Dead Man's Song pd-2

by Jonathan Maberry

  “What’s next, Mr. Mayor?” asked a Scranton reporter. “Are there any leads on the whereabouts of Kenneth Boyd?”

  Terry dialed up a graver expression. “Kenneth Boyd is now being sought as the primary suspect in the murders of Officers Cowan and Castle. Police departments in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York are working together to spread a net so finely meshed that I can guarantee you Boyd will not slip through.”

  Newton snuck another one in. “What if he’s still here in Pine Deep?”

  Terry’s eyes drilled holes through the little man. “Then God help him, Mr. Newton, because here in Pine Deep we have no compassion at all for cop-killers.”

  Terry knew that he had just scored a classic sound-bite moment and he kept his grim game face on while the cameras rolled. A statement like that was a showstopper and from his body language alone he made it clear that this was the ball game. He held that face, forcing eye contact with Newton until the reporter dropped his own gaze, and then Terry turned to the general crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank you all for coming here today. Without the resources and guidance of the press things could get out of hand and you are all to be commended on the tasteful and considerate way with which you’ve handled this crisis. You have my thanks. Now, as I’m sure you’ll understand, the law enforcement officers and I have some serious work to do and every minute counts. We want to wrap this thing up, so let us get to work.”

  He paused to shake hands with a few of the reporters, clapping some on the shoulders, and every once in a while taking a senior reporter’s proffered hand in both of his and leaning close to share a private word, the content of which was meaningless, but the obviousness of the confidence making its mark on the younger journalists watching. The reporters thanked him and gave him their support in the way reporters sometimes do when a great statesman is bearing the burden of some national crisis. Watching, Ferro was so dazzled by the mayor’s finesse that he had to restrain himself from applauding.

  As the reporters shuffled out to file their stories, Gus turned a beaming face at Ferro and LaMastra. “That’s why no one sane will run against him.”

  “Jeeez-us,” breathed LaMastra.

  When the press was gone, Terry settled a muscular haunch on a desk, folded his arms, cocked his head to one side, and looked at the gathered cops. “Well?” he said.

  At that point the officers actually did applaud. Ferro stepped over and shook his hand. “That was pretty amazing, Your Honor. You should run for president.”

  Terry ignored the comment and turned to face Ferro. “You think you can catch this guy?” His voice was hard, his eyes harder.

  Ferro meet Terry’s stare. “I have as good a chance as anyone, sir.”

  Terry continued to stare at him for a moment. “Before I came here I called the Philadelphia chief of police. You are now officially detached to the Pine Deep Police Department as officer in charge of this investigation, effective immediately and for the duration of this investigation. Not the State Police, not the FBI, and not Gus. You are in charge, which means you are responsible. The entire manhunt is yours to run, and I expect you to get it resolved right away. Are we clear on that, Sergeant?”

  Ferro nodded. “We are.” He had been about to say more, but Terry abruptly turned away, effectively shutting him out, and spoke to Gus. “Gus, you are responsible for the town proper and tourist security. I expect you and Detective Sergeant Ferro to liaise and compare notes, and to do whatever is necessary to protect the citizens of Pine Deep and to ensure that the financial security of the town is not adversely affected by these events. I hope that is clear to you both.”

  “Terry, I—”

  “Thank you gentlemen. I will expect regular reports.” With that Terry turned and walked out of the office, got in his car, and drove away.

  Chapter 7

  (1)

  “Lois, where are my goddamn keys?”

  Vic stood at the foot of the stairs and his voice shook the whole house. He pounded his fist down on the newel post. A door opened upstairs and Lois stepped tentatively out into the hall. “Honey, I saw them on the stair post just a few minutes ago.”

  “I’ve only been home for half a goddamn hour. How the hell did they go missing in half a goddamn hour?”

