Slob (6 page)

Driving on one level, planning on another, lucid, coolly introspective, he methodically dissects, probes, examines—all with a cold objectivity unusual in even the extreme precognates. Rocking down the highway, crammed into his borrowed wheels, listening to the endless hum of the white line, the hypnotic white that never ends, humming between the wheels as he excogitates.

He knows, just as he always knew in Vietnam, in prisons of one kind or another, exactly the degree of danger to which he's exposed himself. Analyzing his recent carelessness and general ineptitude, he intuitively can feel himself being pulled down into a viscid pit of jeopardy that is taking him under like quicksand.

Three hours and ten minutes later he's whipping the Mercury down off a blacktopped levee access and beside an old, railless wooden bridge over an apparently deep drainage ditch, crashing through the chained gate that sports a rusty, CLOSED—DO NOT ENTER warning sign, and slamming to a stop in a cloud of sandy dust. Large, prominently placed admonitions nailed to ancient oaks and cottonwoods advise NO TRESPASSING, as they oxidize in the moist, cool shadows.

He limps back to the demolished gate, covering his tracks with a leafy tree limb, and with hard-eyed concentration does his best to right the gate again, restoring it to some semblance of its original state of disrepair. The broken chain and padlock lie in the nearby grass and he hefts the chain, liking the weight of it, thinking how easily he could put a human to sleep with it, but he repositions the chain back on the broken gate, the lock still attached and dangling from one end.

He fastens the whole thing to the gate with a couple of lengths of rusting fence wire and returns to the car. Years of experience have taken over and he moves now as he did on night jungle stalks, giving himself to animal instinct, each decision viscerally made, choices assessed and arrived at instinctively, deeply controlled, as he operates on some alien wavelength, responding to vibes, following the silent drum of the hunter and hunted.

The Mercury bounces along the overgrown pathway that now is beginning to buffet the underside of the chassis with hard stubble that feels as tough as corn stalks. He perseveres, roaring on undaunted through he tall, wet weeds, being forced to slow finally as the pathway becomes more and more difficult to follow as it winds its way down around the levee and heads toward the nearby river.

Now running parallel to the riverbank the path such as it was all but disappears, and the stolen car is splashing through even taller wet weeds, and then actually running in water, almost to the floorboards in the lower spots; and still he keeps going. He is driving through very deep water now, driving as he always does by following a secret magnetic pole, some inner compass, going with the flow, barely moving as water sloshes back over the chrome grillwork and threatens to drown out the motor.

Yet Daniel Bunkowski keeps on straight ahead, keeps pushing it, keeps moving, driving without apprehension, quite calm in fact, oblivious to the rising water. And then, sure enough, the vehicle is back on higher ground and the windshield-high weeds part as he drives up beside a trio of dilapidated summer cottages that sit waterlogged alongside the riverbank in an overgrown fringe of tall watergrass.

He senses that he is alone here, and his ability to detect the presence of other human life is quite uncanny, having kept him alive in Southeast Asia time and time again. He stops the vehicle and quickly prepares a crude camouflage of weeds and the huge, folded cammie-cover he carries in his ever-present duffel bag. He is deciding how he will set his people traps, and at this he has no equal. He is the absolute master of the final surprise.

He imagines, reasons, PRECOGNATES how they will come as he looks down the trail toward the winding levee road and the wooden bridge. He makes the estimates in his computerlike mind. How long he has before they find him. Not long. How many will come. Many. How they will make their play. Several clear options. He is in harmony with his physical being, and at one with the terrain as he meticulously rigs the traps that begin alongside the camouflaged Mercury Cougar.

One of the elements that makes Bunkowski such an inordinately dangerous killer species is his automatic pilot light. It is on again now, and as he finishes rigging his people traps he automatically and subconsciously begins retracing his route of the past twenty-four hours, stealing the plates, the exit out of the blue ghost town, the squirting of the oil on the bolts that held the license plates, the manner in which he scanned the street, positions of dead bodies, finger-and footprints, residue of skin under fingernails, microscopic traces of fabric, the most minute forensics feed into his on-line terminal.

