vision? Eh? Then by the yellowed yarmulke of Yahweh, by the turquoise turnips of the Tetragrammaton, by the crimson chronology of the Anti-Christ, by the dirty dipstick of the Dionysiacs, then we must reexamine and reevaluate our sources of power.
“Now you must deal with a source of force. A wellspring. A centering so deep within the core that it cannot be reached by ordinary means. It is to concentration what brain surgery is to a headache. It is to focus what a shish-kebab skewer in the cortex is to a toothpick in the canapes. It would be to t'ai chi ch'uan, moo duk kwan tang soo do, hapkido, tae kwon do, wushu, and Shaolin kung fu, and any of that other chop-suey bullshit like hwa rang do, dim mak, and dim ching, what nuclear devastation is to a firecracker.
“I call it the Way of the Viper and I would explain it to you as a nonmystical secret martial philosophy that impinges upon what you would wrongly label the Satanic. It draws on the rarest of all the secret combat ryus, exemplified in the mythological parable of a knight in quest of a great dragon; he confronts the beast, knowing it can easily incinerate him, and as the dragon laughs, a tiny viper slithers out of the shadow of the dragon and delivers his poisonous bite of death. The Way of the Viper takes as his power source the unending, black, limitless energy core of eternity. The dark, surging, mindless, insatiable, voracious, deadly, all-vanquishing force that has been here since before the universe began.'
And for the next five or six minutes, what seemed like an hour to Eichord, Jack patiently listened as Ukie took him on another of his little mind-fuck airplane rides, Jack thinking as he listened to the animated tones and the sureness of the rhythms listening with a tenth of his concentration to “—this formidable power source of magnified chi or—” snatches of the monologue in case he would need to interject a brief response. Ukie's fantasy was populated by real dragons and vipers, but the question was, first, was he sane? Eichord would leave that to the experts to determine the range and quality of his psychopathia/psychoses.
Second, or perhaps first, was the question of how he did it. This was no martial-arts expert. This was a Texas liar and a wienie-wagger and a con artist who saw a chance for something—but what? Publicity? Notoriety? There was a reason why the con job. The same guy who was so afraid of the truth now had openly copped. No question that Ukie had offed those people. He was a murderer, clearly. Why not simply tell how he did it? Was somebody else involved? It was a strong possibility. It would explain how a nonmuscle dude might make the transition. It would explain the conning, to some extent. And how was Noel Collier and Company involved? Why not ask?
“—through the focus of intensity which is called the Secret Gate of—'
“Uh, whoa, there, Ukie. Hey. Listen, Jones, Seleska, Foy, Biegelman, and Guthrie?'
“Hmmmm?'
“I understand this is the law firm representing you, zat right?'
“Maybe. Could be,” he said coyly.
“Noel Collier. That's one famous lady.'
“Nice-lookin’ quiff too, there, Jack. I'll have the bitch begging for some of Sly before I'm through with her delicious ass.'
“Uh huh. I'll be talking to her later today. I'll be sure and tell her you said that, okay? I'm sure that will be an added incentive for her to take the case.'
Ukie chuckled mirthlessly. “Hey, Tex, I don't give a fat fuck what you tell her. She'd take me on as a ‘case,’ as you put it, if I tell her to and it's that simple.” Jack had reached him.
“The Way of the Viper and the Dragon, huh? That's some line bullshit, Mr. Hackabee. Thing I'm wondering is—why? We nailed you with shovel in hand at a crime scene. You give us the bodies. You just don't tell us why. So let's say we never figure it all out and you're too clever for us. So nu? So big deal. You go to your just rewards with nobody knowing whatever it is you have going for you. Obviously you're a mean motor scooter, all right, but if you don't want to be serious with us about your methodology, it just makes it look like you had one or more accomplices.'