  “Maybe Mike—” Lois started and then clamped her hand over her mouth. She had been about to suggest that Mike had moved them when he come in from school, then realized that this was one of Vic’s favorite traps and she had stuck her foot right into it. “I mean—maybe they fell down—” she finished lamely, but Vic was already smiling. He turned and vanished around the corner, heading to the kitchen.

  Mike looked up from his history textbook, knowing what was coming. He had heard Vic yelling, had heard what his mother had said, and knew the routine by heart. He gripped the book tightly and waited for the first hit. Vic’s hand swept out and backhanded him across the cheek. It was hard, but Mike had felt much worse from Vic. Even so, it rocked him and the force turned his whole body so hard that his chair legs scraped across the floor.

  “Where are my keys?”

  Mike blinked away the stars in his eyes. “I—I thought I saw them on the TV.”

  It was as if Vic and he were reading from a script they’d rehearsed to performance levels.

  “Did I put them on the TV?”

  “No.”

  A pause as Vic tilted his head as if listening.

  “No, sir,” Mike amended.

  “Where did I put them?”

  “You put them on the newel post.”

  “How then did they get to the top of the TV?”

  “I guess I put them there.”

  “You guess?”

  “I put them there, sir.”

  “Did I ask you to move my keys?”

  “No, sir?”

  “Then why did you freaking move them?”

  This was the point at which Mike either had to fake an explanation or give a sullen silence. He’d learned that sullen silences usually brought this part of the ritual to a quicker close. Explanations drew it out and gave Vic more time to get hot. It was better not to let Vic really get going. Mike said nothing, so Vic belted him. This time is was not a casual how-do-you-do backhand, but a real corker of a forehand slap with nice form as Vic put his hips and shoulders into it. Mike could almost appreciate the way in which Vic turned into it like a ballplayer knocking one up into centerfield.

  Mike closed his eyes as the blow came in, having learned from experience that open eyes can catch part of a finger and that was worse, and he tried to move with the blow to take the edge off it. Not that it mattered much because Vic was a pro and a pro knew how to swing. Mike never actually felt the blow—he almost never did—all that he had was an awareness of the moment before it landed and the moment after it knocked his body into motion, as if the blow itself was too intense for his mind to process. There was a big white flash like a photo strobe and Mike was falling, one sneaker tangled in the bottom rungs of his chair, his hands still holding onto the history book, the floor rushing up toward him. His shoulder hit the linoleum and he slid at least a full foot. Mom must have waxed the floor, he thought with his connoisseur’s appreciation of the minutiae of such moments. His head swung on his neck and tapped the floor once, twice, before he settled with his back against the dishwasher and his legs still tangled in the chair.

  Good one, Vic. Nice form and follow through. Let’s see what score the judges give you. A seven-point-five. Ooooh, bad luck. No blood, no perfect score. Mike’s mind was handling the commentary, awarding tenths of points for aftershock and degree of pain. Vic had missed his ear, so there was another mandatory deduction there.

  Vic crouched down, his face red and eyes intensely hot. He jabbed Mike’s forehead with a stiffened index finger with each syllable. “Don’t. Touch. My. Freaking. Keys.”

  There was a second part to this performance, but Mike wasn’t in the mood to see how many of Vic’s buttons could be pushed this earl
y in the day. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said in the most sheepish voice he could manage. “It won’t happen again.”

  Vic glared at him, and his face showed the disappointment he must have felt for so easy a win. He snorted and stood. “See that it doesn’t.” Then he turned and left the kitchen. A moment later the front door slammed.

  Mike lay there a moment longer, feeling the burn of pain on his cheek, assessing the kitchen from that perspective. It was immaculate, even the floor, and he appreciated that now that his cheek was resting against it, and even wondered if it actually was clean enough to eat off of. That was one of Vic’s requirements. How many times had Mike heard Vic growl at his mom, “That floor had better be clean enough to eat off of, Lois, or you’ll be pissing red for a week. Don’t even think I’m joking!” Mom never thought Vic was joking. Mike sure as hell never did.

