“I'm not wearing any cologne, Alan. Or should I say Arthur?"
“Hey, booby, you can say Myron Lipshitz if it'll get you off."
“You think you smell cologne on me? I'm serious."
“I'm Roebuck, how do you do?” He reached for a bottle and Eichord tensed a little. “I went to perfume U when I was in Paris. The Sorbonne it ain't, but you learn to identify about five hundred different fragrances by memorized olfactory response. Everything from essence of cat shit to the most expensive scents on earth. Eau d'Eichord is down there at the low end of the odor spectrum, Dickless."
“Is that Paris, TEXAS, you're talking about? Did you kill some woman there, too?"
“Killing women is what you're hung up on, Dickie bird. You murdered my lady, you slimy nothing no-dick shit-for-brains cop."
“Your LADY?” Eichord allowed himself a slight smile, keeping his voice as soft as he could. “You mean Nicki? I don't know anything about her suicide, except—wouldn't you agree he's better-off? Oh, sorry. I mean, I don't know anything about HIS suicide. Wouldn't you agree IT'S better off."
“Good try, asshole. You'd like to get me provoked. You want to blow me away too—right? No witnesses. Do you have MY suicide note all typed?"
“Let's see if I have all this right before I take you in, Arthur. You repeatedly rape your stepsister in the foster home. The rapes and abuse leave her insane.
“You're killing surrogate mommies. I guess you and your mommy have something going. But she catches you with Sis and beats you so badly you end up a cripple—in a wheelchair for the rest of your life. We cut to Nevada. You make enough money gambling to start your own business. You and your, uh, boyfriend move to Buckhead. You're in therapy. Your doctor convinces you that you suffered from conversion hysteria all these years—the only thing that kept you in this chair for twenty years is your own sick mind. You and your LADY start killing again. Eh?"
“What bullshit.” He wheels around as if Eichord has ceased to exist in the room.
“You would probably have been able to get away with it for a long time if it hadn't been for the degree of mental illness you suffer from. One of the side effects of your therapy is that you sometimes get a sense of total invincibility. Is that medication or do you generate it in your system? Oh, well, no matter. So you got reckless. Started taking down women you knew, victims who knew YOU. Heather Lennon? Was she the first—so many I forget offhand. Then your big mistake. You got REAL sloppy with Diane Taluvera. You and your lady did."
Schumway snorted, turning a page of the newspaper be was glancing at.
“We got your mail drop, you know?” Eichord started ad-libbing. “Then we put you all together at the bank. You three, I should say. Later we got real lucky with an eyewitness. Then we got a witness to the typing scam on the Hand of Christ letter. The guy at X-L remembers you."
“Wow! REALLY?” Schumway laughed wildly. “You're too fucking much, man. That's just frightening."
“How about the DNA? You didn't count on that one, huh? We got a positive trace on your sperm. Nailed you for two of the killings on that alone."
“SPERM!” Schumway laughed. “I love it! Oh, stop."
“I'm taking you in, Arthur. It's all over."
“Jezus. Do you know what my lawyer will do to this crap in a court of law? He'll eat your fucking LUNCH, Dickless. You and I both know you is tryin’ to pull ole Alan's pud and guess what?” Over his shoulder. “It SUCKS."
“Speaking of your lawyer. You know something I always wanted to ask you. Out on the golf course that time. How did you get out of there? In a wheelchair. Through all that mud. Hmm?"
“Better still, I didn't leave when you did, asshole, I finished up three.” He bragged. “They're STILL trying to fix that green."
“Yeah?"
“You have to WANT it real bad. Coach. What can I tell you?"
“I still don't see how—"
“There's a fucking lot you people don't see.” Schumway wheeled halfway around. “Thirty-eight million goddamn people in chairs and we can't get in the goddamn door of the fucking Buckhead post office. You wonder how I can play golf from a wheelchair, in the mud yet? Because I'm nothing but a poor CRIPPLE. You sell us short."
“I wasn't being patronizing. I just wondered how you could keep from getting stuck."
“Shucks, Matthew.” Suddenly the exact voice of Dennis Weaver. “You kin jess plain charm the maggots offen a daid BUFFALO when youuns wants to, caincha?” Schumway wheeled over and opened the door that overlooked his garden. “Do you know why there are no thirteenth floors in hotels?"
“Superstition, I suppose."
“Wrong, Dickie-doo-doo. There ARE thirteenth floors in hotels, ya fucking dummy. They're just CALLED the fourteenth floors.” Chester of Gunsmoke again: “If they wuzn't no thirteenth floors, them fuckin’ buildin's would jess cave rat in, now, wouldn't they, Mister Dillon?” The front of the house and the back both jutted like the exaggerated profile of a concrete ocean liner. There were no balcony railings or protective barriers to spoil the lines. But Schumway rolled out on the concrete expanse like it was a foot off the ground. Eichord didn't even want to walk out there, much less roll out in a wheelchair.
“You know how I built this house?” Eichord followed him out, thinking this wasn't the scene I was going to play, but if it's ever going to work it'll work here.
“Nope."
“The same way I beat my lawyer out of three hundred dollars on the third hole that day. The same way I wheeled out of the mud. The same way I sold more cars than any other Buckhead County Buick dealer last year. The same way I do whatever I want to do.” He spun around in the chair again, facing Eichord.
“You stab women with an icepick because you're very sick, Arthur. You're twisted inside. You're afraid they can see inside you. See that evil soul of yours. The evil that others put there when you were a little boy. You know it doesn't matter about the nice-looking outside. You're rotten inside. You're a nice red apple with a worm in the center."
“Oh, Christ in heaven.” He put a hand over his stomach like he was in terrible pain. “Don't. Don't make me laugh anymore, man, I really can't stand it.” He giggled. “With a WORM in the center.” He laughed again and Eichord had to smile. “You're fucking unreal. Where do you GET your material?"
“I know you must hurt inside, Arthur,” still smiling. “But I can't let you hurt any more innocent women.” Eichord turned with his back to him for an instant and took something from his jacket, turning back quickly as Schumway said, “You're a pissant joke, cop. The world is made up of two kinds of people. You've seen the signs. Either lead, follow, or get the fuck out of the way."
Eichord saw how muscular the man was and he was controlled. Unafraid. Jack felt the weight of the Smith & Wesson in the oiled leather rig and automatically free-associated Smith & Wesson Oil in his mind. He felt perspiration on him under his clothing. Somebody had turned the heat up in the meat locker.
Schumway was about to make a move, he sensed. Tensing his hand, wondering if the man would spring out at him when he saw the thing behind Eichord's legs. Would he come out at him fast and hard? And he was notoriously bad with a piece. The slowest draw in the West. Wet-palmed. But he made himself move near, closer to Schumway. He dried his palm against his trouser leg, watching the man's muscles tense up. Eichord inching to the right, now, moving off the straight line he had drawn inside his head.
“Remember the movie Knock on any Door,” Schumway said, “it was ‘live fast, and die young?’ Well, my motto is. Party till you puke, take whatever you want, and never die. NEVER FUCKIN’ DIE.” He gritted his white teeth and Jack knew it would be now and he said look and Schumway looked—