“That's a load of shit, man! I did those people all alone! Why would I—” He stopped yelling and Jack could see the concentration working, Ukie feeling himself losing it, fighting to keep control. “Why would I need anybody but me? Oh, shit, aaaaaah.” And at that he suddenly got the giggles and there was that flicker of recognition in the eyes that said, Shit, you hooked me that time. All right, copper, that's one for your side. And he said, “I admire your style. That was very deft.'
“Deft?'
“Deft, man, you know, as in facile, smooth, able, skillful, dexterous, adroit, sure, expert-fucking DEFT. Christ, I gotta get a Roget's so we can talk, you need a fucking interpreter to understand English.'
“You could buy me a little pocket dictionary with your advance you get from the book contract. Not to mention the movie contract.'
Ukie was quiet.
“I assume that's what Noel Collier is for, right?'
“You assume wrong, Sherlock Homeboy. No book. No movie. And we made a deal. I gave you bodies. You give me attorney confidentiality. That means no mikes. No cameras. No bullshit surveillance. No—'
“I don't recall making a deal like that with you at all, Ukie, but I'd certainly be willing to if I could make those kinds of guarantees, Unfortunately I can't. Those sorts of deals have to be negotiated. And with the killer of the century, or however you put it when you were describing yourself, you can see why you'd have some pretty heavy- duty surveillance. What if you'd suddenly concentrate real hard while you were making potty and the Way of the Viper would wipe out a wall. You'd be gone. We'd look dumb. Dallas cops are tired of looking dumb. So that's a problem. On the other hand, attorney-client privilege and confidentiality is guaranteed you, as you know. What can I say? All I can do is tell you that if you don't cooperate with us, if you blow verbal smoke screens and play mind games with us, it's not going to help you. It simply isn't in Ukie Hackabee's best interests.'
“That's your opinion. I disagree.'
“Well, I'll be glad to come back and talk with you if you want to give us more solid information, but this other stuff...” Eichord dismissed it with a gesture. “What can I tell you? You're just spinning, your wheels and ours. Pointless. So ... smoke it over.” Jack got up and headed for the door. “And maybe we'll talk again.'
He had his own official loaner and he almost took it but he was into something, his mind on oily lock and load, and he just couldn't face the Big D traffic, the meet with the illustrious female counselor, and all the little furry things scampering around the dark, cobwebbed recesses of his mind, so he let Wally Michaels VIP him again with a driver, and he sat on the passenger side with a notepad, doodling, working on a headache.
This was one of his crossword-type doodles he'd been working on for an hour or so back in the squad room and he was still chewing on the words. Tuning out everything, letting his mind slip and slide, float free as he doodled out the puzzle or anagram or acrostic or whateverinhell it would prove to be.
At the lower left there was the neatly printed list of homicide victims. Just names on corpses to him. He would start with just the positives. The victims who were tied together in the jumble of mixed MOs, tied only in death, by circumstance, time lines, geographical linkages, forensics, perhaps entrance wounds made by plunging steel from the same knife blade. Joined in death by the random madness of Mr. Hackabee and/or perpetrators unknown.
It began with a vertical HAMMONTREEE, FLIPPO coming across from the left horizontally and the Os overlapping. BECK sharing the final E. The name COPELAND dropping down from the C in BECK. SCHUMACHER interlocking with the E. COY and VACCA vertically off it down to the bottom of the page. There had been a SMITH and he added it in above.
All polygraphs on Ukie totally inconclusive. Par for the pollies. All psych testing inconclusive. All everything inconclusive.
Jack was grateful when they pulled up in front of the financial institution in which Jones-Seleska was ensconced.
Eichord looked at the gorgeous countenance of a blond, blue-eyed receptionist who was everyone's cheerleader fantasy, eyes and mouth that promised 1001 ecstatic nights, lips made to drive a man insane with lust and longing, a pair of legs designed to make feeble octogenarians throw away their crutches, a pair of mammary glands drawn by Ward, face by Moran, neck courtesy of Modigliani, and he knew instantly that these people were
