Three miles into the woods, the road petered out and died. Vic rolled the truck to a stop and got out. Even though there was no one around, he scanned the dense forest and listened for human sounds, heard none, and nodded. He walked over to a thick clump of brush that stood in a gnarled tangle beside the end of the road. Vic looked around again, then squatted, took hold of a length of knotted rope that was cleverly hidden by weeds, and pulled on it as he stood. He backed up and a whole section of the shrubbery shifted with him, opening outward like a door and swinging on a pair of sturdy hinges. It took a lot of effort for Vic to shift the barrier, and as it moved the deception became obvious. The shrubs were actually seated in a long, low, flat-bottomed trough that was carefully camouflaged; from the outside the facade was perfect, from the inside it was clearly a kind of door. Vic pulled it wide, then got back in the truck and moved it twenty feet down the pathway revealed by the open barrier; then he went back and painstakingly pulled the foliage back into place. Anyone passing by would be fooled unless they knew exactly where to look and knew what they were looking for. Vic made sure that the shrubs were always overgrown and healthy, and he had chosen evergreens for the job because he wanted the deception to remain constant year-round, as it had for many, many years.
Back in the truck he drove a serpentine route that seemed composed of nothing but hairpin turns. The lane was just barely big enough for the truck to pass, and Vic liked it that way. Any larger and it would be too visible from the main road.
He drove for several miles, singing country along with the radio. Eventually, the tortuous route became wider as the hidden road joined with an actual lane, though one that had been left to grow wild decades ago. Vic kept it just trimmed enough to allow a clear passage for the truck, but that was it. The lane led him deep into the forest, past huge old oaks and maples, and then fed into an area that was populated with much younger trees, most of them less than thirty years old. He threaded his way through these until the lane brought him out into a field beside a deserted stone farmhouse. Vic drove up and parked outside the house.
As he killed the engine he caught movement out of the corner of his eyes.
He tensed for a second and then in the next moment he was out of the truck, a Remington.30–30 held at port arms. He dashed along the front of the house, following the hint of movement he’d seen, and then rounded the corner, bringing the rifle up and looking along the barrel. The figure continued to move away from him but then it seemed to sense him and stopped, turning slowly toward him. Vic studied it, his green eyes narrowed.
He lowered the rifle and looked back at the front porch. There were two dark bundles on the top step. Vic nodded to himself, understanding, then glanced back at the figure.
The figure stood there at the edge of the forest wall, nearly invisible against the tall weeds. Vic knew what it was, though he had never actually seen one before, except in the strange and wild dreams that the Man sometimes sent him. He knew that the thing was alive, in a manner of speaking. A homunculus. It stood in man-shape, but that shape twisted and fought to change, bound into that man-pattern by a will, Vic knew, greater than the sum of its parts. The homunculus wore shabby old clothes, rough canvas gloves, castoff shoes. The clothes were splashed with long streaks and splotches of old, dried blood. Less than a day old, Vic reflected. On its shoulder squatted a huge carved pumpkin — a jack-o’-lantern with a wicked grin. Vic thought it was a nice touch, and he grinned in return. Through all of the openings in the face, Vic could feel himself being watched by a thousand coal-black eyes. The carved smile seemed to Vic to be a reflection not of the things of which it was made, but of the mind that directed all such things in this place. He felt as if he was seeing the Man’s real smile this time — not the weird imitation of it he’d seen on Mike’s battered face last night — but a real reflection of the Man and his power.
He really missed the Man, missed being with him, running with him the way he had done thirty years ago.
A sound rent the air, and both Vic and the creature turned toward it, knowing the sound. Vic frowned. Dogs. Probably police dogs.
“Shit,” he said aloud. Now he wouldn’t be able to head down to the swamp and commune with the Man. That really blew.
The barking was a good mile off, but it was coming closer, probably following the blood scent clinging to the creature’s clothes. “We can’t let them find a scrap of anything around this place.”
