The others he put away with the bowie in two fast carotid-artery slashes, saving that last .22 round. Jogging up and starting to put the round into the runner but deciding not to.
“You look near death's door,” he told him with a grunt, whispering it to the man in a friendly, concerned tone as he took hold of an ankle and drug him back to a copse of trees until he could figure what was what. He didn't even get to slit his throat. He looked at the man, who was already dead then, and said, “I think you're gonna bleed to death.” And he went back and drug the other two out of the path made by the two adjacent pickup trucks, and his mind was going a mile a minute.
It had been a while since he'd indulged himself with this kind of a kill. Three humans at one time. Usually he did so inside a home or away from prying eyes. The butcher boys he'd carved up back in Chicago. But you don't take down this many out in the open. Too much gravedigging. Too many trucks. Too much chance of a passing motorist. He started moving, squeezing his soaked body up into the nearest pickup and turning the key, grinding it to life and roaring down off the bank onto the nearby road, pulling it into the first turn-row he came to and wiping the wheel, keys, all the surfaces he might have touched, the door handles, leaving the keys in it and jogging, back up to the second truck. He pulled it right behind the first one. Still no traffic coming along. So far so good. He ran back, breathing a little hard now but not feeling it the way he would have six or seven months back. He had to admit it. He felt good.
He started working on the blood trails and then decided he'd leave that temporarily. The rain would help him some. This was a monsoon rain. It would pull the water up to the banks and beyond. He had to get out of there. The big man would not allow himself the usual luxury of digging a grave. This big a mass grave would take time he did not have. He started dragging the three bodies down the bank through the tangle of vines and weeds, rolling, sliding, pulling, horsing the three corpses down by the water, taking note of the mashed greenery and blood trails as he did so.
Perhaps it was the fact his clothing was still soaked from the water or the rain that was coming down on him as he worked, but something gave him the idea of trying the water. He went back in, splashing down next to the deep bank then going over his head and breaststroking powerfully toward the bridge underwater. Suddenly one of his fingers struck something metal as he swam, and be came up for air, nursing a sore hand. He'd almost run into the girder headfirst. He assumed that's what he'd hit—part of the old bridge.
He took a mighty chestful of air and dove again, this time opening his eyes. The water was quite dark and muddy but he could make out a shape and then he realized what it was and came back up. It was a car or truck of some kind, a junker somebody had probably either pushed or driven off the bridge long ago. He dove again and powerful muscles strained and he was able to wrench a door open underwater. It would be perfect for a temporary holding cell.
Chaingang went back to get the bodies. One at a time he took them into the water and down below the bridge, pulling them down underwater with him and stuffing the corpses into the vehicle. It was extremely difficult work and the bodies were a lot harder to manipulate than he'd anticipated, but he eventually managed it, moving with the supple sureness of a natural athlete, the effortless fluidity of a competent stage actor, and the awesome strength of a power lifter. The three bodies were soon tucked out of sight.
Later he'd come back with wire, goggles, and a torch, and he'd do the thing right. And it would be then he'd learn of a wonderful subaqueous surprise down there waiting for him in the watery graveyard of the metal elephants.
BUCKHEAD SPRINGS
“Whatcha doin'?"
“Umm, everybody I can,” he promised her, “and you're next. Pull up some mattress and park that gorgeous bod."
“Okay. You've made me an offer I can't refuse. Here we come.” And a band dropped something small and fuzzy and gray beside Jack. “Herrrrrrrrre's Tuffkins!"
“Well, hello, pal."
Tuffy attacked one of the pieces of paper scattered across the bed.
“MasterCard,” Donna said, “we're bored and we wants some hot action."
“Did you say something about hot action?” She nodded. “You don't mean like THIS, do you?” And he jumped on her and began what he called a frontal nuzzling attack.
“AAAK,” she screamed “Truce!"
“Say what?"
“Uncle! Help! Stop. I give. I'm not bored anymore."
“Uhhhh. How about you, Tuffy? Are you bored?"
The cat wisely ignored him.
“Tell me the truth."
“Yeah?"
“Who's the sexiest woman you've ever seen—and don't say me."
“Don't say me? Okay. No problem. I won't say me."
“You know what I mean. But I want to know. First one who pops into your mind. Not counting present company. The real sex goddesses. Marilyn. Those kinda girls. Who was your favorite?"
“Who wants to know?"
“I wants to know. Me and my pal Tuffkins want to know."
“Marilyn."
“Who else?"
“Bardot?"
“Yeah. I can see that. Brigitte at fifteen was unbelievable."
“My favorite Bardot was at forty, if you're serious. One of the loveliest pictures of a woman I can remember seeing was that shot of her next to the baby seal, talking about the seal-killers. She was about forty as I remember, no longer the sex kitten, but doing something about animal cruelty. I recall she hugged this gorgeous seal and said whatever it was she said about the seal culls—the harvests or whatever those heartless assholes call them—and she said a line I still remember. She said they killed seals to make fur toys and coats for stupid women."
“God"—Donna sat up in the bed—"you know, I remember that too."
“She was one of the first big stars to say that. I don't know if it did any good. But it was such a strong indictment of those rich ... I don't want to say the word to you—you know the kind of woman—those hot-shit jet-setter Fifth Avenue sluts. Anyway, she went on to say to this little seal, she hugged it and said, But we'll get ‘em. Meaning the furriers or the stupid women or the guys who slaughtered the seals for a living. And I said right back to her, No baby, no you won't, but it's a lovely thought."
“There's a lot more fake fur sold now. She may have helped, honey."
“You don't fight city hall and win. You don't screw with human nature and prevail. You don't alter the course of evolution. We like to run everything out to the edge. Push it to the max. It's what will take us down. We'll find safe nuclear energy too irresistible. Or we'll keep building that first strike capability against the other guys and one day some nutcase will find a way to leave his or her mark on history with the push of a button. It's human nature."
Donna wished she hadn't gotten this one started. He had seemed so gloomy and downbeat the last few days. He'd leave for the office, as she called it, in a good mood and come home that night bummed-out and depressed. She reached out and ran a soft band across the side of his face. “Ooooh. Barbed wire."
“Yeah?” He smiled.
“Not shaving today, are we?"
“Just hadn't got the energy. I got a bad case of the lazies today,” he told her, scratching the kitten behind the ears.
“Do you know something?” she said, leaning very close. “I've never told you this, Officer, but I've never kissed a man with a beard before."
“That's a coincidence,” he said. “Neither have I."
And she laughed into his mouth.