Dead Man's Song pd-2

by Jonathan Maberry

  Rising, Ferro gave him a wan smile. “We’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Mayor.”

  They shook hands, but there was no warmth in it.

  (3)

  Tow-Truck Eddie’s wrecker glided along in the line of cars waiting to make the turn at the stop sign. He was three cars away from rolling right abreast of the big display window of the Crow’s Nest, and within his mind the voice of God did not speak in words but instead pulsed with an almost sexual rhythm, though Eddie did not relate the sensation to anything sexual. Instead he felt that incessant pounding in his brain and took it for the heartbeat of his own godly inner self, his Christ self, as it rose in a different kind of ecstasy—as it prepared for the slaughter of the Beast. The Christ about to confront and conquer the Antichrist.

  Another car turned and he moved forward. He could see the window clearly enough, filled with tombstones and severed limbs, draped with cobwebs and hung with bats and spiders. Eddie’s lip curled in disgust at the pagan display. Such things will fall and the sinners be brought to understanding through blood and the Sword of the Lamb. Soon enough. A pickup truck made the turn and Eddie was now almost abreast of the store. He could see two figures moving around but there was sun glare on the glass and he couldn’t make out the features. Then the last car in line made the turn and Eddie moved forward again and turned full in his seat to stare. The angle was better and there was no glare so he could see that the figure on the left was definitely Malcolm Crow. He flicked his eyes to the other, certain that it had to the Beast in his disguise as a human boy. He squinted, picking out details. He could see that the figure wore jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. That it was not a large figure—about Crow’s size, who was short—but the face was indistinct. He shielded his eyes, leaned forward, even cupped his hands around his eyes to shield them from any sun glare. The clothes were clear enough but the face remained blurred, like a photograph when someone has turned their head at just the wrong moment. Eddie stared and stared and then behind him a whole row of cars began nailing their horns. Eddie jumped, frustrated and angry, and took his foot off the gas, but even as the truck moved forward and again the angle of light on the glass changed to an even clearer view, the face of the second figure in the store remained blurred.

  Doubt sewed threads through his heart and he turned and drove away. In his head the urgent guttural chant had stopped completely and when he spoke to God, there was no answer. Frowning, Tow-Truck Eddie made the turn and headed out of town.

  When the wrecker was gone, the Bone Man stepped from in front of the window and nearly collapsed, his hands falling away from the strings of his guitar. Perhaps if he had more substance, gravity would have grabbed him and dragged him down against the ground outside the Crow’s Nest. Even so, a wave of sick exhaustion flooded through him. He tried to throw up, but he was empty, just a shell, and he didn’t even have the benefit of that release. He was thoroughly drained. Since last night, when he had played his guitar in the night to try and soothe the terrible dreams that were spreading like a plague throughout the town, he had been weak. That alone had cost him, and all day he had tried to husband what little strength was left to him, to conserve what few powers he possessed. This last act of standing between the boy and the eye of the killer in the truck made him feel as if there was nothing left. He felt less substantial than a fleeting hope.

  Yet there was still a faintness of a smile on his gray lips. The wrecker had moved on. The driver had not seen the boy. Somehow the act of playing his songs while standing in the way—in harm’s way for sure—had turned the killer’s eye. Maybe turned Griswold’s eye as well. God, he thought, please let it be so. Please throw me at least that much of a bone.

  Weary and sick as he was, his smile blossomed and he looked down at the lovely curves of his guitar and knew something he hadn’t known before. Is this why I’m here? He wondered. Is this why the grave vomited me back into this damn town? To save this boy?

  The Bone Man raised his guitar to his lips and kissed it, his eyelids fluttering closed.

  Let it be so, he prayed. God…have at least that much mercy.

  (4)

  LaMastra stayed in the car while Ferro went in to the hospital to say good-bye to Saul Weinstock.

  “Real sorry to see you go, Frank,” Weinstock said, and meant it.

  The doctor was freshly dressed and neatly shaved, but Ferro thought he looked careworn. It was understandable. He said, “You’re about the only one who is. From your esteemed mayor’s reaction I was waiting for villagers with torches to drive us out of town.”

