Stone Shadow (8 page)

“Now you must deal with a source of force. A wellspring. A centering so deep within the core that it cannot be reached by ordinary means. It is to concentration what brain surgery is to a headache. It is to focus what a shish-kebab skewer in the cortex is to a toothpick in the canapes. It would be to t'ai chi ch'uan, moo duk kwan tang soo do, hapkido, tae kwon do, wushu, and Shaolin kung fu, and any of that other chop-suey bullshit like hwa rang do, dim mak, and dim ching, what nuclear devastation is to a firecracker.

“I call it the Way of the Viper and I would explain it to you as a nonmystical secret martial philosophy that impinges upon what you would wrongly label the Satanic. It draws on the rarest of all the secret combat ryus, exemplified in the mythological parable of a knight in quest of a great dragon; he confronts the beast, knowing it can easily incinerate him, and as the dragon laughs, a tiny viper slithers out of the shadow of the dragon and delivers his poisonous bite of death. The Way of the Viper takes as his power source the unending, black, limitless energy core of eternity. The dark, surging, mindless, insatiable, voracious, deadly, all-vanquishing force that has been here since before the universe began."

And for the next five or six minutes, what seemed like an hour to Eichord, Jack patiently listened as Ukie took him on another of his little mind-fuck airplane rides, Jack thinking as he listened to the animated tones and the sureness of the rhythms listening with a tenth of his concentration to “—this formidable power source of magnified chi or—” snatches of the monologue in case he would need to interject a brief response. Ukie's fantasy was populated by real dragons and vipers, but the question was, first, was he sane? Eichord would leave that to the experts to determine the range and quality of his psychopathia/psychoses.

Second, or perhaps first, was the question of how he did it. This was no martial-arts expert. This was a Texas liar and a wienie-wagger and a con artist who saw a chance for something—but what? Publicity? Notoriety? There was a reason why the con job. The same guy who was so afraid of the truth now had openly copped. No question that Ukie had offed those people. He was a murderer, clearly. Why not simply tell how he did it? Was somebody else involved? It was a strong possibility. It would explain how a nonmuscle dude might make the transition. It would explain the conning, to some extent. And how was Noel Collier and Company involved? Why not ask?

“—through the focus of intensity which is called the Secret Gate of—"

“Uh, whoa, there, Ukie. Hey. Listen, Jones, Seleska, Foy, Biegelman, and Guthrie?"

“Hmmmm?"

“I understand this is the law firm representing you, zat right?"

“Maybe. Could be,” he said coyly.

“Noel Collier. That's one famous lady."

“Nice-lookin’ quiff too, there, Jack. I'll have the bitch begging for some of Sly before I'm through with her delicious ass."

“Uh huh. I'll be talking to her later today. I'll be sure and tell her you said that, okay? I'm sure that will be an added incentive for her to take the case."

Ukie chuckled mirthlessly. “Hey, Tex, I don't give a fat fuck what you tell her. She'd take me on as a ‘case,’ as you put it, if I tell her to and it's that simple.” Jack had reached him.

“The Way of the Viper and the Dragon, huh? That's some line bullshit, Mr. Hackabee. Thing I'm wondering is—why? We nailed you with shovel in hand at a crime scene. You give us the bodies. You just don't tell us why. So let's say we never figure it all out and you're too clever for us. So nu? So big deal. You go to your just rewards with nobody knowing whatever it is you have going for you. Obviously you're a mean motor scooter, all right, but if you don't want to be serious with us about your methodology, it just makes it look like you had one or more accomplices."

“That's a load of shit, man! I did those people all alone! Why would I—” He stopped yelling and Jack could see the concentration working, Ukie feeling himself losing it, fighting to keep control. “Why would I need anybody but me? Oh, shit, aaaaaah.” And at that he suddenly got the giggles and there was that flicker of recognition in the eyes that said, Shit, you hooked me that time. All right, copper, that's one for your side. And he said, “I admire your style. That was very deft."

“Deft?"

“Deft, man, you know, as in facile, smooth, able, skillful, dexterous, adroit, sure, expert-fucking DEFT. Christ, I gotta get a Roget's so we can talk, you need a fucking interpreter to understand English."

“You could buy me a little pocket dictionary with your advance you get from the book contract. Not to mention the movie contract."

