Dead Man's Song pd-2

by Jonathan Maberry

  Ferro stayed at the farmhouse to coordinate, but LaMastra wanted to be out in the fields. He carried a Mossberg Bullpup shotgun with a twenty-inch barrel and an eight-shell clip, and there was nothing in his expression that suggested “cuff-and-arrest.” The same hard lines were cut into the faces of every man with him. It had become a blood hunt, and everyone there wanted a taste.

  (7)

  They let Crow in to sit with Val later that afternoon, but he had to have his police guard with him—a sullen Sergeant Jim Polk had the afternoon shift. The officer stationed in Val’s room was a fierce-looking female cop from Philly named Coralita Toombes, and she showed great tact by pulling her chair outside to allow Crow some privacy. Polk also left, looking pleased to be out of Crow’s company. Their dislike of each other went back years. For the next few hours Crow sat by Val’s bedside, holding her hand, watching her sleep and praying to God that she was not dreaming. They had been having some particularly nasty dreams lately—both before Ruger’s arrival in town, and after.

  Val was swathed in bandages and hooked up to machines that beeped and pinged. A bag of saline hung pendulously above her, dripping steadily. The liquid was so clear that it seemed to exemplify purity, and that somehow comforted Crow. Nothing else these days seemed very pure, from the blighted crops to the pollution spread by Ruger and his crew. He hated it that so much of this muck had invaded Val’s life, he hated seeing her diminished like this. Val was the strongest person he’d ever known; she was as tough as her father, and to know that she’d been manhandled, pawed at, chased, shot at, and then nearly murdered by Ruger filled Crow with a rage so white-hot that it was, in itself, an example of purity. At that moment he would have gladly traded his life to roll the clock back a couple of days so that he could have made the choice to go out to the Guthrie farm instead of doing Terry’s errand out at the Haunted Hayride first. Had he done so he would have gotten there before Henry had been gunned down. This knowledge was a worm gnawing at his guts.

  Crow bent forward and kissed her hand, but she didn’t stir. Her face was shrunken by the depth of her sleep and her right eye was covered by a thick gauze pad held in place by a circlet of bandages, but even with all that she was beautiful. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, clear brow. Her nose was a little askew from a motorcycle accident—the same one that had given her scars on her knees, breasts, and belly. Scars Crow knew very well from close study. Val’s black hair was fanned across the pillow like a raven’s wings. Her left hand was hooked to the IV, her right held in Crow’s hands, and both of them looked strong despite the slackness of sleep. Not girlie hands like Connie’s, but the tanned, strong, clever hands of a woman who owned and managed the biggest farm in the region. Hands that could be so gentle and yet could turn a wrench or hit a tennis overhand that could chip paint from the foul line.

  Crow had loved Val off and on since third grade, even though she was more or less a “rich kid” and Crow was anybody’s definition of “wrong side of the tracks.” They’d met when Crow and his big brother, Billy, had gone to work for the summer at the Guthrie farm, earning comic book money by picking corn and pumpkins, filling wheelbarrows full of apples, gathering basketsful of strawberries. At nine, Val Guthrie was as tough as a hickory stick and smart as a whip, and her father put in charge of all the kids hired from around the town. Her best friend at the time was another rich kid, Terry Wolfe, and it was pretty clear that Terry was sweet on Val. Crow and Billy had become friends with them and throughout that summer and into the grim Black Autumn that followed they ran as a pack, often with little Mandy Wolfe running along behind to catch up. When that season started it was always Val who called the shots even though Billy was older. Then things turned bad and by the end of that season Billy was dead, Mandy was dead, and Terry was in a coma, all victims of the Pine Deep Reaper. That left Val and Crow together during those last days before the Reaper was himself cut down. Now, thirty years later, Val and Crow were going to be married—just as another Black Autumn was burning its way through their lives.

  Ubel Griswold sends his regards.

