Ghost Road Blues pd-1

by Jonathan Maberry

  Crow gave a rueful smile. “Yeah, there’s that. Jeez-zus, but that son of a bitch could hit. Hardest fists I ever felt. Fast, too.”

  “Don’t forget, you have another eight or nine stitches on your ugly mug, not counting those pansy little butterfly stitches. Your face looks like a tropical sunset. You’ll look great when the news guys come in to take your picture.”

  “My picture? What for?”

  “Dude, you’ve become quite the celebrity.”

  “For what? Standing too close to a coupla bullets?”

  “No, for kicking the bejesus out Karl Ruger.”

  “As I remember, he kicked some of the bejesus out of me, too.”

  “Mm-hm, but from what Val told us and the police were able to piece together from the crime scene, you danced Ruger real good.”

  Crow just grunted. “He was choking Val, and I made the mistake of trying to hold him at gunpoint. He used her as a shield to knock the gun out of my hand. We tussled some, and I came out lucky. In a manner of speaking.”

  Terry smiled and looked up at the heavens, reciting, “‘…We tussled some and I came out lucky.’ Dear me but those Philly cops are gonna love that.” He looked at Crow, his eyes amused but intense. “You have, I believe, the distinction of not only being the first person to kick his butt in a fight, but the only person he’s tried to kill who’s still sucking air.”

  “Sucking it through a tube, mind you,” Crow said, tapping the line that fed cool oxygen into his nose.

  “The point is,” Terry said, lacing his hands behind his head, “that you kicked his behind and the cops think you’re Superman.”

  “So, what did I get shot with? A kryptonite bullet?”

  “According to Detective Sergeant Ferro, you must have.”

  “Great, when the nurse comes in I’ll check out her bod with my X-ray vision.”

  “Go ahead, she looks like Steve Buscemi.”

  “And…who is Detective Sergeant Ferrell, or whatever?”

  “Philly cop,” Terry said and explained the interjurisdictional arrangement.

  Crow leaned back and stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. He ached to see Val, to hold her and do something to try and comfort her. “Jesus. One man did all this?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Um…weren’t there supposed to be three of them?”

  Terry sucked his teeth. “‘Were’ is the operative word, boyo. One of them — Kenneth Boyd — is unaccounted for. Mark said that Ruger told them he had an injured buddy out in the fields, but he never showed up, and nobody’s been able to find him.”

  “Maybe he took a hike when he heard all the sirens and stuff.”

  “That’s the talk around the shop. Took the money and lit out for parts unknown. He was supposed to have a broken leg, but then we only have Ruger’s word for it, so take that for whatever it’s worth. Either way, the cops aren’t as worried about him as they are about Ruger.”

  “What about the third guy?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Cops get him?”

  Terry hesitated briefly. “No. They think Karl Ruger killed him. Possibly over a dispute about the split, who knows? Point is, Ruger messed him up pretty bad.”

  “What’s ‘pretty bad’ mean?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Crow saw the green creeping into Terry complexion, and realized that the mayor had seen the body. He didn’t pursue it. “So, then the manhunt is still on.”

  “Uh-huh, and stronger than ever. We’re hip-deep in cops. We even reinstated a dozen locals boys.”

  “Oh? Like who?”

  Terry recited a list of names.

  “Mm,” said Crow doubtfully. “I’d classify them more as ‘warm bodies’ than cops. Most of them aren’t much good for this sort of thing, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I agree, but they know the turf, and they can drive a police car. A couple aren’t too bad. Jack Tunny’s okay. Eddie Oswald’s a stand-up guy, though.”

  “For a Bible thumper.”

  “He was a good officer and stayed by the book. And B.B. Harrison’s not too wretched. We’ve paired each of our locals with one of the cops from Philly, and we have a few loaners from Black Marsh and Crestville. The Philly cops were supposed to be meeting with some FBI types half an hour ago, so pretty soon we’ll have everyone but the National Guard on the job.”

  “Wow. All trying to arrest one man.”

