Ghost Road Blues pd-1

by Jonathan Maberry

  “I can’t have you running around loose, either. So, it’s hog-tying time on the old farmstead.”

  “What if we have to go to the ladies’ room?” asked Connie, in what appeared to be a reasonable voice. It was such a reasonable and conversational voice that it chilled Val.

  “Uh-oh,” said Ruger, showing mock horror, “I think Donna Reed is no longer with us. Wonder if I could wake her up some.”

  “Leave her alone.”

  Ruger wheeled on Val, his hand raised, but she quickly added, “Please.”

  He considered her for a moment and then lowered his hand. “Yeah, whatever. Too much shit to do anyway.”

  Guthrie said, “Is someone hurt?” When Ruger just looked at him, he added, “You wanted a stretcher. Is someone hurt?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. My — how should I put it? — my…‘associate’ is a trifle banged up. He’s out in the cornfield and I think he’d like to come in now.”

  Val stared at him. “You left an injured man out in the field?”

  “Yes, isn’t it shocking? On the other hand, what the fuck do you care?”

  “He’s hurt….”

  “So what? If I was hurt, would you give a shit?”

  “Of course I would.”

  Ruger laughed. “Oh, I’m sure!”

  Val’s dark eyes glittered. “I’d help any animal that was hurt. Even a skunk or a rabid dog.”

  Ruger shook his head ruefully. “Man oh man, you are something!” For a moment, it seemed as if he were about to say something more, but then the front door opened.

  Nobody had even heard the car drive up, which was not surprising with the wind and the soft moist dirt of the road, but they all heard the click as the knob turned and the lock sprang open.

  Val turned and screamed: “Crow! No! Run!”

  Anything else she might have said was drowned out by the ear-shattering blast of the pistol as Ruger spun around and fired two shots through the door.

  Chapter 12

  (1)

  The man in the road had a huge butcher’s knife driven into his chest and his white T-shirt was a mass of blood that bloomed a bright crimson in the glare of the headlights. Crow slowed to a halt and leaned out of the window.

  “How’s tricks, Barney?”

  Grinning through bloody teeth, the impaled man leaned his forearms on the open window frame of the Chevy and peered inside. “There’s a game tonight at the college, so it’s been kinda slow. How’s with you? Hey, is that Mike?”

  “What’s up, Barney?”

  “How’s it hanging, Mike?”

  “I’m cool.”

  Barney Murphy scratched his chest where the adhesive bound the fake knife to his skin. The handle wobbled. “Whatcha doing out here, man?” he asked Crow.

  “Look, Barney, there’s some stuff going on in town, and we have to shut the place down.”

  “Shut it down? You mean…for good?”

  “No, just for the night. Where’s Coop?”

  “He’s out with a bunch of customers in number four.” The hayride had four tractors that pulled stake-bed trailers full of tourists. Number two was at Shanahan’s for a cracked axle. The other three rotated, each pulling out with a load of kids about every twenty minutes.

  “How many and how long?”

  Barney considered. “Maybe thirty people. Been gone ’bout twenty minutes.”

  “Shit…er, I mean shoot.” He cocked an eye at Mike, who was grinning. “You didn’t hear that, right?”

  “Shit no.”

  “Good,” Crow said, and in a mock under-his-voice tone he added, “Juvenile delinquent.”

  “He’ll be done in another twenty, twenty-five,” said Barney. “Number one just came in five, ten minutes ago. Three’ll be out another ten.”

  “I’m gonna take one of the ATVs and go fetch Coop. Anyone else shows up, turn ’em away. Except for Mike’s folks, they’re going to pick him up. His bike’s in my trunk.” Barney looked confused, and Crow elaborated. “He got run off the road by some dumb-ass trucker. Got banged up a bit.”

  “I’m okay,” Mike said bravely.

  Crow said, “Busted a rib or two and cracked his head on a rock. No, don’t look like that, he’s not going to die on you. His folks are going to take him over to the hospital for some X-rays.”

  “That sucks,” he said, but Mike just shrugged. Carefully.

  Crow said, “Look, Barney, there’s something serious going on. There are three assholes from Philly, bank robbers or something, who may be hiding out somewhere around here. The mayor wants everybody who belongs in town back in town, and all the kids at home.”

