(6)
Tow-Truck Eddie sat behind the wheel of his wrecker and felt something in his mouth. Frowning, he raised a huge hand to his lips and then looked at his fingers, surprised to see them glistening wetly, darkly. His frown deepened as he bent to sniff at the wetness. It had the sheared-copper smell of fresh blood. Tow-Truck Eddie touched his tongue-tip carefully to the viscous smear. It didn’t taste at all like blood. It tasted like tears. Nodding to himself in sudden understanding, Tow-Truck Eddie licked the black blood from his fingers and savored the taste.
(7)
A murder of night birds stood in a row along the branch of a fire-blackened tree on the edge of Dark Hollow. Seated on his log, the Bone Man stared into his lonely fire and read the secrets of the flames. The wind carried still more secrets to him, and he listened, hearing the echoes of distant, beating hearts. The Bone Man could still feel in his mouth the after-taste of the black blood that had burned so unexpectedly on his tongue. When he had first tasted it he had cried out in disgust and spat the ichor into the flames. The flames had burned it all up, but the sound it made was more like whispery laughter than the hiss of superheating moisture.
The north still blew its cold breath across the town, and the Bone Man shivered. He was always cold, even so near to the fire. Always cold. Now, sitting there, the taste of the black blood barely fading, the Bone Man read the winds and the fire and saw the days to come.
And he wept.
Chapter 25
(1)
Mike couldn’t get into the hospital but he was able to get through on the phone, though he had to claim to be Crow’s younger brother to bluff his way past the switchboard operator.
“Hello?”
“Crow?” Mike asked, not sure that the tired old man’s voice on the other end of the line was his friend’s.
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“It’s Mike. Mike Sweeney.”
“Hey, Iron Mike…how’re the ribs?”
In truth the ribs hurt less than the rest of him, so Mike said, “I’m cool. Question is…how are you? I mean…you got shot!”
“Twice. Both bullets right through the brain pan. Killed me deader than a doornail.”
Mike laughed. “How are you, or is that a stupid question?”
“I’m fine, bra. Just got caught in a drive-by while I was drinkin’ gin and juice with my homies.”
“Crow…I told you about the slang thing. It’s kind of sad when you try to be hip.”
“Sorry, kid, lost my head.”
“It’s okay, but don’t let it happen again.”
“Seriously, though, I’m okay. I’ll probably be getting out tomorrow or the day after.”
“Cool,” Mike said. “I tried to get in to see you but the cops stopped me. They’re not letting anyone in.”
Crow was quiet for a moment, then said, “Look, Mike, if I can swing it so they let you past the dragons, would you do me a big favor?”
“Sure. Anything.”
Crow told him what he wanted done.
“Oh, man! That’s so cool!”
“Will you do it?”
“Of course! I’m on my way right now!”
“Thanks, Mike. I’ll owe you a big one for this.”
Mike paused, then said, “Crow…you don’t owe me a thing.” And hung up. For the first time that day his bruised face wore a genuinely happy smile.
(2)
Detectives Frank Ferro and Vince LaMastra sat at a deuce in the lounge of the Harvestman Hotel. Ferro was taking thoughtful sips from a mug of Miller Genuine Draft and LaMastra was halfway through his fourth Pumpkin Ale. The storm clouds that had been lumped over the town the night they’d gotten there had blown away into someone else’s sky and the temperature had dropped so fast the news was warning of a possible frost. It was already a chilly forty outside and the moon was a sliver of ice in the total blackness of the evening sky.
They’d eaten chicken cheesesteaks and French fries, had listened to jukebox music, had eavesdropped on half a dozen ordinary conversations, but between them barely a half dozen words had passed in the two hours they’d been there. The report Dr. Weinstock had given had shaken them both and their shared frustration over the lack of progress in the case was running them down.
LaMastra looked up at the clock over the bar, watching the hand go from 11:58 to 11:59. He picked up his glass and drained the last of it in two big pulls, set it down, and shook off the bartender. Ferro just took another sip and stared moodily into the unhelpful amber depths of his glass.