  In his mind he could have sworn he heard the cold whisper of Ruger’s laughter. He realized that he was still squeezing Val’s hand too tightly and as he relaxed the pressure he nearly jumped as her fingers curled around his as if refusing to let go. He froze, not wanting to wake her and yet willing her to wake. Her one visible eyelid trembled for a moment and her brow furrowed as if she were puzzling out the nature of being awake. Then that eyelid opened and she looked right at him with one single dark blue eye.

  All afternoon he’d been rehearsing something witty and clever to say when she finally woke up, but his throat went as dry as sand and he couldn’t say a thing.

  Instead, Val said, “You look horrible.”

  He swallowed, smiled, and said, “Whereas you are the most beautiful woman in the world.” He kissed her hand.

  “Oh, please.” She pulled her hand gently out of his and reached up to touch her face, probing the thick bandage over her eye. “Ow. How’s this look?”

  He peeked under the gauze. “Like an eggplant on a hot summer day, but hey, a few pounds of makeup and nobody’ll ever notice.” He took a cup of water from the bedside table and handed it to her. She sipped once through the straw, took a breath, and took a longer sip before handing the cup back, her face thoughtful. Crow could imagine the tape machines in her head replaying everything that had happened. He said softly, “Ruger’s dead.”

  “For sure this time?” Equal parts edge and uncertainty in her voice, echoing what he had asked Jerry Head.

  “For double damn sure.”

  “Good,” she said and it was very nearly a snarl. She touched her chest, feeling for her little silver cross, but it wasn’t there; the nurses had taken it off. Crow opened the drawer of the bedside table and fished it out. He clumsily managed to place it around her neck and attach the clasp. She seemed to relax a bit more once it was on.

  “How are Mark and Connie?

  Crow gave it to her straight, repeating verbatim what Saul Weinstock had said. Val listened and then gave a single curt nod, but he knew she was processing it. “There’s more,” he said, taking her hand again. He took a deep breath and then told her about the new killings out at the farm. He could see the hurt register on her face, but she didn’t break.

  “Those poor men,” she said, her voice hollowed out by shock. “Did they have families?” When he nodded, she shook her head. “My God!”

  “They’ll catch Boyd soon, though. I saw the news earlier and they have state troopers, forest rangers, every kind of cop…even dogs and planes out there.”

  Her mouth was as hard as a knife blade. “They ought to gun him down and bury him in an unmarked grave. Right next to Ruger.” Crow nodded, staring down at her hand, feeling the harshness of her words, but not finding any fault with her sentiments.

  A few moments later she squeezed his hand and when he looked at her there were tears in her eyes. “I just want it to end, Crow!” she said, and her chest hitched with the first sob. “I just want it to be over.” She started to cry then—deep sobs that made her body spasm and jerk. Crow reached for her and tried to comfort her with his nearness, whispering meaningless words as he held her. When he heard her say, “Daddy!” between the sobs, Crow lost it, too, and they clung together in grief.

  (8)

  Sunday was the only day Dick Hangood got to sleep in and he usually didn’t crawl out of bed before four in the afternoon, so when his phone rang at three, he leaned over and stared bleary-eyed at the caller ID, saw that it was Willard Fowler Newton, and almost didn’t answer. The only reason he even bothered was because Dick’s lover, Anton, was still asleep and the phone would wake him up. He slipped out of bed, took the portable phone, and clicked it on as he went into the living room. He slouched down into a leather armchair and immediately his dog leapt into his lap.

  “You have one minute and then I’m going back to sleep, Newt, and unless this involves Brad Pitt
and gratuitous nudity, I am probably going to fire you. Just so you know.” Dick Hangood was the editor and co-owner of the Black Marsh Sentinel, a small paper that came out three times a week in the town just south of Pine Deep.

  Willard Fowler Newton said just fourteen words: “The guy Malcolm Crow shot and killed last night was the Cape May Killer.”

