Iceman

toolbox, an ordinary-people guy walking down the street. Unexceptional.

It was the end of the line, at last. Had to be. And Eichord hoped it would be resolved now. Too many things could collapse for him to try to wrap this up with good, solid police work. Too many lives hung in the balance to play with it. The system could no longer be trusted, in this instance. A killer had proved himself, or rather they had proven THEMselves, to be too clever. Then there was the matter of the typewriter with the Hand of Christ. Pure Jell-O. The circuit attorney wouldn't even go through the motions. Lishness, for crissakes, he'd have a fucking FIELD DAY if this went in front of a jury.

These were the thoughts in his meat locker as he penetrated the residence yet a final time. (surreptitious entry—possible occupancy by armed suspect #11—quantico training program for major crimes task force agents.)

B & E dialogue: “What are you in?'

A: “Tool and die.'

Q: “Oh, well, we all gotta go sometime.'

(surreptitious entry—countersurveillance checklist) pins, hair, matchsticks, tape, doorwedges, sensors, sound wave generators, autographed picture of Sean Connery. Inside now and listening to the strange and quiet home again. There's no place like home. GOT to get my own key—eh?—he thinks, light in heart and pure in spirit.

1600. 1630. 1655. 1700. Will it be a big production? Scumwad will come in and Eichord will see him get up out of the wheelchair and cross the foyer to the elevator. Freeze, he imagines he'll say. Up with your hands, mother sticker, this is a fuck-up. 1705. 1710. Wet palms now. Upstairs and in the first bedroom to the left of the office with the hallway a clear shot in the reflection of a picture frame. He can move back an inch or two and he's out of the picture both ways. Waiting. 1711. 171130 171135 171136, when you start clockwatching you take some deep breaths and clear your mind. Change positions. Sit if you're standing. Stand if you're sitting. Don't get spooked. There's nothing quite like the sounds of a darkening house as you wait hidden in the gathering shadows. The house comes alive in a way you would never dream and you can begin to believe in all kinds of things like ghosts and poltergeists and spirits as the house begins to breathe around you. She takes on sex, like an old ship will, and she sighs, moans, stretches, cries out, creaking and coughing and snarling with all manner of noises real and imagined. Motors hum and joists contract with the pitch and yaw of her decks. She is coming alive in the darkness, and your skin chills as she whispers her warning.

1738 vehicle noise, exterior, wait, then sounds on eggshell gravel rolling crunching daddy coming home wheelchair on the ramp, key noises at door and a last deep, shaky breath and the palms are dry now like the throat and someone is in down there and then the elevator purrs as he comes for you now. The doors are very quiet, like the stroking of a blade against oiled whetstone only a light vip-vip you have to listen for, feather edge steel in warm oil noise, and then nothing. Long pause. No—nothing—dead S I L E N C E—Eichord is frozen in position. Wanting to tilt forward another two inches to see in the frame reflection and finally paper sounds the son of a gun was reading his mail and he loudly rolls by in the chair. He is not walking. He is N O T repeat NOT AMBULATORY he is a cripple in a wheelchair the man is in a fucking chair and then he speaks and his voice in the dead quiet house where Nicki and Alan lived is louder than a shotgun.

“Companeeeeeeeee. Oh, lucky me. It's Dickless Tracy again.'

Eichord says nothing. Motionless.

“Come on, man. You are fucking PATHETIC! I mean, is this how you shot Nicki, you came in and waited for her to come back from getting groceries. You cocksucker.'

“Talking to me?” Eichord said as he watched the man seated in the chair. He was not holding a weapon.

“Well, eat my grits and get the shits if it ain't my fav-o-rite flatfoot. Sher-luck Homo, of the Major Task Force.'

“That's me. Just out of professional curiosity—how-djew make me?'

“Jeezus, fucking pathetic.” He was already rolling down the hall. “Come on, you might as well come in and have a buzz or whatever. Take the load off your brain. You do drink, don't you? I hear you almost qualify for silent- partner status down there at Jack Daniel's distillery—izzat true? Like the old demon rum, do you, Jackson?'

“I've tossed back some.'

“Uh huh.'

“So how did you know? I thought the door looked clean.'

“It's that pathetic stuff you splash all over yourself, Dickless. What is that crap—Three Nights in a Garbage Can? WHEW! I just about died of cologne poisoning when I walked in the door.” He laughed loudly.

“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.'