fraud.
She was sixty and living in Hong Kong, the last anyone could determine. He took it by the numbers. The reports. The requests. The channels. The warrants. The long series of confabulations with the Hong Kong cop shop. Extradition conferencing. The considerations of the circuit attorney and the assholes in the State Department. But Eichord wanted her badly, so he hung in there and persevered and pissed and moaned and caused a stink and generally irritated everybody to the point where they'd give him his way just to shut him up. He was going after her.
He would have to take along an interpreter, and a Chinese-American detective by the name of James Lee was right there in-house, and why the hell not? So off they went. In the end he'd solved a case that had been on the books “forever,” and the positive ink it pulled for the department had changed his way of life completely, catapulting him into the hot seat when the Dr. Demented shit hit the headlines. All because of Lee. He'd probably never have nailed her had it not been for Lee and the man from Kowloon. The incredibly fierce warrior who allowed them to penetrate the bamboo veil of one of the ultra-secret societies called triads—the ninja who would slice off his tongue to prove a point—the fearless, frightening, awesome, and awful man who Eichord always thought of as “the man from Kowloon,” but who was Jimmie Lee's older brother.
When his face had finally healed it was nowhere near so disfigured as one might imagine. Bullet wounds can heal to be little more than small puckers as the damage recedes with time. Knife, gunshot, and other wounds will sometimes completely disappear with the years, or leave great, sunken cavities in the flesh. It just depends.
Bunkowski's face was badly marked if one looked at it in profile. Two of the punctures looked like what they were, bullet holes, with the third wound having more of a superficial furrow effect.
But straight on or from other angles the marks were not so unusual or noticeable. Unless one inspected the three wounds they appeared to be almost a series of pockmarks the way they were joined so closely in the plump contours and distended bags of his face—what was once referred to as baby fat. They were like insect bites on an otherwise featureless face.
Additionally his face in repose was quite a different face than the one in animation. At will he could manipulate his rubbery mask to reflect any emotion from beatific, disarming innocence to fearsome menace. If you squinted a bit the bullet wounds became little more than dimples.
By working with a mirror he was soon able to learn how to hold himself so the people he came in contact with would see the face at its least alarming. By holding his mouth in an exaggerated way and causing the fat of the cheek to dimple and pucker he could conceal, to some extent, the ravaged appearance of his cheek.
The motorist pulled over and the grateful hitchhiker ran to catch up with the car.
“Hi,” the young man said as he opened the door tentatively.
“Hi,” the huge man said in a deep rumble. “Where ya headed?'
The youngster, just a kid really, tilted his head in the direction they were pointing. “North.'
“Where you bound for?” the man asked, jovially, as the car pulled back out into the traffic.
“Lincoln.” He was shirtless. He tossed a small duffel bag into the back seat. “Nebraska.'
“Well, I haven't been up there for years.'
“You been to Lincoln?'
“Yeah. I was in sales up there years ago. Good town.'
“I guess so,” the boy said without conviction, obviously of a different opinion.
“How old are you?'
“Fifteen.” The boy smiled. He had a pug nose and a very deep tan. Rather long hair worn in the current fashion.
“Fifteen,” the driver said in amazement. “I figured you for seventeen or eighteen easy.'
“I'm almost sixteen,” the youngster said, as if that explained it.
“Where you hitchin’ from?'
“Huh?'
“Where did you start out from?'
“You mean this morning?'
“No'—what an idiot—'you know, when you started out on your trip? Where did you start from?'
“Lincoln,” the kid said, as if he'd had this boring conversation three hundred times with motorists who'd picked him up. “I hitched down to Jackson,” it sounded like he'd said.
“Jackson, Mississippi?'
“Florida.'
“I've never been there. Where's Jackson, Florida?'
“Jacks. You know, Jacksonville.'
“Oh, Jacksonville. Sure. That's a fun town, I hear.'
“Absolutely,” the kid said, shaking his head. “Bitchin’ party town.” He smiled as if he couldn't take any more party.
“So you sound like you had a good time.'
“Had a real good time. I hate to go back.'
“I bet. Your folks'll be relieved to see you, though, huh?'
“Don't have any. I live with my sister ‘n her, uh, boyfriend. But I gotta go back.'
“You in school?'
“Naw. I quit. Couldn't handle it.'
“If you don't have to go back to go to school how come you gotta go back?” The big man had unconsciously already picked up the tone and language of the youngster, subtly easing into his speech rhythms.
“I run outta money.” They both laughed.
“I hear that all right.'
“Yeah. I ain't ate since yesterday.'
“Oh, hey,” he said jovially, “we can't have that. I'll tell you what—are you in a big hurry?'
“Naw.” The boy shrugged his bare shoulders. “Not really,” he said, looking at the big man behind the wheel.
“Well, I was just thinking. I gotta look at this piece of real estate for sale over by the river. If you have time you wanna go with me?” The man looked up through the windshield. “Looks like it could open up rain anytime.'
“Yeah, it sure does.'
“And, you know, if you think you can spare the time, you could ride with me and look at the ground with me and when we get done I'll take you to McDonald's or someplace an’ get you some chow, and then I can drop you back on the Interstate.'
The kid laughed. “Yeah, okay.” It sounded as good as any other way to kill the morning. “I ain't got anything else I got to do I guess.'
“Be a good way to stay out of the rain.'
“Yeah,” the kid agreed.
They rode in silence for a while.
“I'll bet you have some wild times on the road hitchhiking, am I right?'
“You better believe it. Man, I mean...” He trailed off.
“I guess it gets pretty crazy, huh?” The kid looked at him and nodded agreement. “What's the weirdest thing you've had happen so far?” Just making conversation.
“Guys wantin’ to blow me.'
“Huh?'