  Weinstock’s left eye twitched, but he kept smiling. “Terry’s under a lot of pressure. We all are. The blight and all, and the stuff out at the Guthrie’s farm. He used to date Val, you know. Fifteen years ago or so. He liked Henry, and he’s taking his death pretty hard. I guess we’re all taking this…hard.” Weinstock cleared his throat. “I personally would like to see you stay, Frank.”

  “Vince is glad to be leaving,” Ferro said. “This place has gotten to him.”

  “And it hasn’t gotten to you?”

  “Well, it is a fairly creepy town, you have to admit. Says so on all the billboards.”

  “Yeah,” Weinstock said, drawing out the word. For a minute it looked like he was going to add something, then just shook his head.

  “Something up, Saul?”

  The doctor took a second with that. He said, “Frank…if anything else weird turns up…? I mean, anything associated with the case…can I call you?”

  “Well—Chief Bernhardt is handling—”

  “No, Frank…can I call you?” He paused. “If it’s something I don’t think Gus can handle.”

  Ferro studied him, then shrugged. “Sure. Why not? If it’s associated with the case, you can always give me a call.”

  “What if it’s somewhat tangential to the case?”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  Weinstock started to say something, then smiled and shook his head. “I’m tired and I’m babbling. Have a good trip back, Frank. Come out sometime and we can play some golf. You play golf?”

  “Badly.”

  “Good, ’cause I like to win.” They stood and shook hands and Weinstock held on for just a second too long and squeezed just a bit too hard, then he let go and sank back down into his chair. Ferro gave him a last puzzled smile, a nod, and then left.

  In the empty elevator he said to himself, “Vince was right. This town is screwy.”

  Twenty minutes later the phone on Weinstock’s desk buzzed and he pushed the button. “The courier’s here, doctor,” said his secretary.

  “Send him right in.”

  Weinstock was fitting the hard plastic cover over the cooler as his door opened and a young man entered, eyebrows raised expectantly. He wore a uniform and cap with the DHL logo on it. “Pickup?” the man asked.

  “Right here.” Weinstock sealed the dry-ice-packed cooler with orange tape. A second identical cooler sat on one corner of his desk. “Labels are ready. The labs are expecting these.”

  If the driver found anything unusual in a hospital’s administrator personally sending samples to separate laboratories in Manhattan and Philadelphia, he didn’t let it show. It probably never occurred to him, just another pickup. DHL handled tens of thousands of medical courier jobs every day. Weinstock signed on the electronic clipboard and the courier took one cooler in each hand, wished the doctor a “Nice day,” and left.

  When he was gone, Weinstock sank down in his seat and leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and tried to still the hammering of his heart. That took awhile. When he finally opened his eyes, the quality of sunlight in the room had changed and there were slanting shadows angled across his office, and he realized that he must have fallen asleep. Darting a look at the clock he was shocked to see that over two hours had passed. The sun was already behind the far mountains and night was coming on fast. “Shit!” he hissed as he jumped up and headed for the door. He wanted to be home before dark.

&
nbsp; Once he was in his car, Weinstock punched Crow’s number into his cell and listened to it ring five times before a voice answered: “Crow’s Nest.”

  “Who’s this?” Weinstock barked.

  “Mike Sweeney, how may I help you?”

  “Is Crow there?”

  “He’s with a customer, sir, may I—”

  Weinstock punched the disconnect button. “Damn,” he said as he drove through the gathering gloom.

  Chapter 17

  (1)

  “They want to keep us one more day,” Mark said, his frustration and tension clear all the way down the phone lines. “Seems they wanted to have another counseling session with Weeping Beauty.”

  “Mark! Do you have to be like that?”

  Silence for a few heartbeats. “It’s not like I said it in front of her.”

  “You shouldn’t have said it all.” She expected him to say something else, peevish or defensive, but there was nothing. She said, “What time tomorrow should we pick you up?”

  “You don’t need to bother,” he snapped. “Buck Franklin from the Rotary is coming by.”