Ukie was quiet.

“I assume that's what Noel Collier is for, right?"

“You assume wrong, Sherlock Homeboy. No book. No movie. And we made a deal. I gave you bodies. You give me attorney confidentiality. That means no mikes. No cameras. No bullshit surveillance. No—"

“I don't recall making a deal like that with you at all, Ukie, but I'd certainly be willing to if I could make those kinds of guarantees, Unfortunately I can't. Those sorts of deals have to be negotiated. And with the killer of the century, or however you put it when you were describing yourself, you can see why you'd have some pretty heavy-duty surveillance. What if you'd suddenly concentrate real hard while you were making potty and the Way of the Viper would wipe out a wall. You'd be gone. We'd look dumb. Dallas cops are tired of looking dumb. So that's a problem. On the other hand, attorney-client privilege and confidentiality is guaranteed you, as you know. What can I say? All I can do is tell you that if you don't cooperate with us, if you blow verbal smoke screens and play mind games with us, it's not going to help you. It simply isn't in Ukie Hackabee's best interests."

“That's your opinion. I disagree."

“Well, I'll be glad to come back and talk with you if you want to give us more solid information, but this other stuff...” Eichord dismissed it with a gesture. “What can I tell you? You're just spinning, your wheels and ours. Pointless. So ... smoke it over.” Jack got up and headed for the door. “And maybe we'll talk again."

H
e had his own official loaner and he almost took it but he was into something, his mind on oily lock and load, and he just couldn't face the Big D traffic, the meet with the illustrious female counselor, and all the little furry things scampering around the dark, cobwebbed recesses of his mind, so he let Wally Michaels VIP him again with a driver, and he sat on the passenger side with a notepad, doodling, working on a headache.

This was one of his crossword-type doodles he'd been working on for an hour or so back in the squad room and he was still chewing on the words. Tuning out everything, letting his mind slip and slide, float free as he doodled out the puzzle or anagram or acrostic or whateverinhell it would prove to be.

At the lower left there was the neatly printed list of homicide victims. Just names on corpses to him. He would start with just the positives. The victims who were tied together in the jumble of mixed MOs, tied only in death, by circumstance, time lines, geographical linkages, forensics, perhaps entrance wounds made by plunging steel from the same knife blade. Joined in death by the random madness of Mr. Hackabee and/or perpetrators unknown.

It began with a vertical HAMMONTREEE, FLIPPO coming across from the left horizontally and the Os overlapping. BECK sharing the final E. The name COPELAND dropping down from the C in BECK. SCHUMACHER interlocking with the E. COY and VACCA vertically off it down to the bottom of the page. There had been a SMITH and he added it in above.

All polygraphs on Ukie totally inconclusive. Par for the pollies. All psych testing inconclusive. All everything inconclusive.

Jack was grateful when they pulled up in front of the financial institution in which Jones-Seleska was ensconced.

Eichord looked at the gorgeous countenance of a blond, blue-eyed receptionist who was everyone's cheerleader fantasy, eyes and mouth that promised 1001 ecstatic nights, lips made to drive a man insane with lust and longing, a pair of legs designed to make feeble octogenarians throw away their crutches, a pair of mammary glands drawn by Ward, face by Moran, neck courtesy of Modigliani, and he knew instantly that these people were his kind of people.

“Hi,” she breathed, and she really meant it. Not just a hello. Huh UH. This was HI. She was serious about it.

“Hi,” he said with his usual flair for repartee.

“Can I help you?” she breathed, washing the Jones-Seleska lobby in some sort of fragrance that cannot be bottled and sold over the counter. It has been ruled illegal in all fifty states and in Puerto Rico. It is called Oil of Sub Rosa and it is used in clinical experiments by mad scientists who are working on ways to give erections to the elderly.

“Uh,” he said with that suavity that was always there at his fingertips whenever he needed it. “Yeah. Uh, I have an appointment with Miss Collier.” Jeez, he thought instantly, I shoulda said MIZZ Collier.

