Dead Man's Song (16 page)

“Who
cares
about the history of the area?”

Hangood’s flat stare silenced him. “If you would like to try and be a reporter for a moment, I’ll explain. Good. Now, Pine Deep is the oldest town around here, much older than Black Marsh, Crestville, or any of the other burgs. It was settled way back in the Puritan days. Since it was settled there have been a series of weird and unexplainable events that have earned the town its reputation for being Spooksville, USA. Now, you may think that’s just boring stuff, and normally you would be right, but I have a little fact that just might whet your appetite.”

“Pray tell.”

“I’ll bet you didn’t know that there was another series of brutal murders in Pine Deep, long before this one. The reports differ, but the general consensus is that there were seventeen or eighteen savage murders in and around Pine Deep.”

“The Pine Deep Massacre, The Reaper Murders, the Black Harvest, whatever—I know this stuff already, Dick, the other papers have already played that card. Big deal. That was, what, thirty years ago?”

Hangood smiled. “There’s more.”

“More?”

“Oh yeah. Vigilantes, hidden bodies…that sort of thing. They even have a legend about the killer from those days.”

“A legend?”

“Yeah. He’s become the local bogeyman in Pine Deep. They use his name to scare little kids.”

“The Bone Man!” Newton cried. “You’re talking about the Bone Man. That’s the other name they use for the Reaper.”

“The Bone Man indeed. He was blamed for the murders and somehow accidentally got himself beaten to death. Some folks say his ghost still haunts the back roads of town, looking for the men who killed him. Some folks say that he was wrongly accused and is looking for the real killer, and can’t rest until he finds him. Some say he
was
the Pine Deep Reaper. Lots of local legends, real juicy stuff. I’m thinking of getting Grace McCormick to illustrate it. She’s the one does all those spooky calendars. My publisher wants me to try and sell it to
Parade.”

“Parade?”
Newton asked. A sale to the color Sunday supplement was huge.

Seeing that Newton was swimming around the lure, Hangood jerked the line to set the hook. “Here’s the kicker…among the families involved in that original massacre were the Guthries, the Wolfes, and the Crows.”

Newton could only stare, though his mouth kept forming words that had no sound.

Hangood knocked more ash off his cigar, smiling blandly. “Interested?”

(5)

He opened his eyes in the darkness, unsure for a moment where he was. It was cold and the darkness was total, without the slightest trace of light. There was no sound, either. He could have been adrift in the farthest reaches of space, or at the very bottom of the ocean. It took him a moment to realize where he was, and then another moment to realize that he had been asleep and dreaming. It surprised him. He didn’t know he could sleep. Or dream. Somehow the thought that he could reassured him, made him feel stronger.

He lay there, reviewing his dreams, trying to remember the pieces and assemble them into something coherent, but the harder he tried, the more elusive the fragments became until they were all gone, leaving him with just the awareness of the cold and the dark.

Then there was a sound. It was the first he had heard in hours. Or was it days? A muffled sound, like a footfall, but then it was followed by a scraping sound. It came again. A muffled thud and then a scrape. Thud and scrape. Rhythmic, orderly, and getting gradually louder. Not very loud, but louder, or perhaps
closer.
Or, he wondered, was it that he was hearing it more clearly because he was trying to.

Thud…scrape. Thud…scrape.

Then silence. He lay there and tried to hold his breath, then realized that he was not breathing at all. He didn’t do that anymore. Did not need to. He smiled, liking that.

Silence.

Suddenly his world was filled with light and noise. The light was muddy and indistinct, but it was there and he stared at it, wondering why it was so unfocused and just as he grasped why the light changed as the rubber sheet that covered him was pulled down and then he felt movement as the table he lay on rumbled out into brightness over welloiled rollers. He blinked once, twice, then his eyes focused, adapting unnaturally fast from utter darkness to the harshness of fluorescents. He looked up and the first thing he saw were the banks of lights on the ceiling, and the second thing he saw was the face of the man who had pulled him out of darkness.

The face was horrible, bloody and cut and filthy, with eyes that burned like coals and torn lips that writhed and trembled around a mouthful of jagged teeth.

He saw that face, and he smiled his own saw-toothed grin. “Boyd,” he whispered. He had to take a breath to speak the name.

The thing over him glared down at him, lips working, Adam’s apple bobbing as it tried to speak. “Karl…” it said.

(1)

That night Crow and Val had dinner with Terry and Sarah. While they were at the table none of them brought up anything related to Pine Deep’s troubles, though their efforts to keep the conversation sanitized and light bordered on farce. The fact that Terry and Val cared little for one another even though she and Sarah were close did nothing to warm the room, even with a fire crackling in the living room and Ralph Vaughn Williams’s
Pastoral Symphony
sweetening the air. By the time the dessert plates were cleared and Sarah was pouring second coffees, Terry was looking thin with strain. Sarah caught Crow’s eye and, with the kind of telepathy old friends possess, with a flick of a glance toward the back door communicated a suggestion to Crow. He winked and said, “Terry, why don’t we take our cups outside and catch some air. You gals don’t mind, do you?” Normally a comment like that would have gotten him a sharp reply from Val—who never liked to be left with the dishes—but she had caught the look between Sarah and Crow, and read it right.