  “Tell you the truth, I really don’t think anyone is really going to try too hard to arrest this Ruger character. I think this has gone all the way over into a ‘shoot on sight’ kind of thing. Or, rather, shoot to kill.”

  Crow grunted. “Maybe they should drive a stake through his heart, too.”

  “Maybe.” Terry rubbed his eyes again and sighed.

  “You know, man, you look about as bad as I do.”

  Terry smiled weakly. “Well, aside from the fact that I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks, the crop blight, Halloween, and Karl Ruger…I’m just peachy.”

  “Yeah.” Crow studied Terry’s face. “Any troubles with you and Sarah?”

  “Hm? Oh, heck no, nothing like that. Sarah’s the best. No, it’s just that I’ve been having really bad dreams lately. I told you about it yesterday. Very vivid, very intense.”

  Crow frowned. “Hunh.”

  “Whyfore the ‘hunh’?”

  “I’ve been having nightmares, too. Real corkers.”

  They looked at each other for a moment, and just as Terry was about to say something, the door opened and a nurse came in. Crow glanced at her. She did look like Steve Buscemi, but not as pretty. The nurse pointed a finger at Terry and said, “Out.”

  Terry blinked in surprise. “Me?”

  “You. Vamoose.”

  “You do realize,” he said, “that I’m the mayor of this town.”

  “I’ll faint later, but for right now get out.” She turned and glared at Crow. “It is time for your vitals.”

  “But I—”

  She gave him a stern glance, fiercer than anything Crow had seen on Ruger’s face. Terry and Crow exchanged a brief, helpless look, and Terry got up. Behind the nurse’s back, he raised his right hand and mouthed, “Sieg heil!” and then crept out. When Crow opened his mouth to say good-bye to his friend, the nurse stuck a thermometer in it.

  (4)

  No one laughed at the joke, so Dixie MacVey tried it again. “I said…you guys look like a police lineup.” He chuckled for them, hoping it would encourage them. It didn’t. The gathered officers just stared at him, unamused and unmoved. They all stood in a relatively straight line, their assorted uniforms a mix of local gray, big-city blue, and state-police black. “Get it? A police lineup.”

  “We get it,” Officer Shanks said tiredly.

  “Jeez, you guys got no sense of humor.”

  Officer Jerry Head snorted. “You’re right, we all ought to be laughing our asses off. Everything is so carefree and funny.”

  “Hoo-ha,” added Toombes. “I better watch so I don’t bust a gut.”

  “Okay,” called Ferro as he rose from behind Gus Bernhardt’s desk, “knock it off and listen up.” The officers straightened up and MacVey, sulking, joined the line.

  “Sorry we don’t have enough chairs for everyone,” Bernhardt said from where he sat by the door. The uniformed officers stood in their lineup, hands at their sides or clasped behind them in the manner of parade rest. Polk and MacVey sat on folding chairs and LaMastra sat on the ledge of the window bay. Ferro looked down the row, recognizing some of the faces from last night, but seeing plenty of new faces as well, more new ones than old ones.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank you all for being here. I know some of you are not actively working in the law enforcement field, but the fact that you were willing to be reactivated as part-time officers is commendable. Again, thanks.” The eighteen new recruits nodded. “All right, well, here’s the scoop. We w
ere able to borrow some patrol cars from neighboring towns, so that means that most of you will be able to go right out and join in the search. After I take roll, you folks will get your unit assignments. I had a crate of Kevlar vests brought up from Philly, and I think there are enough to go around. Everyone who goes out wears one, is that clear? Good. Every officer is to have his or her sidearm cleaned and loaded. No mistakes, no heroics, and no sloppy police work. We are all professionals, and we don’t often have to prove how really good we can be. This, however, is one of those times. This is a very dangerous man. This man has killed without hesitation or remorse. He has gunned down innocent citizens, as well as law officers. Don’t take any chances. I don’t want you to investigate a cat up a tree without backup. Is that understood? Good. We have one officer down right now, as well as one reactivated officer. We’ve already seen what Karl Ruger is capable of doing to one of his own gang — imagine what he would be willing to do to one of you.”

