Chaingang

The answers, some technical double-speak about “suitability for organic research” according to “soil data” made not a whit of sense. Mineral rights—that's what Sinclair's after, Sam figured at first—until he read the contracts with care and saw that in some cases they weren't even buying mineral rights!

Something was jarringly out of place, and though he couldn't isolate what it was, the deal was as unsettling as anything he'd ever been involved with. And that night when he went home after an afternoon of talking with Cullen Alberson, who almost fainted when he saw the size of the check for his “corner ground,” he sat and stared for a long time at the title sheet on the summary given to him by the mysterious Mr. Sinclair.

Even the hokey cloak-and-daggerish code word nagged him like a note scrawled on the bathroom mirror in lipstick the color of blood.

The deal was obviously not what it was presented to be. Or perhaps Sam Perkins was suffering from a case of professional paranoia. He'd know a lot more when he found out whether that monster cashier's check was going to float or not. That kind of money had a way of speaking volumes to a man.

4

MARION, ILLINOIS

“How sure are you of the security elements, Dr. Norman?” the stern, faraway voice asked.

“Completely, I assure you.” Norman was writing as he conversed, being one of those individuals capable of more than one simultaneous act of logical reasoning. “Two hundred monitor units, that is to say assets, will be in the field.” Translation: two hundred armed shooters. “As you know, we have all the technology at our disposal. The coverage on the subject will be total, around the clock, across the compass. Now that the implant has been perfected, there is no way the subject can escape."

“This bug thing—whatever the implant is—it can't suddenly malfunction? The battery can't die or whatever?"

“No.” Norman stopped writing and looked at the phone in wonder. He was genuinely offended by idiocy. “The implant is guaranteed to outlast the life of the subject.” He went on, seemingly oblivious to the joke he'd made. “It's a perfect opportunity for first-generation research."

“I suppose so. I understand the need for the school, but the idea of letting a killer loose and observing him under field conditions seems ... I don't know..."

“Insane?"

“Right. Insane!"

“Sir, every revolutionary idea has appeared to be insane before it was proved. The first airplane, the first firearm, these things always seem implausible until they work. Look, if I may say so, what are the options? Our resources are not what they once were. The country is being swallowed by foreign interests. We've had to wage costly, terrible wars because of one or two madmen. Had we been able to call on expert assassination teams, we could have saved thousands of American lives. If we must sacrifice a few lives now, to save a great many—perhaps even change the destiny of our country—in the future, then that is a price we have little choice but to pay. Don't you agree?"

“In theory, one agrees. But in actual practice things go wrong. This could explode in our faces. Equipment malfunctions. Computers make errors. Human beings make mistakes. Things happen."

“All those things have been factored in. Just remember this, sir, we're dealing with an art or science that is relatively virgin territory. The subject gives us the chance to study a Bundy, a Green River Killer, a Gacey, a Son of Sam, and the Boston Strangler all wrapped up in one execution machine.

“The implant will function flawlessly. We can obtain instant recovery or—if need be—termination at any moment during the operational phase.” Norman could hear the party on the outbound end of the distant connection attempt to voice another cautionary note, and the shielded long lines hissed in disgust.

“When are you planning to do the surgery?"

“Very soon. One more test with the Alpha Group II drug, and we'll bring in the brain implant team from Walter Reed."

“Umm."

“The new drug has been remarkable so far. In fact—” he couldn't help but smile—"there's a curious side effect on the subject. It almost renders him—dare I say it—normal for brief periods following the IVs!"

“Outstanding."

“Yes,” the doctor agreed.

They'd come to him nearly a quarter century ago, when he'd been a young doctor with a brilliant future, and they'd challenged him to give them unstoppable killers. He'd put his career on the line for the mysterious agency USMACVSAUCOG, working with his phenomenal find—a subject unlike any other. Everything he'd worked for, every program he'd managed to put in place, had brought them to this point.

He countered a few more flimsy objections, helping another witless bureaucrat to rationalize the impossible and think the unthinkable: they were building a school for covert executions, and the central program would be the study of a mass murderer unchained and allowed to kill or—perhaps—be killed.