  Dick Hangood sat up in the chair so fast he sent his Pomeranian flying off his lap and onto the hardwood floor where—in a fit of pique—he began savaging Anton’s socks, which were lying atop his shoes by the sofa. “Newton,” he said tiredly, “if you are jerking my chain—”

  “Dick…I interviewed someone who was involved in what happened the other night.” He was stretching that. Mike Sweeney had told him about the Cape May Killer connection, but Mike was on the periphery of what had happened.

  For Hangood shifting gears into true newsman mode was an effort, but he managed it. “Who else knows about this?”

  “No one.”

  “I mean, what other papers are there?”

  “I’m serious—no one. The cops have been keeping this hush-hush. What I mean is…some other reporters know about the cop killings, but no one else knows about the Cape May Killer angle. I’ve been following the story all day,” Newton said urgently.

  Hangood was still trying to find sense in this. “But the chief already issued a statement about the shooting at the Guthrie place. No one said anything about it being related to Cape May.”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s why this is what we in the news business call a scoop.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Newt.”

  “Wake up, Dick…this is the real thing. We have to go to press right now. We have to get this out in a couple of hours. We’ll never have another chance—”

  “Shut up and let me think.”

  “There’s more…”

  “More?”

  “Early this morning two police officers were murdered out at the Guthrie farm. I saw the bodies, Dick. I have pics. Long range, sure, but pics. And I, um…overheard some conversations between the two lead cops. I know the whole story, Dick, and how it ties back in with the Cape May thing. I have it all.”

  Hangood felt like the floor was tilting under him. His mouth moved like a Kissing Gourami for several seconds before he managed to say, “Newt—if this is on the level, if this is what you say it is—then this story is going to be picked up on every news service in the world. You could get a Pulitzer for this.”

  Newton said nothing. He was hyperventilating.

  (9)

  “I gotta take a leak,” Polk said to Toombes and ambled off down the hall. She barely shrugged. He went down past the men’s room, looked over his shoulder to make sure Toombes was out of his line of sight, and then cut into the fire tower. He closed the door and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, punched in a number, and waited. Vic Wingate answered on the third ring.

  “Vic, it’s Jim.”

  “You get yourself switched like I told you to?”

  “Yeah, they got me guarding Crow all day.”

  “He talk to anyone?”

  “Just the doctor. Saul Weinstock.”

  “What did they talk about?”

  “I wasn’t in the room then, but it couldn’t have been much of anything.”

  “So you don’t know when they’re going to do the autopsy?”

  “Actually, Vic, I do. It’s scheduled for this afternoon.”

  There was silence at Vic’s end. “That soon, huh? Shit.”

  “It’s an ongoing criminal investigation. Has to be done fast. That a problem?”

  “Of course it’s a problem, numb-nuts. We can’t let Ruger get sliced up.”

  “Why not, Vic? He’s dead, I don’t see how he’s important to the Man at this point. He’s out of the game, far as I can see.”

  Vic laughed. “Yeah, well, you’ve never been too swift at the best of times, Jimmie, my boy. Trust me when I tell you that Ruger is not out of the game.”

  “But, I don’t get it—”

  “No. You don’t get it, and you’d better wake up every day from now on and pray thanks that you continue to not get it. Now shut up for a second and let me think. We have to find a way to get that Jew doctor to postpone the autopsy for at least a full day. You understand me, Jimmie? A full day.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I damn well said so. And because the Man wants it that way—or is that not enough of a reason for you?”

  “No, sure, it’s cool. I was just asking—”

  “Well, don’t. Look, they’re bringing in some new stiffs for the doctors to play with. If this goes the way I want it to, then they’ll autopsy them first.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’ll be part of an active investigation. Ruger’s old news, as far as they’re concerned. When these other bodies come in they’ll be shifting gears—but it might take the better part of the day before that happens, so I need you to stall the Jew.”

  Polk licked his lips. “Yeah, okay, Vic. I’ll think of something.”

  “Don’t get caught, either. You may be be a dickhead, but for the moment you’re useful. You get caught, then you’re no use to me—or to the Man. No damn use at all, you reading me?”