  The speech was more for the locals but Ferro’s hard stare ranged slowly over every face in the lineup, meeting each set of eyes in turn. The officers he’d brought with him from Philly each met his gaze, Head even nodded to him. Most of the local officers could only meet that glare for a few seconds before their eyes faltered and found something less intense to look at. One of the reactivated men, a big blond bruiser with a broad, almost simian face and long muscular arms, did meet his eyes, and returned intensity for intensity. Ferro thought he looked tough and clear-headed, and wondered if he’d been military, perhaps even M.P. “Any questions?”

  No one moved for a few seconds; then the big blond officer held up his hand. “I have a question, sir.”

  “Your name?”

  “Edward Oswald, reactivated volunteer, sir.”

  “Okay, what’s your question, Officer Oswald?”

  “This man, this Karl Ruger…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, sir, the rumors have been flying all over the station house about him. The others said that this man is supposed to be the Cape May Killer. Is that straight?”

  Ferro pursed his lips. “It is a possibility, but no more than that.”

  Oswald gave him a flat stare. “Sir, I don’t mean any disrespect, but if this fellow is the Cape May Killer, shouldn’t we know about it? I know we’re only temporary cops, but we’re still going to be the ones out there, the ones who might have to face him. Shouldn’t we know everything about who we might be up against?” There were some faint and discreet murmurs of agreement.

  It took Ferro a long five seconds to make his decision. He looked at Gus, who just spread his hands. “Okay, that’s fair enough, but let me say this. You people took an oath, however temporary. You are bound by policies of confidentiality, and I want each of you to respect that. For the moment, we can’t allow the full facts about this case to come out. There are reasons. Are we clear about that?” They all thought about it, then nodded. “Right, then. Okay, Karl Ruger is wanted for questioning in the Cape May Lighthouse killings. He is not only the prime suspect, he is the only suspect. Am I going to come out and say that he is the Cape May Killer? No, but I would be one very surprised cop if it turned out to be anyone else. Does that answer your question, Officer Oswald?”

  “Yes, sir, it surely does.”

  “Okay then? Any further questions? No? Okay then, listen up for your names and patrol assignments,” Ferro said loudly. “Officer Burke…?”

  (5)

  All through the long night and longer day they gave her sedatives and each time she tried to fight the drugs, tried to fight the tentacled pull of sleep; and each time she finally lost the battle and was pulled beneath the surface. Val Guthrie didn’t want to be down there in the darkness. Time and again she would swim upward toward the faint and distant light; time and again she would lose her way and sink back into the darkness. It hurt less in the darkness, but she wanted the light.

  There in the dark Karl Ruger smiled at her from out of the shadows. He chased her endlessly though the black stalks of corn, his eyes burning with a hellfire red and his wet teeth glistening and sharp. He chased her and reached for her with impossibly long arms, tore at her with improbably sharp fingers. And as she ran, she would stagger past the bleeding and dying body of her father. No matter which route she took, no matter how far she ran, she would always find him again, lying there, broken, bleeding, face streaked with tears and rain and mud and blood. Every time she stumbled past, her father would reach imploringly for her, his voice pleading with her to stop and help him, to save him. He begged her to get him out of the cold rain, called her name with a mouth that bubbled with fresh blood.

  Always she ran on, knowing that Karl Ruger was right behind her.

  When she managed to get to the light, to come awake for whatever period of time fatigue and morphine would allow, the specter of Karl Ruger lagged behind, losing her in the maze of cornfields. Yet when she felt herself falling away once more in the darkness, Karl Ruger would be waiting.

  It was the chime of the distant bell on City Hall Tower that woke her, a sound she shouldn’t have been able to hear through the distance and the thickness of walls and windows. With each chime, she came one increment closer to the light, one increment further from the darkness and the pursuing monster.

  At the tenth chime she was fully awake. The room around her became a realness of machines beeping, tubes dripping, metal gleaming, flowers scenting the air. The tenth chime seemed to echo in her head, and for a few moments she lay there, extending her senses into her corporeal body, feeling the damage and feeling thankful for its realness and weight up there in the light.