Tomorrow they were scheduled to take a quick trip to Black Marsh. An hour ago they’d gotten reports from three separate eyewitnesses, including a USPS letter carrier, that someone closely resembling the posted description of Kenneth Boyd had been spotted. In all three reports, though, the suspect had been running or walking, and there was no visible evidence at all of the broken leg that Ruger had mentioned to the Guthries. Had Boyd been faking it to escape from Ruger? That seemed likely now, and the man was obviously doing everything he could to put as much distance as he could between his former partner and himself. If that was the case, then on one hand their immediate problems were cut in half, and on the other hand the scope of their manhunt just broadened. It was Ferro’s contention that Boyd was of so little importance in the scheme of things that going to Black Marsh was almost a waste of time, except for the chance that he might have some idea of where Ruger was or about how he planned to escape Pine Deep.
“Shit,” LaMastra said softly.
Ferro glanced at him, eyebrows raised in query.
Vince said, “It doesn’t add up. Boyd being see like that. By three witnesses…and then vanishing from the face of the earth as soon as the cruises show up. It’s a little much, don’t you think?”
Ferro pursed his lips but said nothing.
“I’m telling you, Frank, this whole fucking situation is wrong.”
“Of course it’s wrong.”
“No, I mean wrong. We’re not seeing something here, Frank. We’re not looking at this the right way.”
“How should we be looking at it?”
“Shit, I don’t even know anymore,” LaMastra said. “I know Crow claims that Ruger was shot…but I don’t know. This whole thing has me spooked.”
Ferro looked at him. “That’s an odd way to put it.”
LaMastra shrugged. “Yeah, well, I guess ‘odd’ is pretty much the best word to describe this whole thing. Pretty fucking odd.” He shook his head. “Screw this, I’m going up to my room to watch TV.”
He got up, tossed some bills on the bar, and shambled out. Ferro lingered for a while, still staring moodily into the uninformative depths of his beer.
(3)
Crow called the hospital security and put Mike’s name on the entry list and then made a few calls to friends who had sent flowers, assuring them that he was not at death’s door. They all asked him to pass along their concerns and condolences to Val, Mark, and Connie, which he promised to do. When he finished the obligation calls he then punched in Terry’s number. The cell rang and rang and Terry didn’t pick it up.
A small flicker of concern tickled the edges of his awareness. He asked his nurse if she’d seen him and was told that the mayor had left for a meeting, though he said he would be back. He didn’t say when.
Crow gave it a half hour and then called again. This time Terry picked up on the second ring.
“Yes?” His voice was harsh, abrupt.
“Terry…Crow. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
Terry gave a short laugh. “Anything after the doctor said ‘it’s a boy’ and smacked me on the ass would have been a bad time.”
“That bad, huh?” Crow was still processing the fact that Terry had just said “ass.” It was the first time he’d ever heard Terry use even so mild a curse.
“Bad? For the last hour I’ve been wrangling with the selectmen, trying to convince them that the whole town isn’t falling down around our ears. This after spending
all day with the cops and listening to the autopsy report on one of Ruger’s chums. No sleep in going on forty-five hours now, and I’ve got a case of the shakes so bad that if someone gave me a pair of drumsticks I’d be able to do a jazz improvisation that would make Hal Roach look like a beginner.” Though he tried hard to make a joke, there was no humor in his voice.
“Hey, how about this? Go the hell home and get some sleep. The town will still be here in six or eight hours.”
“Yeah,” Terry said, “but will I?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m rambling. Look, Crow, I have to go. I’ll drop by later and check in on you.”
“I’d rather you went home to bed.”
“See you later,” Terry said and disconnected.
Crow frowned at his cell phone for a while, unhappy with the tension he had heard in his friend’s voice. Terry saying “ass.” Sure, it was a small thing, but it spoke volumes to Crow about how out of character Terry was acting.
He was mulling this over when Officer Jerry Head walked into his room carrying a paper bag. He paused in the doorway for a second, rapping on the door with a knuckle.