“Sounds like a good idea. Too cold out there for me,” she said. “I’ll help Sarah clear away.”

Terry only grunted, picked up his cup, and shambled after Crow. Behind the house was a huge hardwood deck with two big glass-topped tables and a dozen chairs scattered around. Crow lowered himself carefully into a redwood chaise longue and Terry parked his rump on the rail. For a while all they did was look at the stars. Orion was magnificent, his jeweled belt glittering. The wind had died away in late afternoon and though it was cold, both men were comfortable, Terry in a wheat-colored cable-knit sweater over charcoal cords, and Crow in jeans and a red flannel shirt over a sweatshirt advertising the
Wild River Review.
Party Cat came darting out to join them, the little hinged door slapping behind him. He started to jump up on the rail to be near Terry, then appeared to change his mind and crawled onto Crow’s lap. Terry didn’t notice.

For a couple of minutes they discussed the manhunt, and Terry brought Crow up to speed on what Ferro and Gus were doing to find Boyd. “All they found the first day were some footprints, but that petered out to nothing. Yesterday they had twice as many men in the woods and still found nothing. Today, same thing, and Ferro even had some guys rappel down the pitch from the Passion Pit to Dark Hollow. Nothing. What’s the line from
The Fugitive
? Where Tommy Lee Jones tells his guys he wants a hard-target search of any residence, gas station, farmhouse, henhouse, doghouse, and outhouse in the area? Well, that about sums it up, but no one’s so much as found a whiff of Boyd. Nothing. Ferro’s pain-in-the-butt partner, LaMastra, thinks Boyd left town, but since he did that before and then came back to kill those poor cops, I don’t know how much I’m willing to believe it. Understand, I hope he has left,” Terry concluded bitterly. “We need this to be
over
!”

“Christ, I hope so,” Crow said, but he didn’t think it was. Not with those enigmatic last words of Karl Ruger nibbling at him night and day, but he didn’t want to tell Terry about that quite yet, especially with the look of strained exhaustion painted on Terry’s face. He took a sip to let the moment pass before broaching a different subject. “So, tell me, bro, you still having those nightmares?”

Terry stiffened, but did not turn. “Did Sarah say something?”

“No, you did, you lunkhead. In my store, couple days ago, just before all the fun and games started.”

Terry nodded. “Fair enough.” But he didn’t elaborate right away. Crow gave him a “go ahead” arch of the eyebrows but by the time Terry finally answered Crow’s coffee had cooled by several degrees and Party Cat had fallen asleep, his head on Crow’s crotch. The air was utterly still and off in the distance they could hear music from the bars on Corn Hill. Despite the ongoing manhunt, tourists were still pouring into the town and everywhere there was laughter and music. Even Crow thought that was weird.

When he spoke, Terry’s voice was soft and Crow had to forcibly tune out the music to catch his words. “Crow, next to Sarah you’re the one person I really trust.” He turned to see if Crow was going to make one of his smartass comments, but Crow just raised his cup in silent acknowledgment of the trust, so Terry continued, “And I know that if anyone is going to have my back, and to not judge me based on what I’m about to say, it’s going to be you.”

“We’ve been each other’s wingmen for a lot of years, Wolfman.”

“And don’t ever think I don’t appreciate it. I know I’m sometime high maintenance.” He sipped his coffee and set the cup down. “For the last month or so I’ve been having problems, and the nightmares are just part of it…but let’s start there.” He described one of the dreams to Crow, going into more detail than he had even shared with his psychiatrist, and once more he turned to see if there was any mockery or humor on Crow’s face, but while Terry was talking, Crow had just leaned forward, listening, his face very serious, his cup forgotten in his hands.

When Terry finished, Crow asked, “And you say you’re having some hallucinations where you think you see this monster face in mirrors and such?”

Terry nodded. “How crazy is that?”

Instead of answering, Crow asked, “What does the beast look like?”

It wasn’t the question Terry was expecting and his surprise showed on his face. “What does it matter? A monster’s a monster.”

“When it comes to nightmares, I don’t think so. Maybe if we understood the kind of critter you’re seeing it might mean something, you know—the way one thing means something else in regular dreams. You dream of hotdogs flying through the Lincoln Tunnel and it means you need to get laid.”

A crow flapped out of the east and landed in the tree above him, cawing softly. “It’s a wolf,” Terry said at last.

Crow nodded. “Well, that much makes sense.”