  “What? That’s it?”

  “That’s it, as far as I know.”

  “Well, that’s not so much.”

  “Yeah, but you know how Terry Wolfe is.”

  “Yeah. He’s scared of his own shadow. I mean he never even comes out here, not even during the day.”

  “Mr. Wolfe’s okay, Barney. He’s just a busy guy. He owns a lot of things. He’s always busy. That’s why he pays me to manage this joint.” There was just the faintest edge to Crow’s voice, and Barney caught it.

  “Cool, man.”

  “Anyway, if you see anyone you don’t know — any adults I mean — or if anything weird happens, call me on my cell.”

  “Weird? Dude…this is a haunted hayride, you know.”

  Crow smiled and winked at him and put the car into gear. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, nodding to the knife handle, “you ought to have that looked at.”

  “Yeah,” said Barney, “this thing is killing me.”

  (2)

  The night was stretching forward into darkness, racing toward the dead hours that are forgotten by the light. All across Pine Deep, hearts were beginning to beat just a bit faster, minute-by-minute; lungs were gulping in air and gasping it out. In just a few hours the pitch and pulse of the night had changed, accelerated, jumped toward haste and action and frenzy.

  There was the scent of blood on the dark winds, and the promise of much, much more; a perfume of destruction and pain carried to every part of the town, even to the darkest and most remote of places. The scent seemed to sink into the rich earth of the town, seeking out those who craved that aroma.

  Deep in the darkness, someone became aware of that perfume; someone laid bare his senses and absorbed the scent of death, the energy of fear, the electricity of hate. He filled himself with the essence of hurt and dread, and he smiled. Teeth long caked with wormy soil, and lips withered to dry tautness peeled into a grin that betrayed the pernicious delight of the smiler. Above and around him the black tons of earth trembled as he laughed.

  (3)

  Ruger’s tiny automatic made lightning flashes and thunderstorm booms that crashed off the living room walls. Two black holes appeared high on the top panel of the door and cordite burned the air. Val screamed and lunged frantically for the doorknob, but Ruger sprang to his feet, knocking the rocking chair over, and with a ferocious sweep of his arm he sent her reeling back into her father’s arms. Guthrie fell back onto the couch with Val sitting down hard on top of him; he grunted in pain and the breath whooshed out of him for the second time. Connie screamed, too, but she made no move at Ruger: she just sat there on the couch covering her face with both hands and screaming shrilly through her fingers.

  Ruger grabbed the knob and with a violent jerk whipped the door open, bringing his gun up high and steady as he did so. Outside, on the wide plank porch, Mark Guthrie stood in a frozen posture of absolute and uncomprehending shock: half crouched, stock-still, wide-eyed, and staring with dinner-plate eyes at the gun in the hand of a man he didn’t know. The bullets must have missed his face by inches and there were tiny splinters on his cheek, standing up like needles in a pincushion.

  “Welcome home,” hissed Ruger and grabbed a handful of Mark’s shirt, pulled him close, and kneed him savagely in the crotch. Mark let loose with a high whistling shriek and folded in half at the
waist. Connie and Val screamed, but Ruger ignored them and dragged the man into the house and flung him the length of the living room. Mark was a knotted cannonball of agony and he caromed off the wall and collapsed onto an occasional table that splintered under him. Mark, table, a vase of dried flowers, and some small picture frames collapsed onto the floor.

  Val lunged up again and Ruger backhanded her down onto the couch; again she sprawled across her father’s lap and he caught her as she started to roll off onto the floor. Ruger turned to Val’s brother and kicked him viciously in the thigh and as Mark opened his mouth to scream, Ruger jammed the barrel of his pistol under his nose. “Just fucking lie there.” The scream died in his throat.

  Connie, however, had started screaming as soon as Ruger had fired his gun and was still screaming, yelling, “Mark!” over and over again. Ruger spun and leveled the gun at her. “Shut your mouth, you stupid cunt!”

