The man is in the small cottage, and dogs bark inside, fueling the beast's madness. His mental computer takes over now:
VIRGIL WATLOW, he screens.
LEFT PROFILE. Grainy shot of an unshaven man. Late twenties. Close-cropped black hair. Unimportant history. Irrelevant statistics.
DOSSIER: He hits DOG BUNCHER, skips the details. His anger is already beyond the manageable stage.
He is at the door, having deposited duffel nearby. No weapons. No chain. This is hands-on work, and if he has the bowie, he will waste this BUNCHER. And that would be wrong.
“Yeah?"
“Mr. Watlow,” he says, in a mincing sissy voice, “I'm Kenny Harman, from the clinic?” Kenny hep you?
“Eh?"
“I'm buying dogs for the clinic.” He foists a huge pawful of documentation at the man, who dumbly stares at the papers. “We were told you'll sell direct. We'll take all you have.” The papers have the local clinic's imprimatur, along with trash from drug companies that he's rescued from local trash bins. “What do you charge per dog."
“Aw ... that depends ... uh...” Barking is a constant accompaniment to their dialogue.
“Would you mind terribly if I came in? I think we should keep our transaction private, don't you?” Chaingang as a simpering homosexual is something that must be witnessed to be believed. He has the actor's naturalness.
“Yeah. Aw’ right.” Virgil Watlow moves back into the living room of the home which stinks of urine and feces and animal smells. A woman, surprisingly, comes out of the next room, looking at Chaingang as if he were a float in a parade. Mouth agape.
“Could I see what you have?"
“Get the dogs,” the man says, and his significant other sulks off, returning with the weight of a file drawer.
“Uunn.” She drops the drawer.
Chaingang sees movement in the drawer under a wire screen. Noise. Hears the man say something.
“—only got four right now. I'll have some more next week and—"
There is a blur of movement. Daniel Edward Flowers Bunkowski's hand-to-eye coordination is extraordinary. He would have quick hands if he were an NFL wide receiver. But on a human blimp they are always a surprise.
He bops the woman on the head with a hammer-fist, a bottom-fist blow that sounds like a bolt gun taking a cow down in the abattoir, and she snaps that dirty whore-hole of a mouth shut when he pops her head, dying even as she goes down for the count, and the elbow is across and striking, focused beyond the back of Virgil Watlow's head, smashing between his eyes just to stun—not to kill.
Bop. Pop. That fast. Both down.
He secures Mr. Watlow and begins work on the drawer. Gets the screen off. Tries not to look into the stinking thing. Dumps the four live ones and the dead one onto the filthy kitchen floor. Proceeds to open every can, jar, dish, and container in the Watlow refrigerator and kitchen shelves. The small dogs feed. There is more barking out in back of the house, he now realizes, and he will tend to the others later.
He opens drawers and finds a kitchen knife of just the right sharpness. It must be just sharp enough, but he does not want a scalpel edge—this needs to be painful and just a tad blunt. The cuts must require a certain degree of pressure.
He has pedicured Mr. Watlow and is beginning the manicure when the man comes around for the second time. But he passes out on the first cut, so Chaingang gets smelling salts from his duffel, and returns. Revives him yet again. Saws at the next knucklebone and—bang! Mr. Watlow passes away.
Sad at this tragic and untimely loss, the beast cleans up and frees the dogs, preparing to leave. There were twenty-one digits that required attention, and—unfortunately—he only got to twelve of them. Tenderly he opens the woman's mouth and inserts the parts from Mr. Watlow's extremities, placing the tips of the toes and fingers in, so that the mouth will remain agape. He wants to leave her just as he found her. More or less.
He realizes some of the dogs may not be able to fend for themselves, and that it may indeed be cruel to turn them loose. He fights the impulse to stuff a couple down in his shirt for pets. Perhaps they will survive—the hardier ones. He observes, not for the first time, that life is cruel.
25
MAYSBURG
Seth Pisckovik did not seem to be particularly whelmed by Mary's and Royce's inquiry, much less overwhelmed. The second or junior member of the firm of Pisckovik and Pisckovik, pronounced Puh-SHO-vick, was neither better nor worse than the average small-town attorney-at-law. His reputation varied to both ends of the spectrum, depending on whom one asked.
A brusque, middle-aged man with dark, poorly complected skin and a widow's peak, he greeted them the moment they arrived for Mary's appointment, showed them to seats in his office, and spent nearly five minutes with paperwork and a phone call before he managed to finally speak to them again.
“I apologize. A matter that couldn't wait. Now—how can I help you?” Mary explained. Told him about her husband's disappearance.
“My husband and I were friends with the Luther Lloyd family. Both Mrs. Lloyd and I had the same reaction, that something wasn't quite right about the large-scale land sale involving the World Ecosphere company. She told me in conversation that you'd advised her there might be a way to prove that the land deal wasn't completely on the up and up—that it had been done when Mr. Lloyd was under duress, perhaps."
“I mentioned that as one theoretical possibility, not as a serious suggestion."
“But you suggested Mrs. Lloyd should not pursue any legal action, is that correct?” Mary hadn't liked his curt tone, and her own took on a sharp, inquisitive edge. He fielded it easily.
“True.” So?
“I ask because I was considering retaining an attorney to pursue a similar matter on my—and on my husband's—behalf. And Mrs. Lloyd gave us the impression you thought World Ecosphere was too big. And that they were involved with the government and could tie any litigation up for years and years."
“Are you asking me to represent you in a legal matter, Mrs. Perkins?” he said, rather frostily.
“I want to know if you think ... such an inquiry, you know ... could be...” It was getting too much for her, Royce sensed, and he jumped in.
“We wondered if they're actually involved with the U.S. government. If so, in what way? Obviously Mrs. Perkins can't sue the government.” He figured the lawyer would ask what his part was in this, but he didn't. Instead he simply finessed him.
“I haven't any notion, offhand, not having studied what Mrs. Perkins's particular situation is. As I understand it—” he waved a beringed hand in the air “—Mr. Perkins was an intermediary, representing the purchasing agent—so to speak—and I don't see what possible relation that would have to Mrs. Lloyd's situation. She thought her husband would have said no to the offer, which—again, I'm just guessing here, but—which your husband tendered. Is that about the way it was?"
“Yes."
“As I say, there's no relation, other than the fact that each of you has had a tragic thing occur—but that has no provable basis for an action against the land developers. None that I see, anyway."
“Are they a U.S. government-related company? Could you tell us if you have any knowledge about that?” Royce wasn't letting go.
“I have no knowledge, other than my own casual surmises which I made to Mrs. Lloyd. They're dealing in a massive amount of development on behalf of a holding company, and as I understand the project in question, it's some sort of environmental center, which, of course, suggests at least a working relationship with...” He droned on in a lawyerly, boring tone, and Royce let his mind relax. They were learning nothing here.