“And your name, sir?” And what she meant was, “Would you care to spread my legs and take me right here at the desk?” That's the TONE, you understand, even though she said, “And your name, sir,” it was a definite invitation, Eichord felt. And he told her his name in response and she said the sexiest thing he'd ever heard. She told him to “Please take a seat.” Well, my God in heaven, he surely would. How about HERS? And he'd barely had time to drool over these possibilities when Mizzzzz Collier's secretary came out to greet him with the most erotic smile he'd ever been given by a stranger and this woman, SHE made the receptionist look like a GUY. Jeezus! He'd never seen anything like it in his life. He was going to love Dallas, no question about it. This secretary looked like a movie star. We're talking Holly-wild, folks. Blond, blue-eyed cheerleader beautiful again. The finished, polished version of the one sitting at the switchboard. Just insanity. She was moving toward him and he tried to stand.

“Mr. Eichord?” she said in such a voice that angels would be jealous, and a finger of desire traced a hot, burning line across his groin.

“Yes, I have an appointment with Ms. Collier."

“Hi"—what a smile—"I'm Noel,” the vision said, taking his limp hand in hers for a second, sending shock waves through his libido. “Let's go in my office,” she said as she ended the perfunctory handshake, turning and letting him have a good look at the rest of the package as she strode down a plushly carpeted corridor with Eichord hot, so to speak, on her heels.

He knew now what Jones-Sexy-leska had done. They had taken the senior partners of the law firm to a Dallas Cowboys game and the guys had seen the cheerleaders and they'd gone a little bonkers. So they'd hired away a few of the sexiest ones, given them low-cut tops and short skirts, and had them act as receptionists and secretaries. Then they'd taken the sexiest one, put her in expensive, tailored suits, and $300 heels, and told her to pretend that she was a lawyer named Noel Collier. They had tried to call her Noel Coward but they figured that was going a little too far, so they settled.

This was the ULTIMATE cheerleader fantasy. Oh, Lord. Ohmigoodness, yes. Eichord loved everything about women. Their minds, mostly. Yes, he loved the way their minds worked. When others drooled over big boobs or long legs encased in wispy hosiery or bedroom eyes or Lorenesque mouths, he was into minds. He genuinely adored women and the mysterious and loverly way their minds worked.

But—yes, sports fans—next to that he loved the part of the anatomy one sits upon. He was what you call your basic ass-man, or as the feminists would say, your basic ass. He loved the special look and feel of a tight, high, perfect, female derriere. A great-looking ass could, as the expression has it, turn him around.

So by the time Noel Collier had reached the end of the corridor, rounding third and sliding into home, and he'd experienced the profoundly moving experience of following those two little possums wiggling in a gunnysack, he was completely ready to drop to his knees there on her office broadloom and propose marriage right then and there. Seriously, that is. And marriage is the least of it. He was ready to propose a whole lot more.

And when she sat that mouth-watering feast down in her chair and turned her gaze on him again, she was somewhat shocked to see the whole catalog of perversions etched in this cop's face and there was something so ludicrous about it rather than get angry she almost broke up and it was all she could do not to laugh in his face. Eichord was badly shook up by her and he showed it, his face reddening as he introduced himself, “I'm investigating the murders here and since you, that is we'd heard you might be talking to, or that is, uh, you'd been talking with Mr. Hackabee with respect to the possibility—” He kept fumfering around and trying to breathe and think at the same time as he looked at her. Her eyes were so sexy. So hypnotically sexy. He'd never seen any woman quite like her before, even the time he'd worked on a case out in Southern California. Never.

He could not hear what he was saying to her. Only that a babble of words was coming out and that he was not saying to her what he wanted to say. His mind was totally off the case and the business at hand and he was WRECKED by the gorgeous looks of this woman and his immediate, instant, and panting desire for her. The humor of the situation had reached her.

And she was just sitting there watching him make an idiot out of himself as he said, “I was wondering since that's the case if it might not be, uh, possible to go out, and that we could, uh, you know, talk about the thing, the Hackabee situation, and, uh—"

The response was a blink of the eyes. A blink. One, single, enormous, feathery, loud, crashing, slapping, echoing blink of the long and beautiful lashes that protected her movie-star blues.

And he kept talking, “You know, I just thought that...” He trailed off. JEEEzus. What is WRONG with me? Have I gone insane? Have I pickled my damn brains? What is happening to me? He tried to shake himself out of it and he felt like he was so dry he could barely speak, so hot he could scarcely move, and the look of her had taken his breath away, hitting him HARD like a heavyweight's jab to the solar plexus,
ooooof!