  Like her husband’s, Connie’s screams turned to ice in her throat, but as if the desperate forces in her needed to escape in some way her body snapped into action and she hurled herself off the couch and flew like a bird to Mark, who was shaking his head stupidly, brushing at dried roses and baby’s breath and bits of broken crockery. Ruger stepped back and let her go, allowing her to flutter around her husband like a flight of nervous sparrows, touching and probing and kissing and stroking with darting nervous hands. All of it amused Ruger, who smiled. In as loud a voice as his mangled larynx could manage, he said, “Now, everyone just shut the fuck up!” He spaced the words out to give them maximum weight and effect.

  The Guthrie house became as quiet as a tomb in less than one second, and Ruger actually sighed with pleasure. He looked at Val, who was gripping the armrest of the sofa with white-knuckled fingers. She had managed to disentangle herself from her father, who looked gray and sweaty. “Who’s the geek?” he asked, jerking his head in the direction of the young man. “Your brother-in-law?”

  Val frowned in confusion. “What? Uh…no, he’s my brother. Mark.”

  Ruger also looked confused. “Brother? Hey, I know this is the sticks and all, but I didn’t think brothers and sisters actually married out here.”

  Val shook her head, not getting the point.

  “Isn’t Donna Reed there your sister?”

  “Huh? Oh! Oh, no,” said Val, understanding now, “she’s my sister-in-law. She’s married to Mark, my brother.”

  “Ah,” Ruger said again.

  By this time, Connie had helped Mark sit up and had brushed all the debris off him while constantly whispering, “He’s got a gun, he’s got a gun. Are you hurt? Don’t do anything, he’s got a gun.”

  Mark looked up at Ruger, his face lined with pain and glistening with a patina of new sweat. “What the hell’s going on here?” Mark demanded, but with the pain the question carried no authority and came out as a wheeze.

  “Are you okay?” Guthrie asked tightly.

  “I…” Mark began, and then stopped, frowning deeply and looking quizzically at Ruger. “Who the hell are you? And…did you shoot at me?” he asked in a voice that betrayed his total amazement at such a possibility.

  “No,” whispered Ruger. “If I had you’d been fucking well dead.” He smiled. “I shot at the door.”

  Val saw the moment when Mark’s shock was overtaken by the first moment of clarity and then she saw the fear take hold. His eyes were wide and he stared at Ruger and at the gun.

  Mark snapped his head around to where his father sprawled half on and half off the couch. He saw the blood on his father’s face and Mark’s own face went white. “Dad? What’s going on?”

  “Be still, Mark…don’t do anything. Just do what he says.”

  Ruger kicked the foot on one of Mark’s outstretched legs. “You’re Mr. Rotary Club, am I right?”

  “I’m…who did you say?” He was not following any of this. “What the hell is—”

  “It’s okay, Mark,” said Val. “Just listen.”

  Staring at her and then back at his father, Mark said, “My God! Val? Dad? What happened to you? What happened to your faces? Did he do this?”

  “They’re fine,” said Ruger. “Everybody’s fine.”

  “Did you do that to them?”

  Ruger shrugged as if to say these things sometimes happen.

  “Do you want to tell me what the hell this is all about?” His words promised a demand that his tone of voice could not back up. It came out somewhere between a growl and a squeak, like a teenage boy whose voice was breaking.

  “Sure,” Ruger said affably, “but first, why don’t you and your little wifey just go and join everyone else on the couch?”

  Mark looked about to say more, but the black eye of the pistol stopped him, and the black eyes of the gunman withered his will. He let Connie help him up and they moved slowly, and very carefully, over to the couch, hissing occasionally at the pain in his groin. With the four of them it was a very tight fit. Val sat on the left end next to her father, and Connie did her best to try and vanish between the elder and younger Guthrie men. Mark examined his father’s face. “That’s a pretty bad cut, Dad.”

  “Leave it be,” Guthrie murmured.

  “But, Dad—”

  “Leave it be.”

  To Ruger, Mark said, “Who the hell are you? Some kind of tough guy? Beating up on women and old men.”

  “Blow me,” Ruger said. He set the rocker back on its runners, turned it to face them, and sat down. “Now…the only reason I’m going to bother to recap tonight’s game is because if you understand the rules, then I probably won’t have to shoot you. Capiche?”

