and gradually the shooting died down.
Finally, two brave – or foolish – policemen rushed into the bullet-riddled apartment. A lava lamp had been hit, the glop spattered all over the walls. Open kitchen cupboards, chipped by bullets, were empty. A stereo and a TV remained, along with some records. If the police had known to look, they would have found no Doors albums among them. There were marks on the walls where pictures had been hung, but there were no pictures. In a closet was found a cardboard box filled with mutilated plastic and rubber dolls, and behind that was a boy-sized rifle minus its sight. The closets held no clothes, and the dresser drawers had been emptied.
The ambulances were on the way. Someone had already put a raincoat over Kirkland's corpse. His blood was collecting in a pothole on the pavement, one arm sticking up from the folds of the coat and the fingers curved heavenward into claws. The reporters shoved to get the best camera angles. Already, on CNN, the network was about to start a live feed from the Mableton apartments.
Over a hundred miles northeast of Atlanta, on Interstate 85, an olive-green Chevy van puttered along at fifty miles an hour in a heavy rain. While her new baby slept in a little cardboard box on the floorboard, wrapped up in his blue blanket, Mary Terror sang 'Age of Aquarius' in a low voice and wondered who would find the pigsticker she'd left cocked and ready in her front door. She was no longer wearing the nurse's uniform; she had changed at the apartment, put the uniform in a trash bag and thrown it over a bridge into a wooded creek, and the name tag had been tossed away twenty miles out of the city. But the pigs would find out where she'd rented the uniform soon enough, and they would have her Ginger Coles name and her address. It couldn't be helped, because she hadn't had time to come up with a false driver's license. No matter; she was leaving the wasp's nest behind her, and she had her baby, and everything would be great when she met Lord Jack at the weeping lady.
A siren. Flashing lights. Mary's heart jumped, and she started to put her foot to the brake, but the highway patrol car pulled past her and disappeared in the swirling rain and mist ahead.
She had a long way to go. She had her fist-sized Magnum and her Colt, and her clothes and groceries in the back. Plenty of diapers, plenty of formula. A plastic thermos she could pee into so she wouldn't have to make any stops. Messy, but adequate. She'd topped the gas tank before leaving Atlanta, and she'd checked the tires. She wore her Smiley Face on her paisley-print blouse. She was in high cotton.
Who would find the pigsticker, and when? she wondered. It would be worth the loss of the shotgun to take down a really big Mindfucker, to blow the shit out of some superpig with medals on his chest. She glanced down at the little pink thing in its cardboard box, and she said, 'I love you. Momma loves her baby, yes momma does.'
The tires thrummed on the rain-slick interstate. Mary Terror, a careful driver who observed all speed limits and rules of the road, went on.
2: Armed and Dangerous
The man in Michigan could not sleep.
He checked his watch. The luminous hands read seven minutes after midnight. He lay in bed awhile longer, but the metal plate in his jaw was picking up radio noise. He opened his mouth, and he could hear the gnashing of rock and roll guitars. This was going to be a very bad night.
Nothing to be done but to get drunk, he decided, and he got up in the dark.
The wind was whistling outside, the cold borne across the Great Plains on the back of buffalo winter. The woodframe house shivered and moaned, also unable to sleep by reason of turbulence. The man, gray hair all over his chest and matting his back, walked in his pajama bottoms to the chilly kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator. Its dim light fell upon his death's head of a face, all hollowed cheekbones and deep-socketed eyes. Something was wrong with the left eye, and his jaw was crooked. His breathing was a slow, hoarse bellows. He reached for the four remaining cans of Bud in their plastic harness, and he took them all with him to the den.