Each minute detail is viewed under the magnifier of his trenchant analysis: credit cards, blood trails, parking spaces, it all floods back across his mental viewscreen as he sets his booby traps. In his mind he is also Killing again, coldly now, on automatic pilot, taking each one down as he feels the snap and crunch of bone, the gasps of asphyxiation, the final signs of ebbing life. He is driving again, mentally winding down the hillside, breaking the gate, wiring it back together, retracing each moment of the past day and night, relentlessly probing, dissecting, looking for the forgotten mistakes, the tiny flaws, the hidden tripwires.

He finishes and selects one of the cabins where he will make his hideout. He is light on his feet like a fat man dancing, a five-hundred-pound ballet star, easing toward the steps with grace and agility, an incongruous daintiness—if that's the word—to his precise movements as he cautiously negotiates the rotting steps leading up to one of the tar-paper shanties. Watching him you might see him as an oafish, dancing grizzly, smiling blimp of a man, grinning clown daintily stepping on the rotten boards.

The decrepit cabins stand, somewhat precariously, on a random system of stiltlike creosoted poles sunk into concrete and mired in the muddy silt. The support poles are fairly sound but the cabins are falling apart and he must remember to be very careful where he walks. He goes up the side of the steps, with that intensity of concentration that so often marks his actions, missing nothing, sensors on full scan, alert for any noise, scent, or movement.

He pops the lock with no effort and opens the swollen screen door, then jimmies open the wooden front door and is hit by an incredible foulness of rotting fish smell and stuffiness. The odor is palpable and vomitous. He hurriedly snaps the locks on all the shutters and props them open with the poles he finds scattered about the cabin. The dead fish aroma is overpowering, but it triggers a memory of a kill in Vietnam and he finds himself grinning from ear to ear remembering one night's work with nostalgic pleasure. He loved killing the little people. He smiles at the pleasant memory of the little man he bled dry that night.

With all the shutters up and a gentle breeze blowing through the cabin the stuffiness airs out sufficiently so that he can stand to finally come back inside, and he reenters the cabin, a small, crude affair of three simple rooms. A sleeping area which is closed off by a filthy curtain, and a larger main room with a table and a few chairs, adjoined by a kitchenette of sorts. The tiny cooking area contains only a sink with a hand pump, and an empty icebox that stands under some shelves.

He sets his big sack and duffel down and begins lining up his goodies on the shelf. His milk jug filled with fresh water. A sack of apples. Canned meats, chili, beef stew, canned vegetables, Spam, a quart of Wild Turkey which he will drink a little later. He will take it straight and at room temperature, polishing it off in an hour or so, in order to go to sleep with just the suggestion of a buzz. He can and does drink phenomenal amounts of booze without becoming intoxicated.

He opens up a can of Vienna Sausages and eats a handful in a single bite, washing them down with a couple of quarts of water. He makes the only noise or sound he has made since arriving, a huge, expansive, resounding, thunderclap of a belch that shatters the silence like the rumbling blast of a foghorn.

"BBBBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!" Followed by a contented "Ahhhhh," and an expulsion of halitotic air.

The cabin's interior is that of a typical deserted fishing shack. A bed, a table, three small chairs, a folding cot, a folding chair, a coal-oil lantern that is about empty, a couple of fishing poles, and a cheap rod and reel, nothing much of interest. A banged-up tackle box sits in one corner with a small boat paddle made from a broken oar. There are a few grimy paperbacks and newspapers scattered around the place. No blankets, towels, nothing of a homey nature, indicating the cabin had not seen any use for some time.

He thinks the place smells as if it had not been opened for several months. The fish smell is still extremely strong and he pours a large glass full of whiskey and drinks it down in two gulps, shuddering as he swallows each time. He doesn't like the taste of whiskey, only the way it warms him inside when it hits. He wishes for ice. He wishes he could wash.

