Chaingang

Why weren't the Feds already moving in, the way they always did on a big serial case like this? Why did they keep blowing him off when he tried to get outside help?

Marty Kerns had learned to trust his big gut. And his gut kept telling him this thing was going to get a lot worse before it got any better.

It hadn't helped that old goofy C. B. Farnum had called, swearing up and down that he'd been driving down Market Road and he'd seen “Bigfoot” heading into the woods. That was all he fucking needed now—a raft of goddamn Sasquatch sightings.

“I'm going to turn the heater off for a little while—you mind?"

“Go ahead.” She shook her head absentmindedly, looking out at the bare earth. A vast circular hole in the ground that had once been the center of Weldon Lawley's farm—now the foundation of “THE FUTURE LOCATION OF ECOWORLD,” according to the black and white billboard that had been erected the day before.

It was cold. Only ten minutes to seven in the morning, but they wanted to be present when Joseph Fisher made his appearance. He was supposed to be on hand in person, sometime “around seven,” they'd heard. He was the ramrod with the elusive CCC, the firm that had paid Sam to set this deal into motion, and—in Mary's as well as Royce's mind—the outfit responsible in some way for his disappearance.

“Let me know when you get too cold and I'll turn it back on."

“Okay,” she said in a small voice. There had been more tears last night than all the weeks since Sam had vanished. When she'd returned home yesterday, she'd had a call from her neighbor and friend Alberta Riley, who had asked her if she'd heard about the awful massacre in the drugstore.

When Mary had learned about the killings and told Alberta the latest, and they compared notes, it finally hit her. She was sure that she was not going to find Sam alive. It had shaken her to her core.

Royce had been a big help to her. He'd tried his best to be some comfort, but there wasn't much he could say or do. She knew now that Sam had met a bad end. It was still there, an awful thing in the pit of her stomach that felt like acid eating its way through, as she tried to make some logical sense out of it all.

Both she and Royce were certain that whatever fate Sam had met had been shared by these others, the Poindexters and Rusty Ellis. Now, this morning, they felt as if they had added another name—Luther Lloyd. Royce had insisted they drive out to the Lloyd place at six, to confront the man whom he could never reach on the telephone.

Luther Lloyd, of course, was not home. Mrs. Lloyd confessed that he, too, had vanished. “The police told me not to say anything,” she told them.

Mary wanted to call the FBI again, but Royce had asked her—convincingly—if she thought there was any point to it. After the reaction she'd received the day before, she admitted there probably was not. Clearly the law enforcement agencies, for whatever reason, were not letting the spouses of the missing persons know any details of the ongoing investigation. Assuming there was an investigation.

“Somebody comin',” Royce said. It was a couple of pickups with some of the early work crew. They continued to wait, watching the heavy-equipment operators begin their day, until nearly seven-thirty, when two vans and a truck pulled in together. Some of the men getting out were in business suits, and Royce started the engine and drove over to where they were.

Mary and Royce got out and talked to the group, introducing themselves, and being introduced in turn to Joseph Fisher. Suave, soft-spoken, a lawyerly type in his late fifties, Fisher seemed solicitous and genuinely concerned about Mary's situation.

“When we couldn't find your company listed, and we couldn't reestablish contact with Mr. Sinclair, we became worried, Mr. Fisher,” Royce told him.

“I understand that. It's all rather easily explained. I only wish that this frightening business of Mr. Perkins and others being missing could be explained. I'm extremely concerned about all of this. As far as CCC goes, it's actually just a name on paper for the holding company, World Ecosphere, Inc., which holds stock in and supervises the various companies such as Community Communications. We're located in Washington, D.C., and have been for twenty-one years."

“But why wouldn't Sam have known all this, as the real estate agent responsible for setting up this deal here?” Royce waved his arm in the direction of the great circular hole in the ground.

“Oh, I can assure you he did, Mr.... uh....?"

“Hawthorne."

“Mr. Hawthorne. He was given all the background on our company.” Fisher motioned to an aide. “Let me have a brochure, Mel.” The man smiled pleasantly and removed a thick booklet from his briefcase. “This tells all about World Ecosphere, Inc., Mr. Hawthorne, and Mrs. Perkins.” He handed the lavishly printed brochure to Royce. “And you can get some idea of the scope of our project here."