In his sanctuary of walnut paneling, his bowling plaques on the walls and his marksmanship trophies standing around like Greek sculptures, he turned on the TV and settled himself into his butt-worn, old plaid recliner. He used the remote control to go to ESPN first, where two Australian teams were playing their brand of football. He drank most of one of the beers, putting it down in a few long swallows. In his mouth someone sang underwater. His head was pounding, too, a slow, excruciating pain that began at the crown of his bald skull and trickled like hot mercury down to the nape of his neck. He was a connoisseur of headaches, as some men know wines or butterflies; this headache would fill him with delicious pain, and leave an aftertaste of gunsmoke and metal.
He finished a second beer and decided the Australians didn't know squat about football. His big-knuckled hand moved on the remote control. He was in the realm of movies now: The African Queen on one station, Easy Rider on another, Godzilla vs. Megalon on a third. Then into the jungle of talking heads, people selling cellulite cream and promising hair growth for desperate men. Women were wrestling on the next channel: GLOW. He watched that for a while, because the Terrorist knocked him out. Then he went on, searching the electric wilderness while his head sang and his skull vibrated with bass notes.
He came to Headline News, and he stopped his impatient finger to watch the nuts in Beirut blow themselves to pieces. He was about to move on, toward religious territory, when the newscaster said: 'A bizarre scene today just outside Atlanta, when police officers and agents of the FBI walked into a trap set by a woman who may have stolen an infant from an area hospital.'
The third can of Bud hung poised at his lips. He watched the jerky cameras record a scene of carnage. Boom went a gun. Shotgun, it sounded like to him. People screamed and backpedaled. Someone was on the ground, writhing in agony. Whoever was holding the camera fell to his or her knees. More gunfire: pistol shots this time. 'Get down, damn it!' somebody yelled. The camera angle went down to pavement level, and raindrops splashed the lens.
'The suspect,' the newscaster said, 'identified by the FBI as Ginger Coles, is thought to have taken a baby boy from St. James Hospital at approximately two o'clock on Saturday afternoon. FBI agents and policemen tripped a wire-fired shotgun at her apartment, killing FBI agent Robert Kirkland, thirty-two, and critically wounding another agent and a young man.'
The man in the chair gave a soft grunt. The scene showed a sheet-covered body being put into an ambulance.
'The suspect, also known as Janette Leister, may still be in the Atlanta area.'
Leister, the man thought. Janette. Oh, Jesus! He sat bolt upright, his headache forgotten, and beer streamed from the Bud can onto the carpet.
'Coles is also implicated in the murder of a neighbor, sixty-six-year-old Grady Shecklett, and she's considered to be armed and extremely dangerous. We'll have more on this story as it develops. Stay tuned for sports news next.'
Leister. Janette. He knew those names, but they didn't go together. A tick bothered his right eye. Gary Leister. Janette Snowden. Yes, those were names he knew. Two dead members of the Storm Front. Oh, Christ! Could it be? Could it be?
He stayed where he was until the story came around again thirty minutes later. This time he had his VCR on, and he taped it. The house shuddered under the onslaught of winter winds, but the man's attention was riveted to the violent drama on his television set. When it was over, he played it back once more. Walked into a trap. A wire- fired shotgun. Ginger Coles. Janette Leister. Taken a baby boy. May still be in the Atlanta area. Armed and extremely dangerous.
You can bet your life on it, the man in the plaid recliner thought.
His heart was racing. The wire-fired shotgun was something she'd come up with, all right. A little extra effort to nail the first person through the door. But still in the Atlanta area? That he seriously doubted. She was a night traveler. Even now she was probably on the road. But going where? And why with the baby?
He reached over beside his chair. He picked up a cord with prongs on one end, the other end connected to a small black box with a speaker in it. He fit the prongs into a flesh-colored socket on his throat, and he held the black box in his right hand and clicked it on. There was a low humming noise.
'It's you, isn't it, Mary?' the metallic voice said through the speaker. The man's lips moved only a bit, but his throat convulsed with the words. 'It's you, Mary. Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?'
He ran the tape back and watched it a third time, his excitement mounting.
'With shotgun shells and walking hell and dead men all in a row,' he finished.
