watching over him. It was time to call in the cavalry. He'd done his part. It was their turn now.

Sitting across from his old girlfriend, he felt a lot of different things tugging at him in several directions at once: He knew he was changing. He already felt like a different man from the one who was looking to pack his nostrils a few days ago. There was one upside to being scared shitless all the time—you didn't have time to worry about staying high.

The thing that cocaine does is, it tricks the brain. The great rushes of fear that Royce had been experiencing had acted as a kind of neural blocker to his addiction, and his system was working overtime to rebuild the bridges he'd burned with the seductive white lady. He felt like he wouldn't go that route again, if he could just stay alive.

The skanky, strung-out, self-centered burnout was history. For the first time in a long while he had something better to set his sights on, and the lady was here right now, looking delectable without trying. What he really wanted was to touch her; to stroke Mary's beautiful hair, cup her lovely face in his hands and kiss her, and tell her this bad stuff was all going to go away.

“I got hold of the law again,” she told him.

“Kerns?"

“No,” she said, “that FBI bozo. You know something? They don't pretend to take what I say to them seriously."

“You can forget the Feds."

“I can't forget them,” she said, misunderstanding him.

“I mean if we're going to find out anything, it has to be us that does it. For whatever reason, the law is not giving out any information it doesn't have to. I'm not even all that sure they're trying very hard to investigate the missing-persons cases—much less the murders."

“But that makes no sense."

“Yeah. Right. But we have to run with the ball now.” And I do mean run, he thought.

“What can we do without the cops? We don't even know anything.” He could see how tired she was.

“There's actually quite a lot we can do—but it won't be easy. And you should realize—I think you have to assume you're in danger. Don't ask me why I feel this way. Part of the feeling is just gut instinct. Doll, I think we've got to start being very careful. I think we need to get you out of here—maybe to a motel or something, for, you know, just a few days till we see which way this is going. And I may do the same.” She cocked her head at him. “I mean get my own motel room. I don't think we should be too easy to find for a while. I'll explain it more later, but right now I want to know if you really feel like pursuing this thing. No matter where it leads?"

“Sure I do. I just don't see—"

“Look. There's a time element involved now, and I'll explain that, too. But here's what I think you should do: Start packing. Pack enough that you don't have to come back here for four or five days."

“That's out of the question, Royce.” She thought it was a ridiculous idea. Where would she be safer than in her home? “I might get calls here about Sam or something—I've got to—"

“I've already got that covered, babe.” He explained to her about the answering service, and how they could call in from pay telephones to get any messages.

“Oh.” She sighed, “I don't know ... I don't see why it's necessary.” But she knew him well enough that she recognized something altogether different in his face, and it frightened her. “Do you really feel like it's that important?"

“I really do. Come on,” he said, taking her hand, “let's get to work.” And without letting her really sort options, he had her filling a suitcase before she knew it, and making notes of whom to inform.

He didn't even want to tell the authorities. He told her he'd explain more about it as they got moving, and he did, telling her of some of the things he suspected, of his massive “professional paranoia” about the newest innovations in electronic surveillance, and how easy it was to put an ear into a home or business.

“I don't think we should go to a motel. Do you know of anywhere we might go? Relatives or friends in a nearby town—anything like that?” He was deadly serious.

“No."