  A full minute passed and Mike wondered if Mom was going to come down to see if he was okay. She used to always do that, but lately…well, lately Mom tended not to hear much that she didn’t want to hear, or see much that she didn’t want to see. Nowadays she was almost always a little drunk, except when she was a lot drunk. He lay there and waited to hear her footsteps on the stairs. Nope. Nothing. Sighing, Mike rolled over onto his back, feeling the ache in his ribs flare along with his other bruises. He stared at the ceiling, enjoying the cool firmness of the waxed linoleum under him.

  Slowly, with great care and no great hurry, he sat up. Then he stood up and righted his chair, sliding it back toward the table. He bent and picked up his textbook and set it on the table, then went over to the cupboard above the sink and got down the big bottle of Advil. Mom had bottles of it all over the house. He popped off the cap and shook six geltabs into his palm and popped them into his mouth, washing it down with two glasses of tap water. Then he went back to studying.

  (2)

  Tow-Truck Eddie came in from his part-time job and threw his hat onto the chair by the door, unbuckled his equipment belt and hung it over the back of the chair, and walked across the living room to switch on the TV. It was tuned to a religious station, but he used the remote to prowl around until he found the local news station, broadcast from the student-run TV studio at Pinelands College. Mayor Terry Wolfe was speaking to a group of reporters. Flashes popped so fast it looked like Wolfe was standing in a strobe light. From what he could tell it looked like the press conference had just started and Eddie stood there, fascinated, hanging on every word. He had always respected the mayor. It always seemed to Eddie that Wolfe shone with a very bright, very pure inner light despite his being a Jew. Of course, he knew from town chatter that Wolfe hadn’t seen the inside of a synagogue in years, so maybe the Light of Truth had broken through for him. Eddie hoped so. He liked the mayor and would hate to see him swept away when God cleansed the world.

  Thinking that, Eddie glanced at the calendar thumb-tacked to the wall by the kitchenette. Eddie had circled the 31st of October with many red rings that had gone round and round until they had cut through the glossy paper. He had torn off the pages for November and December because they wouldn’t be happening now. The world was going to end on what the pagans called Halloween. That was what God had told him, speaking in his head day after day.

  Into his mind flashed an image of the evil imp disguised as a boy on a bicycle that God in His glory had revealed to Eddie as the Antichrist. The Beast. All day yesterday Eddie had prowled the roads in his wrecker looking for the Beast, certain that he would find him, and he had found nothing. When he had come home late last night to change into his police uniform, he wondered if his belief that he would find the Beast was a prideful thing, and if so, maybe it was that sin that had resulted in his failure to do so. He prayed for forgiveness and for strength to aid him in his search.

  He closed his eyes for a moment so that he could recall the passage from John 2:18, “Dear children, this is the last hour; and as you have heard that the antichrist is coming, even now many antichrists have come. This is how we know it is the last hour.”

  Every chance he could he took his wrecker out and prowled the roads looking for the Beast, and each time he found nothing. Not a single trace, and no hints or guidance from above. Why was it so hard? It had to be some kind of test, he was sure of it. Sitting there while the press conference rambled on, Eddie picked up one of his Bibles and searched for passages about arrogance and pride, trying to burn the words into his brain. He swore to his Father that he would never let pride overcome his judgment. Next time he would make sure the Beast was dead. Dead for good and all. Opening the way to God’s promised thousand years of peace on Earth. He smiled.

  Eddie turned back to the TV screen and continued to smile at Mayor Wolfe’s face. Yes, here was one who could be saved, and he recited from Romans 13: “The hour has come for you to wake up from your slumber, because our salvation is nearer now than when we first believed. The night is nearly over; the day is almost here. So let us put aside the deeds of darkness and put on the armor of light.”

  Thinking this, he stripped off his clothes so that his own armor of light would glow from beneath his skin and shine throughout his house, and then he went upstairs to pray.

  (3)

  When Terry left the press conference he had every intention of just driving home, popping a handful of Xanax, and climbing back into bed. He did get into his car and did drive away, but just as he braked at the stoplight a voice next to him said, “Everyone respects you, Terry. Everyone likes you.”

