Chaingang

Where was the weak link? Had Dr. Norman learned something about him during their drugged sessions that had led to such arrogance on their part? What made them think that he would follow their agenda?

Daniel chewed it over as he added GM keys and Conway Woodruffs money to his billfold. He loaded up, and without encountering further problems, he and Mr. Woodruff left the Big 7 Motel for the last time.

He'd spotted the fairly deserted river access route on the Maysburg side of the bridge. Driving with tremendous concentration, he returned there next, the low-riding Toyota's camper filled with what appeared to be camping gear. Chaingang had almost no rear visibility, and he could hardly breathe cramped in behind the wheel, which he could barely steer for his huge gut and massive legs.

There were a few trucks and a car or two on the access road, but it looked good to him, as it ran parallel to the blue feature, and was country enough to do the trick.

He stopped and phoned a taxi from the nearest pay telephone, at a small auto repair place near the road. Found his voice and told them when and where to pick him up. Gave the motel as his destination. His name was Conway Woodruff. The salesman's keys and an appropriate ID were in his pocket.

Luck, or the power of evil, led him directly to a suitable bluff. His weapons cases and duffel bag were safely ensconced in the trunk of that big, beautiful Buick back at the Big 7.

He took pliers and wire and made certain the Toyota's crew were in for the duration, battened down the hatches, wiped prints out of force of habit, and ran the vehicle off the low bluff into the river. Nobody but the fish heard it sink.

By the time he waddled back down the road, he saw his taxi about to pull out and stopped it with a shout like a cannon shot, waving at the driver, who started down the road to meet him.

“Howdy, I got to sightseein’ out here and—"

“I just about drove off without ya,” the driver snarled.

That was all he needed to launch into a tirade about the cheap Detroit garbage the auto industry was cranking off the assembly lines these days, immediately finding a kindred soul. The two of them cussed and fussed, and by the time the cab driver deposited his heavy load back at the motel, they both agreed that the world was going to hell in a handbasket.

When the taxi pulled away, Chaingang unlocked his Buick Regal and went in search of some fast food, and then—secure lodging. He thought about checking in at a motel somewhere. After all, he had enough credit cards in his pocket. They identified him as Gordon Truett, Walter Smith, and Conway Woodruff, none of whom could put up an argument.

In the creek he could see a ribbon of scum along the edge by the nearest bank. Floating in the slime, a white plastic jug, part of a dead perch, and small twigs were discernible. Up on the bank he noticed pieces of rotting tackle and the brightness of expended shotgun shells. He registered these things subconsciously as he flipped through the pages of UTILITY ESCAPES, daydreaming, glancing back and forth at the map for inspiration.

He'd driven to the bridge, crossed it, followed a small service road on the other side, finally stopping after a few miles near a deep, unmarked creek. He sorted options. Eyes scanning. Registering. Open to the inner sensors that directed his movements much of the time.

Mr. Woodruff, as he'd signed the register, had spent a pleasant night and day in the VACANCY Motorlodge, the only name remaining on the chipped, painted billboard adjacent to the neon sign. The tab was a reasonable $31.90. The real Mr. Woodruff had paid.

There would be a need to dump the vehicle. If he'd gleaned sufficient data about the salesman's itinerary, people would be asking questions about his absence very soon. One option was painting the car. Changing tags. He decided he'd prepare for that contingency and started the car, driving to a nearby hardware store and picking up the necessary items. Rather than shoplift the items—which he ordinarily would have done—he bought a few large spray cans of Krylon acrylic, plenty of masking tape, scissors, and a big roll of brown paper, which he preferred to newsprint. He'd work something out. He wanted to keep those wheels as legal as possible.

He left the store and crossed the bridge to the Missouri side, moving toward Waterton on Maple, right on Park Street, turning back left around the small park, crossing South Main, turning due east on Oak Street. He kept going until he reached the boonies. A small county sign indicated a road number. He turned. Farmland. Another sip: BRIARWOOD.

He saw woods, took a tractor turnrow access road, and cut down off the blacktop, killing the engine.

In his duffel was a compact kerosene space heater and a one-man poncho hootch—but he was not about to spend another night outside on the ground. October had turned frigid.