The homunculus stood there amid the corn for a moment longer as if considering. It nodded its monstrous head just once. Then, as if a switch had been thrown or a door slammed shut, the power of will that held it in its parody of human form was abruptly withdrawn. In an instant it no longer had the strength to maintain that shape, even if it had wanted to. In that instant the body collapsed into tens of thousands of smaller shapes that wrestled and fought and fluttered and scurried to be free of the suffocating press and the closeness of the other shapes. The huge and misshapen jack-o’-lantern it had worn for disguise when it had come for Boyd and had gone in answer to Karl Ruger’s dark prayers wobbled and toppled and fell to the ground, exploding on impact into fragments of orange pulp, just as the man-shape exploded into rat-shape and roach-shape and worm-shape and mouse-shape and weevil-shape and beetle-shape, and poured outward among the weeds and tangled undergrowth.
The dogs were getting closer. Vic quickly gathered up the empty suit of clothes, shaking them to dislodge the last few spiders and roaches, then carried the rags to his truck and tossed them carelessly into the bed of the pickup.
Then he went back to the porch and examined the two bundles. They were backpacks, both of them sprinkled with blood, but both of them packed to bursting with bags of white powder and bundle after bundle of bloodstained money. A fortune. Vic’s mouth went dry as he looked at it.
“Well, fuck me.” He hefted the backpacks; each was a considerable burden, and a great avaricious smile carved itself onto Vic’s face as he realized what this unexpected treasure trove was. He had heard the news stories all night. “Well, fuck me blind and move the furniture.”
He put the backpacks on the front seat, humming happily to himself. Finding that took the sting out of not being able to visit Dark Hollow. Maybe he’d swing back around later.
Vic lingered at the house just long enough to take a considering look at the forest, the stretch of denser brush that led off into the woods at the foot of Dark Hollow.
“I’ll put this to good use,” he said to the woods. “Trust me.”
Then he got in his truck and left. By the time the first of the bloodhounds reached the spot, there was nothing left to find but a fractured jack-o’-lantern that still wore part of its twisted grin.
(7)
Iron Mike Sweeney lay on his bed and stared at the water stains on the ceiling. There was one stain that looked like a TIE fighter from Star Wars. The standard fighter, not the bombers or Darth Vader’s personal ship. Mike looked at it and tried to think about that rather than the pain. Sometimes he succeeded. All morning he’d tried most of his old tricks for shoving back the hurt, to force the pain back into its dark little box, to shoo the shame out the window. He’d recited bits of movie dialogue, did the alphabet based on the first letters of the titles of science fiction novels, cast fantasy remakes of classic sci-fi flicks with his favorite current actors. Usually he could get lost in those games, but not today. Today none of it worked. The memory of last night was too fresh, too sharply painful in every way. And too strange.
His revelation about Vic’s humanity was still with him, but as the aches and pains asserted themselves more with each hour since the beating, the wonder and delight of the epiphany diminished somewhat in grandeur. Yes, he’d outlast Vic. Sure, but how many beatings would there be between then and now?
Mike wasn’t sure how many more beatings like that he could take. There was no part of him that wasn’t sore or swollen. He had ice packs pressed against his mouth and cheeks. When he’d gone to the bathroom his pee had
been bloody, which really scared him.
He could outlast Vic if he wanted to, but would he want to live through the years between now and then? Mike really wasn’t sure.
On the other hand…
The one thing that kept Mike from sliding right over the edge was what had happened at the end of the beating. The look in Vic’s face. It had only been there for a split second, but it had been there. Mike could not understand it, but for that second Vic had looked scared. Of him.
But — why? It made no sense. Vic had been in total charge. He’d beaten Mike to a pulp and Mike hadn’t been able to do so much as block a punch. It had all been Vic.
So, why had he stepped back like that at the end? What had happened? What had he seen, or had he thought he’d seen? Mike remembered smiling, but it had been involuntary. He had no idea why he had even done it.
And yet…it had stopped Vic cold.
Why?
