"I've always liked your work." Price turned his back, not to run, but to present his neck to be snapped. Inside, there was no fear, only respect and—what surprised Shooter the most—genuine affection. "I'm ready, Daniel," he said, as Chaingang moved forward to rip the sniper limb from limb.
That evening Chaingang woke up, the wound bleeding, something hot and wet in his face.
"Stop that. Stop that, you naughty little boy. What a naughty little boy you are!" He was talking to the pup that was standing on his face. One of its four paws had slipped into his open mouth while he snored. "Those little feet don't taste good. Those paws stink! Those little paws stink!" he said, kissing the dog.
No one who knew the beast would believe that he might be capable of the tenderness he shows these puppies who cavort around his huge form.
The wound looks all right, and he has seen many such wounds. The battle dressing is difficult to change as the duct tape has melted in the heat and movement, but he manages, and throws the bloody bandages away where the puppies can't get at them.
With a grunt he falls back on his sleeping bag, and the five little dogs wiggle against him.
"Don't you worry. You're safe now," the huge beast tells them. And they give him kisses in gratitude, but he yawns and moves suddenly and five puppies scamper for safety. "You're all right," he assures them. The friendliest one returns and tries to paw his mouth open.
"Stop that!" he says, making a noise like the cough of an engine being started. His version of a giggle. "You little devil."
The monstrosity opens his mind, fully relaxed, as he plays with the pups, letting the ideas flow past his mindscreen. How will he call the good doctor out from his fortress? All the usual con games are of no use—the sissy is smart and extremely wary. A woman? He doubts if Dr. Norman even likes women. There must be a way to draw him outside…
On another level, he must find some homes for these little mutts, somewhere they'll be loved, where a child will learn to give each dog gentle, loving care, and as he thinks of the children he is presented with his answer. He knows how he will take Norman down. The barking cough that explodes from him has no relation to the sound of a human laugh, and, wisely, the five little dogs once again run for cover.
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29
Trask finished reading the news account that blamed the spate of Kansas City homicides on a pair of killers, a man described as a renegade sniper, an "ex-mercenary" named Robert Price, and the legendary mass murderer and serial killer, Chaingang Bunkowski, who authorities claimed had escaped from federal prison. It was quite a scandal, and Trask wished he could have been part of the team that finally broke it in the press. He read about the terrible long-range weapon called SHERFSAVANT, and the cache of unique ammunition that had been found. It was some ending to the violence piece, if he'd only had a show to produce it for.
He turned the radio on and heard his ex-boss ask a guest, "Why is there so much violence in America today? And what can we do about it?"
"I'll tell you one thing—we better get serious about putting the crooks and rapists and killers in prisons that can hold them. We coddle them too much. If somebody rapes a child, for instance, they oughtta be castrated, or if it's a woman—you know—something else like that."
"Go back to an eye for an eye?"
"Well—"
"There's no proof that deters crime."
"Lock 'em up then for life and make sure they can't break out. Make the prisons better."
"Who's gonna pay for all these better, bigger prisons? You and I? The taxpayer? You really want to pay, for some more prisons?"
"I'll pay for my share if they take away the damn TVs and the privileges. Make prison tough again. And stop worrying about overcrowded prisons. Stack 'em. in there like cord wood. Why worry about being so humane to animals who rape and molest and murder? Worry, about the victims for a change…" Trask turned the radio off.
All heat and no light.
The room was still papered in notes. He looked at the chronological summary of the violence material. It was as thick as a book. He pictured Sean Flynn at the mike. Listening to himself inside the old pair of Stanton Dynaphase Forty cans he always wore on the air, big vinyl, chrome, and blue steel headphones, plugged into the air monitor. A researcher—probably some kid fresh from Tennessee—and Babaloo would be in there making notes to slip to him. The idea of going back to radio was a repugnant one. He'd had his share of radio.
Trask picked up the story about the sniper weapon and the serial homicides and thought out loud: "I wonder if I could get a book out of this?"
It wouldn't cost anything to try. God knows he had the research already done. Not to mention the dubious distinction of his nightmarish experience as an eyewitness to a kill.
He took some paper and put it in his machine and typed "THE SHOOTER" by Victor Trask. Changed his mind. Pulled it out and inserted a new sheet of paper, typing a fresh title page:
SAVANT
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