  He turned and looked at Mandy, who was sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat, her large green eyes filled with light, her pale heart-shaped face framed by masses of red curls—a brighter red than Terry’s darker reddish brown. Terry gripped the steering wheel with both hands until the leather cover creaked within his fists. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then popped them open, hoping that it would have cleared his vision of the sight of her. Mandy was twirling a strand of hair around one finger. The front of her green dress was slashed and hung in red tatters down her chest.

  “You have to leave me alone,” he said.

  Mandy sighed. “Everyone in town loves you, Terry. They trust you.”

  “Go away.”

  “They rely on you to try and make things right. That’s what you do.” Her voice was Mandy’s but the diction was that of the adult she had never lived to become. “If you keep doing this then you’re going to let everyone down.” She reached out with a blood-caked finger and touched his sleeve. Terry whimpered at the touch and jerked his arm away. The streetlight turned green and the car behind him tooted its horn. “If you keep doing this you’re going to hurt everyone—”

  “Stop this, goddamnit! You’ve got to stop saying this stuff—”

  “Terry…if you keep trying to fight it, you’re only going to lose. You know that. It’s getting stronger, Terry. He’s getting stronger. You’re falling apart, and when you break down it will take over.” Mandy leaned toward him and he cut a look at her face. There was nothing childlike in those green eyes, nothing innocent in the harsh curl of her lips as she said, “You’re going to be just like him and you know it!”

  Screaming in denial, Terry stamped down on the brakes and at the same time swept a backhand toward her. Not to hit her, but to drive her back, to drive away what she was saying. His hand met no resistance until it thumped against the backrest of the empty seat.

  With trembling hands he dug in his pocket for his pill case, fumbled it open, and popped a blue 1-milligram Xanax tab into his mouth. There were only three more in the case, and only one of the 4-mg Risperdals—not that the antipsychotics were doing him any good. The Xanax was better because it just mellowed the edges of things. As soon as he could trust himself to operate the car, he drove straight to the pharmacy to get his prescription refilled.

  (4)

  Mike Sweeney sat on the edge of his bed holding an ice pack to his face, wondering why he wasn’t in as much pain as he should have been. Vic had hit him a good one and Mike w
as an expert on bruising. He could always predict how big a bruise would follow a certain kind of hit, how much it would hurt, when it would fade. This one should have been a solid seven on his pain scale, and he should be feeling a dull ache at the base of his skull. Whiplash was another old comrade, but even though there was redness and swelling, it wasn’t half of what he expected it to be. Maybe not a quarter as bad.

  It was weird, and Mike knew that he should be alarmed—not that he wanted to feel worse, but what was happening wasn’t normal. That was obvious, and he had sat there for half an hour just thinking about it—and then like a switch being thrown he wasn’t thinking about it. Or about anything.

  Fugue.

  When he blinked his eyes clear, an hour was gone from the day and the ice bag was just slush, lying on the floor where it had fallen. Mike reached down and picked it up with no surface awareness, either of it having fallen or of now picking it up. The time and everything it had witnessed was gone. Just gone.

  In its fugue the chrysalis evolves.

  If he had looked in a mirror at that moment, he would have seen that the bruising on his face had diminished by almost 80 percent.

  In its chrysalis the imago undergoes a steady process of change.

  The TV was on, the sound low, and Mike started watching it, catching up to the flow of time without being aware of having stepped out of its stream, catching replays of the mayor’s press conference. Mike sat there and watched until it was over and then turned and looked out of his bedroom window for a long time, his consciousness coming back on line one circuit at a time.

  It was only the second of October and the leaves were already turning colors. They seemed pretty, but somehow Mike didn’t like the look of them. It was like they were too bright, too flashy, like the shiny suit of one of those guys who hangs out by the schoolyard and tries to dazzle you with his clothes and his ride and all the time he just wants to sell you some weed.