With a hiss of pain he made himself sit up. He needed to get out of the house, to be out in the sunlight, to be away from here. He tottered into the bathroom to pee, and it was still coming out more red than yellow. Maybe I’ll get blood poisoning and die, he thought, and the idea comforted him. He opened the medicine chest and took down the oversized bottle of Advil. He went through a bottle that size every month. Mike shook four of the blue gelcaps into his palm, slapped them past his bruised lips, and washed them down with two glasses of water.
It took him a long time to put on a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers. His ribs hurt, but not nearly as much as his face. When he looked in the mirror to comb his hair, the only thing he recognized were the blue eyes staring hopelessly out of the mask of purple and red. The eye that had puffed up last night had settled down now, thanks to ice packs, but there was a splash of yellow and dark brown bruising ringing both eyes.
He lowered his head. Vic’s face swam before his inner eye and he thought some of the blackest thoughts he owned. He wished he had a gun.
The image of Vic’s locked gun case popped into his head and he spent several minutes considering his options. Breaking into that case wouldn’t be difficult, not as long as it didn’t matter if Vic found out. Only stealth was difficult, but to smash the glass and take a hammer to the locks…that would be easy. Mike had never shot a gun, but TV was a pretty good teacher, and he figured he could load one, find the safety, point it, and shoot.
The question was — who would he shoot? Would he blow Vic’s head off his shoulders, or his own? Both options held a lot of appeal to him.
Real serious appeal.
He walked downstairs carefully and quietly, not wanting to be heard. He was pretty sure Vic was still at work, but he did sometimes come home for lunch. The house was quiet. Mom was asleep in front of the TV in her room, her teacup still smelling of gin and fresh lime even this early in the day. Mike was lucky: Vic was at work, and Mike hoped that a car would fall off the lift and crush him. The thought made him want to smile, but his face hurt too much to make him dare flex those pulped muscles.
As Mike fished in the closet for his nylon windbreaker, he heard the TV rattle on about some no-fly zone somewhere in a country he never heard of. He was at the door when he heard the words “Pine Deep.” Mike stopped in surprise and listened.
“…in Bucks County, where authorities are investigating a shoot-out that left at least one person dead and three wounded, including two police officers.”
Mike held his breath and strained to hear every word.
“According to Pine Deep Police Chief Gus Bernhardt, at about nine o’clock last night, an unknown assailant broke into the farmhouse of Henry Guthrie, one of the town’s most prosperous farmers, and attempted to rob Mr. Guthrie and his family. The police department has not released complete details yet, but what is known is that the intruder physically assaulted several members of the Guthrie household. When local officers arrived, the intruder opened fire. After a short but intense exchange of shots, the intruder fled, leaving behind a scene of devastation. Mr. Henry Guthrie, sixty-four, a well-respected member of the Pine Deep Growers Commission, was shot and killed.”
Mike gasped, clapping one hand to his bruised lips.
“Wounded in the exchange of shots were Officers Rhoda Thomas, twenty-six, a law student doing intern work with the Pine Deep Police Department, and Malcolm Crow, forty, a local businessman who had recently been reinstated as an officer. Ms. Thomas sustained two gunshot wounds and is listed in serious condition at County Hospital. Mr. Crow also sustained a pair of gunshot wounds, among other injuries, and is listed in stable condition. Also injured during the break-in were Mark Guthrie, thirty-six, son of Henry Guthrie, his wife, Connie, thirty-one, and Valerie Guthrie, forty. Ms. Guthrie, the daughter of the murdered man, is the fiancée of Officer Crow. Mark, Connie, and Valerie Guthrie are all listed in fair condition. Sources in the chief’s department claim that the intruder may have been seriously injured himself during the exchange of shots. Chief Gus Bernhardt is conducting a full investigation as well as a manhunt for the intruder who has brought such heartache and pain to the Guthrie family.
“In other news…”
“Crow…” Mike breathed. “Oh no!” He left the house as fast as his battered body could manage.
(8)
Crow stared up at the ceiling, trying to count the tiny holes in one selected panel of acoustic tile for want of something — anything — to do. He was well into triple digits when there was a tentative knock on the door. “Come in,” Crow called. “Please!”