  “I’d like to be there anyway,” Val said, “for Connie.”

  “Don’t bother,” Mark said, and hung up.

  She set down the phone and looked at it thoughtfully for a while, lips pursed, twin vertical frown lines between her brows. Crow would have had something witty and biting and funny to say, even to the silent phone, but he wasn’t here and the best Val could manage was, “ass,” which was appropriate enough.

  Around her the house was huge and silent, filled with brown shadows. She knew that every door was locked and every window shut and pinned. Crow had seen to that before he had left for town to put in some hours at the store. He wouldn’t be back until the middle of the afternoon, and then at four a reporter was coming over to interview Crow about the events of thirty years ago. That should be loads of fun, she thought.

  She went downstairs to her father’s room, hesitated in the doorway for a while, steeled herself, and went into the room, past the bed that was now empty of both her mother and father, to the big oak wardrobe. The doors swung open quietly. She knelt down and dug around until she found a old shoe-box tied with a piece of hairy twine. Val brought this over to the desk by the window and sat down. Though her left arm still ached it was better each day. She untied the twine, set the lid aside, and removed a bundle wrapped in an oil-stained cloth. Val unwrapped it and stared at the contents for a long while, frowning.

  There was a small cleaning kit in the box, which she opened to the smell of gun oil. Val slowly and methodically stripped and cleaned the .45 Colt Commander. When she was finished, she loaded the magazine and slapped it into place. These motions hurt her shoulder, but not that much, and even if the pain had been intense Val would not have cared. When she closed her eyes she saw the dead face of Karl Ruger—but with his eyes open and his wet lips curled into a leering grin. Now, with the pistol, when she saw that face in her mind it would be at the far end of a steel gun sight. And if Boyd came calling, well…that would be too bad for him.

  (2)

  Three times yesterday and twice today Tow-Truck Eddie drove past the Crow’s Nest and slowed to peer in the window. After that first try, when all he could see was a blurred face, he’d circled back an hour later, but this time all he saw was Crow moving around the store. No one else. He tried it late in the day, near closing, and again all he saw was Crow. No sign of the Beast. Doubt chewed at him. This morning he parked his wrecker in a side street and walked past the store as surreptitiously as he could, pausing to peer inside. Again, just Crow, though this time he was with customers, all of who were adults. No sign of a teenage boy anywhere.

  Could he have changed his appearance? This thought wormed its way into his thoughts and wouldn’t go away, even though the great booming voice of his Father told him that the Beast in boy skin was there. Right there. Right now.

  Eddie could not see him at all. Not even the blurred outline of him. Nothing.

  He would keep coming back, though, he promised his Father that. Nothing on earth would stop him. Yet deep inside him, far down in the soil of his heart, the first real seeds of doubt were beginning to take root.

  The Bone Man felt desperately weak, but even though he kept having to dip into the shallow well of his strength to hide the boy from those penetrating blue eyes he did not feel any weaker than he had earlier. Perhaps he had bottomed out somehow, had dropped as far as he could drop. Well, he thought, if that was so then it was so, and it was something he could—well live with was not quite right, and for once he smiled ruefully at the perversity of his condition—even so it was something he could endure.

  The crucial thing for him was that this was something he was actually able to accomplish, and for once he truly felt that he understood why he had been brought back. If he could save the boy, at least until Halloween, then his life and death and whatever the hell this was would all be important. It would matter…and more important to him, it would make sense. He stood there invisible in the sunlight and watched the wrecker drive away, and despite the agonizing weariness the Bone Man felt good.

  (3)

  “I’m going to throw some punches at you,” Crow said, raising his hands and settling his body into a boxing posture—knees flexed, chin tucked into his right shoulder, hands high, fists tight. “What I want you to do is block anything you see.” Mike’s eyes were a little glassy, and Crow thought he saw the beginnings of tears forming. The kid’s bruises looked a lot better today, but his eyes were still spooked. “You ready?” Crow asked, though it was clear the only thing Mike was ready for was a mad dash down the alley.

  “Um…yeah. Sure.”