Later he will take a pan and go out and get some river water and try to prime the hand pump. But right now all he wants to do is get off his feet and rest his swollen ankle. He sits down hard on one of the chairs and it groans, threatening to collapse under his weight. He props his aching foot up on the table and begins drinking from the quart of whiskey as he lets himself imagine how much fun he could have if the family who owns this cabin would suddenly arrive for a vacation visit. What a nice surprise he could give them all; Mommy, Daddy, and little Brother and Sister. He'd let the kids and Daddy watch him give a big surprise to Mommy—and that's what he thinks about, sitting in the dark of a stinking river rat hole, smelling dead fish, swilling booze, and thinking about taking folks down.

He knows that if he remains static he is finished. They will be coming for him soon. His trail is wide and clear. A giant, pregnant bear of a fat man in a stolen Mercury, hotter than hell's hinges, silver with a vinyl top—all it needs are fluorescent signs on the doors saying HEY, LOOK AT ME! His first problem is he must lose the car. Then he must lose himself. He has been doing something that he never does. He has been making mistakes: Lots of them. He knows the cost of carelessness. Unless he mends his ways immediately they will get him.

He drags the heavy duffel over to him and begins removing items until he comes to the large, blue ledger. It is a well-worn Boorurn and Pease accounts-receivable book; 439 of the five hundred pages are filled with meticulously rendered artwork and carefully researched data. The heading at the top of the first page is

UTILITY

ESCAPES

printed in neat, firm capital letters. This is Chaingang's Bible.

He takes a long pull at the Wild Turkey, shuddering slightly as it burns its way down, and he turns to page 106 and begins plotting out his first move. This is the book of plans that will allow him to remain free under their very noses. He will go back to Chicago and take human lives for his pleasure. Many, many of them.

C
ome on, young lady, you know what we said about bedtime."

"I know," Lee Anne replied, marching off to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Edie was grateful she had a good kid. Not much of a whiner. You laid down the law and usually that did it. It was a lot tougher without Ed, though, even with a good one like Lee. At age eight there has to be a firm disciplinarian around. Fifty inches of potential trouble.

She came out of the bathroom rosy-cheeked and naked, still marching with knees high to some unheard parade drum no doubt, slick as a baby seal across her flat chest and abdomen where she was starting to get a little tummy from too many sweets. Edie was going to start watching both of their diets real close for a while. It wouldn't be a problem.

"Mom," came softly from out of the bedroom and she went in to tuck her little treasure into bed.

"Mom, tell me about Icky and Boo-Boo," she said sleepily, starting to suck her thumb and then remembering she was years beyond such childish activities and cuddling her favorite teddy bear, a talking panda she'd named George, and had cuddled so hard and so often that its synthetic coat was worn slick, and snuggling down into the pillows. Icky and Boo-Boo were an Eskimo and caribou invented or remembered from childhood by her father.

"Okay, but say your prayers first, pumpkin."

"Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take."

"Amen."

"Amen."

"Once upon a time, there was a little Eskimo boy named Icky—"

"A girl, Mom," she corrected as Edie took a deep breath.

"Once upon a time there was this cranky little Eskimo girl named— "

"Cranky? Come on, Mom!"

"I'm sorry. Okay. Now close your eyes and I'll start over. Once upon a time, way up north, there was this little Eskimo named Icky and she had this beautiful baby reindeer named Caribou. It had always wanted to be one of Santa's reindeer, but it was a caribou, so Icky named it Caribou so that it would know what kind of animal it was. But she couldn't pronounce the word caribou because Icky was just a little Eskimo girl and so she could only say Boo-boo and that was the reindeer's name." She thought to herself, Is it a reindeer that wants to be a caribou or the other way around. I've forgotten how Ed used to tell this.

"And Boo-boo went to Santa Claus's workshop to apply to be a Christmas reindeer. But Mr. and Mrs. Claus were out, so he asked to speak to Rudolph"—and Lee Anne was already breathing deeply, thank the Lord, because she had no idea what she was saying at this point.