  Mark stared for a long moment, then slowly nodded.

  “Good, good.” Ruger lit himself a cigarette. “Here’s the deal, Marky-boy. I am not here exactly by choice — God knows. My car broke down and I need a new one. Renting one ain’t an option right now. Also, I got a friend out there in the cornfield with a busted leg. You bozos are going to help me get him back here so we can patch him up, and then he and I are going to get the fuck out of this episode of Green Acres in your pop’s Bronco, which, I must admit, I am going to steal.”

  Mark blinked several times in rapid succession.

  “As I see it, Marky, this can go one of a couple of ways. The ideal way would, of course, involve you four helping me and then putting up no fuss as I tie you up and drive off in the car. I think I speak for all of us when I say that that’s the way we’d all like it to go. On the other hand, if you folks don’t want to cooperate, then I can just simply pop all four of you, take the car anyway, and still be on my merry way. You see, it really doesn’t matter all that much to me except that it would be more work for me if I had to do it alone, and work always makes me kind of cranky.”

  “‘Pop’ us? You mean you’d shoot us? You’d actually shoot us?”

  “Deader’n shit,” Ruger agreed.

  “Holy Jesus.”

  “Mm-hm. So what’s it gonna be?”

  “I can’t believe you’d actually just…shoot us. I mean, what have we ever done to you?”

  “Mark…” Val whispered.

  “To me?” said Ruger. “You folks have never done anything to me. If my car hadn’t crashed, you’d have never even known I existed, and vice versa. Just luck of the draw, Marky.”

  “But — shoot us?”

  Ruger rolled his eyes. “Yes! What part of ‘shoot you’ don’t you understand, farm boy?”

  “Why?”

  “Mark, be still,” Guthrie said in a quiet but very firm voice.

  “No…Dad, he’s talking about murdering all of us.”

  Guthrie reached over and clamped a strong hand on his son’s wrist. “Yes, and if you don’t shut your mouth he just might! Now be still!”

  Mark shut his mouth.

  Ruger nodded in appreciation. “Your old man is sharp, Marky-boy. You’re the kind of fella that could let his mouth get his ass in trouble.”

  “I’m just trying to understand this,” Mark muttered.r />
  “What’s not to understand? Don’t you ever watch TV? I’m a bad guy on the run, and you all are the innocent saps who get tied up and robbed. End of scene. There’s nothing to understand. There’s no meaning to it.”

  “What is it you want us to do?” asked Val, trying to steer the conversation back to a straightforward business negotiation. She eyed Ruger carefully as he took a long drag on his cigarette, wondering why he was stretching this whole thing out. What was he really waiting for? He could have tied them up, taken the Bronco, and been gone half an hour ago, but instead he was dragging this out for some reason she could not work out. More than once she saw him tilt his head to one side as if listening to a voice outside, or perhaps inside his head.

  Ruger licked his lips and said, “Well, two of you are going to be stretcher bearers for my buddy. He’s out in the field waiting on us.”

  “Where in the field?” asked Guthrie.

  “By a big post with a scarecrow. Good half mile from here.”

  Guthrie nodded, and to Val he said, “By the new section of fence.”

  Her stomach turned at the thought of monsters like Ruger and his friend polluting the spot where she and Crow had made love just last night. Her mouth was a thin line as she asked, “And then?”

  “Then we try to patch him up.”

  “You said he broke his leg?” Guthrie asked.

  Ruger laughed. “Oh yeah. Stepped in a hole and broke the living shit out of it. He has one of those…whaddya call it when the bones are sticking out?”

  “Compound fracture,” murmured Val.

  “Uh-huh. A real motherfucker of a compound fracture. I set it, more or less, and splinted it up, but he needs someone else to check it out. I don’t suppose any of you are doctors?”

  “I know some first aid,” said Val.

  “Well, well. That’s handy.”

  “Just some basic stuff, though.”

  “Well, beggars can’t be choosers.”

  Mark held up a finger and in his formal, pedantic voice said, “Let me get this straight. If we help you, that is, if we bring your friend back here, patch him up as best we can, and let you take the car, then you’ll just go away and not hurt us? Is that it?”