  There was a soft knock on the door, and after a few tries she managed to find her voice, still weak and hoarse from the assault on her throat.

  “Come in!”

  She could barely turn her head with the cervical collar, but out of the corner of her eye she could see the door swing silently open, and on the other side of it she could hear the faint scuffling of footsteps. The dragging footsteps of someone, perhaps injured or sick. Immediately she knew who it was.

  “Crow?”

  The footsteps paused for just the briefest moment, and then resumed. She waited as Crow shuffled into the room, shuffled around the edge of the open door, shuffled into plain view.

  Everything in the world froze into a moment of absolute horror.

  It was not Crow.

  It was Karl Ruger.

  He stood there, grinning with wet teeth that were smeared with black mud and dark red blood, his eyes flickering as red as rat’s eyes, his hair in disarray, his skin bled white and crawling with grubs and maggots. He stood swaying at the foot of her bed, his rumpled clothes stained darkly with blood, dotted with bullet holes. With hands that were as white as headstone marble, fingernails that were curiously thick and sharp, Karl Ruger reached for her.

  Val felt something heavy in her hand and looked down to see that she was holding Crow’s gun. It hadn’t been there a second ago but it didn’t matter. Fury welled up in her, matching and then overmatching her fear, and she raised the gun, holding it straight out, inches from Ruger’s chest.

  “You killed my father!” she shrieked as she pulled the trigger. The bullet slammed into Ruger’s chest. She fired again and again, punching bullet after bullet through his black heart.

  All he did was laugh, and when the gun was empty he lunged at her.

  Val’s scream burned her damaged throat, and suddenly she was surrounded once again by the damp and swirling darkness. The darkness owned her, engulfed her, and she realized that she had never left the darkness at all, had never found the light. The darkness had simply learned how to fool her.

  In the darkness, she tried to flee, but now the self that was in the darkness was as wounded and weak and helpless as the self who lay up there in the light, lay with tubes and drains and stitches.

  (6)

  Vic Wingate took an extended lunch break from the shop and was tooling down A-32, smoking a Hav-a-Tam
pa Jewel and listening to Travis Tritt as sunlight sparkled off the polished skin and chrome of his pickup. Vic felt pretty good. Last night he’d been in a foul mood because of the attention focused his way by the goddamn kid, but that matter was settled now. He had done his public duty and gone and fetched the little fucker from that faggoty hayride thing, and when he’d gotten the kid home Vic had eased his tensions by some recreation with the boy. Vic was pleased with the thought that he had “graduated” the kid from slaps and shoves to some real manly duking. It was about time, he thought. Kid had to learn sometime. But he wasn’t pleased about how the beating had ended. Just as he’d worked up a great sweat kicking the living shit out of the punk, something happened that had rattled Vic. The kid had suddenly smiled up at him, bloody lips, black eyes, bloody nose — and there he was smiling at the guy who’d just handed him the worst whipping in his life.

  Not only had it taken the real pleasure out of the beating, robbing Vic of a serious high, that smile had been — weird.

  He’d never seen the kid give him a look like that. It had damn near cut the legs out from under him because for a moment — just for one really twitchy moment — that smile made the kid look like…well, like Griswold. It was the way the Man used to smile after a kill. As a teenager Vic had seen that smile time and again, and he knew it well. He saw it in his dreams all the time.

  He really didn’t like seeing that smile on Mike’s face, and he wanted to ask the Man about it. Frowning he stepped on the gas.

  Several police cars whipped past Vic’s truck. Jim Polk was driving one and he waved to Vic, who nodded. Vic made a mental note to call Polk later on; there were some things that had to be taken care of, and Polk was a good gofer.

  Four miles shy of the spot on the highway where the police had found the wrecked car, Vic made a sharp left along a narrow country lane. It was a farmer’s road and it cut through several of the major farms on the east side of town before finally branching off into the State Forest. At that point the macadam faded into gravel and then to dirt. The truck took the changes in stride; it was well used to this route.