  “I hear you, Vic.”

  “Good, now get your ass in gear.” He broke the connection.

  Polk leaned against the cold cinder block wall of the fire tower and stared at nothing for two whole minutes, then he pushed himself away and straightened his clothes.

  “Mother of God,” he breathed and went back into the hall, but a bad plan was already forming in his head.

  Chapter 4

  (1)

  When Tow-Truck Eddie came home from the hospital his mind was racing like the engine of his wrecker. He locked the front door, closed all of the blinds, and yanked the curtains shut, bathing the house in gray-brown darkness despite the sun outside. He peered around the corners of each curtain to make sure that no one outside could see in, and whenever he was uncertain he used strips of duct tape to seal the edges of the curtains to the wall. He finished, paused to consider, and then went and taped up every window in the house, basement to attic. It took three thick rolls of duct tape. That was okay, he had plenty. Lately he’d been using it to pull all of the hair off his arms and legs and torso. For his privates he used a razor.

  Once the house was secure, he double-checked the locks on the front and back doors, stripped off his police uniform, and went upstairs to the little shrine he had made to contain the first of the holy relics he would collect. The shrine was a low, flat wooden cabinet that had started out as an IKEA entertainment center but which had been called to a higher purpose by Eddie’s needs. He crossed himself seven times as he knelt in front of the shrine, then he opened the doors and removed the vessel that contained the Eucharist, which he placed on top of the cabinet. He went through the entire ritual of blessing the elements, taking his time and getting each step precisely right. Error was sinful, even if by accident. He used a bottle of Evian to fill his chalice—an old boxing trophy he’d won back in his twenties, before he knew who he truly was—and then he lifted the ciborium, which contained the Eucharist. That it was really a Tupperware container did not matter. One day he would have elements made from gold, but for now humility in all things was correct. He took a deep breath, fighting the rush of excitement that shivered upward from where his knees pressed into the floor and where his upturned heels dug into his buttocks. Gooseflesh covered him like a contour map of the Holy Land as he pried off the lid and removed the Eucharist. He blessed it and holding it in both hands lifted it toward heaven. After two days the knotty muscle of Tony Macchio’s heart had begun to smell a bit. Bitter and strong, like a man’s heart should be. After all, this was the heart of the Baptizer, whom God had directed him to kill so that his energies could be released and consumed by the new Messiah, by Tow-Truck Eddie, who was the Sword of God.

  He took a knife and cut a thick slice, pray
ing all the while, phrasing it as formally as he could. “This is the body of Thy servant, sacrificed for Thee and in remembrance of my own sacrifice on the cross in the land of the Jews. This is the flesh that makes the seal of the Final Covenant. I, the Son of Man, the Son of Heaven’s King, the righteous and unyielding Sword of God, bless this flesh in Your Holy Name. All glory to God the most high!” Then he ate the meat, chewing it slowly in order to explore the nuance of the taste, and when he had eaten, he took the cup, and after he had blessed it, he drank. He set the cup down and lowered his forehead to the floor and wept for the glory of God.

  When he was finished, Tow-Truck Eddie returned the vessels to their places, took the cup and knife to the bathroom and washed them seven times each, put everything in its place, and left the room that held the shrine. Still naked and now fully erect, he went down to the basement where he kept his weights and by candlelight he pushed his body to its absolute limit, clanking the barbells, pyramiding the weights so that he lifted heavier weights each time while decreasing the reps, keeping himself in the haze of the burn, loving the bite of lactic acid in his bulging muscles, watching the veins pop and harden, delighting in the shine of sweat on his skin. Twice he ejaculated while lifting, both times while imagining the death of the Beast, the demon in his sham of a child’s body, writhing and twisting in Tow-Truck Eddie’s powerful hands. Each time, at the point where his dreaming mind heard the snap of bones in the Beast’s throat, he came, spurting come in gooey ropes over his belly. Both times he stopped, washed himself, prayed for forgiveness, and did seven Our Fathers before going back to his weights.