“Mind if I come in?”
It took Crow a second to place him, and then he waved the man in, indicating a chair. The big Philly cop sat down gratefully, looking spent and tired. He still wore his uniform, but his tie was loosened and he had the “off-duty” air about him.
“Mr. Crow—” he began.
“Just Crow.”
“Cool. Crow — I only caught the tail end of what happened last night. I didn’t see you kick the shit out of Ruger, but I heard the details, and I did see you help that girl, Rhoda. You stood your ground, man, can’t nobody say otherwise.”
Crow didn’t know how to respond to that, so he just shrugged.
“So, I wanted to come in, see how you were doing, and…” Here he paused as if a little embarrassed.
“And what?”
“Well…I guess I just wanted to shake your hand.” He extended his hand to Crow, who stared at it for a second, and then, half smiling with his own embarrassment, he reached out and took it. Out of courtesy for the IV, Head had offered his left, and the cop’s hand was like a piece of unsanded wood — hard, dry, and rough. “And I also brought you something.” Head opened the paper bag. “I’ve spent my share of time in hospitals — two car wrecks, a couple of knee surgeries, and a knife wound on the job — so I know you must be climbing the walls by now.” Out of the bag he pulled two thick paperbacks — a Keith Ablow mystery and Dean Koontz’s latest in paperback — and three magazines. Sports Illustrated, Entertainment Weekly, and the latest issue of Maxim with a lingerie pictorial featuring the women from Fox TV. Beneath the books there were two cans of cold Coke and a couple of packs of Tastykake chocolate cupcakes.
Crow was touched. “Jesus, man, you are a saint.”
“Least I could do,” Head said. “Even though it was just for a couple of hours, Rhoda was my partner last night.”
Crow nodded. “Sit down — sit down and keep me company. Open these cupcakes for me and let’s have a feast.”
They lapsed into a conversation about the job, Crow relating some stories about small-town police work and Head talking about the streets of Philadelphia. Their rhythm was almost immediately comfortable and friendly, and Crow found he liked the Philly cop quite a bit. He was touched by the big man’s thoughtfulness, and by his loyalty to Rhoda.
“So, where do you guys stand with all this?” Crow asked.
“Shit if I know.” He told Crow about Boyd being spotted. “So with Macchio dead, that just leaves Ruger.”
“Yeah.”
“Which kind of brings me to the other reason I wanted to talk with you.”
Crow nodded his encouragement.
Head said, “I was on the porch and just caught the tail end of the firefight between you and Ruger. As you may remember I fired off some rounds myself.”
“Vaguely remember something. I was pretty well out of it by then.”
“My question is — did you hit Ruger? I mean, are you sure you hit him?”
“Your boss, Ferro, asked me the same thing. So has everyone else, and I’ll tell you what I told them.”
“Which is?”
“I’m absolutely fucking positive I hit him. At least three times, and maybe as much as five times.”
“No doubts?”
“No doubts. I saw the impacts, saw his body jerk with each shot.”
“What about a vest? Could he have been wearing body armor?”
“No way in hell. I fought him hand to hand before that, Jerry, and I know damn well I was hitting meat and muscle, not Kevlar.”
Head nodded and sat back, sipping his Coke. “Yeah, that was my read on it, too. I saw you shoot him. I’m pretty sure I missed, but I’ll go before a judge and swear that I saw at least two or three of your shots nail him.”
They looked at each other in silence for a moment.
“You want to ask it, or shall I?” Crow said.
“You mean…with a hundred searchers and five teams of dogs, how did a man with five bullets in him disappear?”
“Yep.”
“Man, I don’t even know. Fucker’s painted with magic.”
“Yeah.”
At that point the door opened again and Mike Sweeney poked his head into the room. He saw the officer and stopped, silent.
“Come on in,” Head said, rising. “I’m leaving anyway.” He reached out again and shook Crow’s hand. “I hope your lady and her family come through this okay.”
“Thanks,” Crow said. “That means a lot.”