  Crow nodded and threw a light jab with his good arm, aiming four or five inches to the right of the kid’s face and stopping three inches short. Throwing the punch hurt, but Crow kept it off his face. Mike made a clumsy swipe at it that missed and jerked back so fast it looked like somebody had pulled him with a rope. Crow took a shuffle step in and looped a big, wide roundhouse right that had no chance at all of making contact. Mike squeezed his eyes shut and wrapped his arms around his eyes.

  “Okay,” Crow said, lowering his hands, “that lets me know you’re not ready for Golden Gloves.” Throwing the punch without power only tugged at his stitches. It didn’t really hurt, and he was glad about that. He’d had a good night’s sleep last night, curled up in Val’s arms, the both of them sleeping long and without dreams. Over breakfast Val had remarked on it.

  “I feel almost human today.” Her black hair was glossy and damp from the shower and there was the first trace of a sparkle in her eyes, something he hadn’t seen in days. It had lifted Crow’s heart and made him feel better, too.

  Now, scuffling around the backyard with Mike, Crow felt ever closer to his old self—though he still didn’t throw any punches with the arm Ruger had squeezed.

  Mike, on the other hand, looked sheepish and ashamed, blossoms of red flaring in his cheeks as he continued to back away from Crow’s approach. Finally, raising his hands palms outward, Crow said, “What was Crow’s Rule Number One?”

  The kid shrugged. He was still covered in bruises on every visible inch of his skin. By comparison he made Crow look uninjured and whole.

  “Sorry, kid, that was my I-didn’t-hear-shit ear.”

  “Never let the assholes win,” Mike snapped irritably.

  “Damn right.” They were in the small yard behind Crow’s shop and apartment. The yard was walled in by other stores except in the back and had a fine view of the hills, the distant farms, and the long snaking line of A-32. “Come on now, let’s work on some moves.”

  Mike flapped a hand. “It’s just that I hate that I have to learn this stuff.”

  “Would you rather just be Vic’s punching bag forever?”

  Mike gave him a nasty look. “Just get on with it.”

  “Okay, lesson one is going to be about how to evade and parry. The best block is
to not be there. You follow me?”

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “Yeah, I do.”

  (4)

  Crow’s phone rang just after they were back in the store and he snatched it off the wall. “Crow’s Nest.”

  “Crow? It’s Saul—are you alone?”

  “I can talk. Mike’s with a customer. What’s up?”

  “Crow, look, I don’t want to sound paranoid, but ever since the other night there have been some pretty strange things happening here in town.”

  “You mean besides insane serial killers and body-snatchers?”

  “I’m not joking around, Crow. I did the autopsies on—”

  The bells above the door jangled and five people came in, laughing and chattering. Tourists. “More customers. Let me take care of them and call you right back.”

  “No, look…I’ll talk to you tomorrow at the funeral. This will be better in person.”

  “Um, okay. See you then.”

  (5)

  Clouds had come up suddenly from the southwest and in the course of half an hour the sky went from a hard clear blue to a nearly featureless gray that was beginning to swell to a threatening purple. Val Guthrie was deep in the cornfields on the east side of her property, her father’s big .45 tucked into the waistband of her jeans, snug against the small of her back, hidden by a red-checked thermal jacket. She was walking the fields with Diego, a short, barrel-chested East Texan who had worked for her father for almost twenty years, doing spot tests of the soil pH. It was still a clean 6.54, far above the range of any of the surrounding farms, whereas most of the other farms had shown pH drops well below 5.0 and even lower. Val’s soil remained solidly in the 6.0 to 7.0 range, even in the places where all that separated her fields from her neighbors was a wood-railed fence. Her closest neighbor, Charlie Kendall, had shown her the analysis of his samples and the levels of soil phosphorus, nitrogen, potassium, sulfur, magnesium, and calcium had all dropped, even when a sample was taken five inches from a healthy sample taken along Val’s property line. “I don’t get it,” Val said. “It doesn’t make any kind of sense. It’s too weird to be an accident of nature, and if there is something in our soil that’s making a difference, then it has to be something that was deliberately put here.”