The men who entered the room were total strangers to Crow, but he knew their type. They had the cop look, despite stubble-covered chins; eyes smudged with sleep deprivation, and badly combed hair. One man was tall, balding, and had the dour face of a mortician; his colleague was younger, bigger, brawnier, and looked more cheerful, though that was muted by a mask of weariness. The younger man had a blond buzz cut and a cold cigarette dangling limply from the corner of his mouth. Both men wore rumpled suits that looked as if hoboes had slept in them first.
“Mr. Crow?” asked the balding man with the mournful face.
“What’s left of him.”
“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”
“Since I’m bored out of my mind, I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to sell me life insurance.”
The younger man grinned at that; the older one did not. They both pulled up orange plastic chairs of the type that had aluminum legs and looked like they had been designed for the sole purpose of making the user uncomfortable. Both men sat down, sighing in unison with obvious weariness.
Crow looked at them, half smiling. “Let me guess,” he said, “Philly cops?”
“Right the first time. I’m Vince LaMastra, and this is my partner, Detective Sergeant Frank Ferro.”
“Did I meet you guys last night?”
“Yes, sir. We were out at the house.”
Crow’s hands were bandaged, and one was hooked to an IV, so they just exchanged nods, and Crow was even careful about that. His head still felt as if it had been used in a soccer match.
“Mr. Crow,” began Ferro, “first, I want to say that on behalf of myself, my partner, and the other law-enforcement officers, I want to thank you and commend you for your bravery and resourcefulness last night.”
“Aw, shucks,” Crow drawled. “’Tweren’t nothing.”
“I’m serious, sir. You managed to save the lives of four people, not to mention yourself, and faced down a man who is widely regarded as extremely dangerous.”
“Oh, come on.”
“No joke, man,” LaMastra agreed, nodding vigorously. “You went up against Karl Ruger and whipped his ass.”
“Truth to tell,” Crow said, rubbing his jaw with a skinned knuckle, “it was kind of a mutual ass-whipping. And quite frankly — isn’t everyone making a bit too much out of that? Okay, so I won a fight. Considering everything else that’s going on, what’s the big deal?”
“Uh-huh,” said Ferro quietly. “Mr. Crow—”
“Look, if you would, just call me Crow. My old man was ‘Mr. Crow’ and he was kind of an asshole. I’m just Crow to everyone.”
“Tell me, Crow,” said Ferro, trying it on, “how is it that you are as dirty a fighter as Karl Ruger? You box?”
Crow shook his head. “Martial arts.”
“Karate?”
“Jujitsu.”
LaMastra brightened. “No kidding? I did some judo in college, and I—”
Ferro looked at him until he stopped talking, and then the detective turned back to Crow. “The mayor and quite a number of the town’s officers have been telling us stories of your exploits. Fighting biker gangs, that sort of thing,” Ferro said in a tone that suggested he didn’t believe much of what he’d heard.
Crow didn’t feel like making a case for himself, and besides, half of what the cop had been told probably was a pack of lies. “People love to exaggerate.”
“Frequently,” Ferro said quietly.
Was the cop baiting him? Crow wondered. “Tell you one thing, though, I never fought anyone tougher. Or faster. Son of a bitch was something else. You can’t imagine how cat-quick this guy is. He’s every bit as dangerous as everyone thinks he is. Maybe more. No remorse, either. He shot Rhoda Thomas and me without any hesitation.”
“He’s killed a lot of people,” LaMastra said. “It’s nothing new to him.”
“It’s nothing to him at all,” Ferro summed up. He tilted his head to one side, appraising Crow. “You know, despite how banged up you are, you’re lucky to be alive and in fairly good working condition.”
“Gosh, I feel like dancing.”
“No, seriously. Ruger has a habit of doing some rather horrible things to the people he doesn’t like.”
“I heard about the whole Cape May thing.”
“Ah. Well, that’s just part of it,” LaMastra said. “He also did a number on one of his buddies. Spoiled him. Tore him to—”
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