Head turned and as he passed Mike he gave the boy a quick appraising glance, taking in the bruises. He turned briefly to Crow, eyebrows raised significantly, and then left without comment.
Mike came over and sat down, dragging the chair closer to the bed.
“Dude!” Mike said. “Look at your face!”
“Yeah, well, look at yours, too. What the hell happened to you?” And as soon as he asked the question Crow wished he could take it back. He remember Barney’s account of how Vic had beaten Mike when he picked him up.
“I, uh…”
“Fell off your bike again?” Crow asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah,” Crow said, and then had to leave it there because Mike was clearly not going to go any more distance down that conversational street. He didn’t let it show on his face, but he made a mental note to look up Vic one of these days and find some way to kick the living shit out of him and yet not wind up in jail, or in court. That son of a bitch was way overdue for an attitude adjustment.
He sighed. “Thanks for coming, kiddo. Did you get the—”
Mike suddenly grinned and dug into his jacket pocket. “I got the key from the lady at the yarn shop. I fed the cats, too.”
“Oh, jeez, I totally forgot about them!”
“They peed on the rug.”
“Swell. It’s their way of expressing disapproval at my tardiness.”
“They peed on your coffee table, too. I had to throw out your magazines and some of the mail was wet. I put that in the sink.”
“Little furry bastards.”
“Anyway…I got the box you wanted.” He produced a small box that was an inch and a half square and covered with navy blue velvet. Crow took it carefully and opened it. The engagement ring fairly lit the room with its brilliance. The Asscher-cut stone was huge — nearly two carats — and according to the salesman, it was a nicely cut, G Color, VS1 clarity diamond — and it had put a serious dent in his savings, to which Crow did not even blink.
“Whaddya think?” he asked Mike.
“Is it real?”
“Duh!”
“Wow! Are you going to propose to her? I mean—here? In the hospital and all?”
Crow grinned. “Ever heard of distraction therapy?”
“No. But I get the idea.”
Cr
ow closed the box and hid it in his bedside table. “Look, Mike, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
Mike tensed, and Crow could see it, but he gave the boy an affable smile. “Rumor has it that I’ve been shot. As a mortally wounded person I can’t be expected to manage the daily affairs of a business as critical and cutting edge as mine. I mean — if a kid needs a tube of vampire blood, how is someone in my condition supposed to get it for him? The whole industry would come crashing down.”
Grinning, Mike said, “Can’t have that.”
“So, as the proprietor of the town’s most prestigious boutique for the gruesome and horrific I thought it might be time to hire myself an Igor. You appear to have an appropriate hump…what do you say?”
Mike’s face beamed with happiness. “You’re offering me a job?”
“Well, if you can call hours of endless toil and drudgery for little pay and occasional scorn and derision from a heartless taskmaster a job, then yes.”
Mike jumped to his feet, then froze, wincing and gasping. “Ouch!” he said, standing hunched over in pain, then immediately followed it with, “I’m in! Oh my God! Thanks!”
Crow held up a cautionary finger. “I will have to call you Igor, though, you understand this?”
“I believe,” said Mike, laughing, “that it’s pronounced Eye-gor.”
(4)
Mayor Terry Wolfe sat in the doctors’ lounge drinking Glenkinchie from a Dixie cup, his elbows resting on his knees, the cup held lightly in his big hands. Head low between hunched shoulders, he stared moodily at the irregularities of the wax coating on the cup, breathing through his nose and sighing every eighth or ninth breath.
He had just spent an unproductive hour in a late meeting with the town selectmen, trying to calm them, cajole them, make them believe that everything was under control, when it was quite clear that not one damn thing was under control. Somehow during the last two days, Pine Deep had sunk up to its ass in shit. That’s how he thought about it. No more silly euphemisms for it, no more Sunday school expletives like “darn” or “heck.” Not today. Nope, not for Terry Wolfe. Not after that little elevator ride. Not after the things he’d seen last night. Not after the nurse hearing a roar coming from this very room while he was sleeping. Not after what happened to the arms of the leather chair.
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