Chaingang

Whatever fog or incapacitation had been rendering him inarticulate appears to completely burn off in the sexual heat of the moment. He is almost back to his old self again.

“G'morning,” she says, in a loud, chipper voice.

“Happy Halloween,” he says. He moves back in the direction of the long drug counter, where he senses another human presence. Peers into the sanctum sanctorum. A man in a white smock sees him.

“Can I help you?"

“Can I get datura stramonium or metaloides without a prescription?"

“What's that now?” He is nearer. Chaingang's huge hand is on the private door. The pharmacist is used to being in charge. He has never seen this man who is already inside the private area.

“Please—"

“Do you have any almond-wood or essence of tantic Himavati?” He plays with the man and chain-snaps him before he can answer. Turns instantly as the druggist falls in a heap, moving back out the door—which he can barely squeeze through—saying loudly in the direction of the unconscious man, “—appreciate it. I'll be back to get it in a minute."

Smiling. The smile a frightening mask. Waddling up to her.

“Hi.” Friendly bear. “Are you going to have a big Halloween?"

“Nope. We're gonna stay home this year.” Says something about her daughter.

“I've seen you around town before,” he says. “What's your name?” A big smile.

“Trish Clark,” she says. Trying to hold her breath so as not to have to inhale any of the foul reek of body odor that is so stingingly strong on the man.

“How much are those, Trish?” he asks politely, as his eyes scan the street for watchers. She turns to see what his big finger is pointing at and sees nothing more. A shower of black, blue, red, and golden stars explodes inside the blindness of her mind, die as they are extinguished in inkiness.

He has her long hair, dragging the inert body back to the back. Dragging her over her employer's form. Now returning to lock the door and turn the OPEN sign to CLOSED.

Checking the register first. Surprised at what he finds. He can dump the Buick and buy a nice used car.

She is very sexy, even in her slack-jawed position, and he pulls her to him to bestow a serpent's kiss with teeth meant only to wrest meat from bone.

“Trick or treat,” he says, lowering his bulk onto her.

18

SOUTH OF WATERTON

It took a three-way clearance to get past the guards at the control center: one had to pass visual, palm-print, and spectrographic ID checks, and as the honcho liked to say, “everything from a metal detector to a bullshit detector.” There were detection devices visible as one made one's way past the armed guards in the hallway, but neither the visible detectors nor the visible guards were the ones with the real teeth.

The honcho led the VIP civilian into the deadlock between the two nine-and-a-half-inch steel-sheathed doors, a “lock vault” in the jargon, and they stood there for a few long seconds waiting for the duty sergeant to pop the inner door.

“Evening, sir,” the duty man said smartly.

The honcho nodded and escorted his guest past a desk where a rather attractive woman sat, staring at them as they strode by. Neither rank nor civilian brass impressed anyone inside the control complex. There were no salutes here. The attractive woman was too busy to salute, for example. In her left ear she was listening for the order to execute, which in this case was a literal order. It would mean that the individual or individuals who had just gained admittance to this highly secret chamber were not to be allowed to leave. There was no such order, and she removed her right trigger finger from the .22-caliber pistol concealed under the desk. She happened to be a world-class handgun champion, and she'd miss her period before she'd miss a head shot at that range.

“Who has him?"

“Red tracker."

“Good.” They walked over to the appropriate cubicle where a civilian sat with his hands on a control console and his eyes glued to an electronic display.

“That's the subject. That little blip right there,” the honcho explained. “Probably gone nighty-night, but—” he shrugged “—one never knows. We stay on him right around the clock. Change these monitor teams constantly. Helluva lot of manpower, but it pretty much assures us that he doesn't take off. He's in a twenty-five-mile radius of protection—that's his kill zone. And if he sets one big toe outside it..."

“You guys pick him up?"

“No, sir. We dust him right there."

“How do you keep an eye on him? It looks like there would be so many places he could go, you know?"

“We've got two hundred people in place. Eyeball surveillance. Every move recorded—sound-on-film. Overflights. Infrared. Satellites—he belongs to us every second. We own Big Boy."

They watched the tiny, glowing pinpoint of light with a mixture of unspoken anxiousness and proprietary pride. There was a kind of pioneering feeling inside the control center, a sense that one was part of a history-making endeavor.