“How?” Terry loaded that one word with a hundred questions.

“Well, last time I looked at the name on those checks you give me to manage the Hayride, your last name is ‘Wolfe.’ Not really much of a stretch. If you’re dreaming about becoming a beast and fate conveniently gives you a last name like that, it’s pretty much a gimme. Plus, we’ve all been calling you Wolfman since grade school. Look at me—Crow—if I dreamed about becoming a bird, what do you think would be first on the list?”

“No,” Terry said with a vigorous shake of his head, “it can’t be that simple.”

“Not saying it is, brother,” Crow said, “but it’s at least part of the puzzle. What’s your doc say about it?”

“He thinks it’s stress.”

“And you
don’t
?” He waved his hands to indicate the town. “You’re the mayor of Shitstorm, USA. Can we say ‘blight’? Can we say ‘township-wide financial crisis’? Not to mention Ruger and those other ass-clowns shooting up the place.”

“This started before Ruger.”

“Has it gotten worse since he’s been here?”

A silence, then Terry nodded. Crow gave a “well, there you are” hand gesture.

“No,” Terry said, “there’s more.”

(2)

Vic always drove carefully. He’d never so much as logged a parking ticket, let alone a speeding ticket, so when he saw that there was a police unit behind him he didn’t sweat being pulled over. On the other hand, he was less than half a mile from the hospital, heading away from it on the only major road that passed those gates. He stared at the headlights of the cruiser in his rearview mirror and his mind was working, working.

When the light ahead turned red, he made a decision and braked to a stop, pulling halfway onto the shoulder and waving his arm out the window. As the cruiser pulled up Vic could see that it was Dave Golub riding alone. He knew Golub through Polk. A big Jewish kid playing cop to pay his way through law school. Vic grinned. “Hey! Dave!”

Golub peered through his passenger window and saw who it was. He put his unit in park and hit the button to drop the window. “Vic?”

“Yeah, glad to see you,” Vic said and jerked his door open. “You’re a gift from God, let me tell you.”

“Everything okay?”

“Oh, well it is and it ain’t,” Vic said, flashing his grin. “I hit a deer a couple miles back. Mashed the son of a bitch but good and slung him in the back.” He jerked a thumb toward the truck bed. “But I just heard a thump and I think the poor bastard ain’t dead after all. Mind taking a look?”

Without waiting for an answer he started walking back toward the tailgate, knowing that Golub would follow. He just hoped he wouldn’t call it in, but didn’t think he would. Vic was a townie and everybody knew Vic. Vic never got drunk, never got into trouble, and he was a buddy with Polk.

Golub said, “Sure, but I’m no vet,” and got out.

As he crunched along the gravel on the shoulder, Vic waited, one hand inside the cab holding onto the corner of the tarp, sizing Golub up. The kid was huge, maybe six-five and beefy tending toward soft. Vic knew he could take him if he had to, but that wasn’t on the menu.

“Let me see what you got,” Golub said, putting one hand on the rim of the bed and using the other to shine his light at the tarp. “If it’s still wounded I can call someone to bring out one of those humane-killer things, and—”

As he said this, Vic whipped back the tarp. There was nothing humane about what happened next.

(3)

Val parted the curtains just slightly and peered out. The kitchen was dark and she could see Terry and Crow outside. “What do you think they’re talking about?” she asked.

“Besides what’s going on in town?” Sarah asked from the doorway. She had her arms folded and was leaning against the frame. “Probably talking about Terry’s dreams.”

Val let the curtains fall closed and turned to Sarah. “Dreams?”

“Come in to the parlor.” When they were seated on opposite sides of the fireplace, Sarah leaned close, taking Val’s hand. “I know you and Terry don’t get along that well…”

“That’s ancient history.”

“No, it isn’t,” Sarah said, “but it’s good of you to say it. The point is, Terry loves Crow like a brother, and if I had to guess what he’s doing out there, he’s opening up to him about some stuff he should have told him weeks ago. You see…Terry has been having some problems.” She paused. “Psychological problems.” Val squeezed Sarah’s hand, and Sarah took a breath and plunged ahead. “Terry is telling Crow, and I need to tell someone, too, and I was going to call you a few days ago, and then all of this stuff happened with your dad, and the farm and all.”

“It’s been bad for all of us, honey, but if you need to get something off your chest don’t worry about how I’m going to take it. Tell you the truth, right now I need to be somebody’s rock, if you know what I’m saying. I’m not good at being vulnerable—I need to be the strong one. That make sense?”

Sarah smiled and there were tears in her eyes. “Of course it does, Val. Sometimes I think you’re the toughest one of all of us. I know Crow thinks that, too; and it may surprise you to know, but so does Terry.” She dabbed at her eyes. “I don’t know if he’s ever managed to say it, but he’s really sorry about what happened. He knows he betrayed you, he knows he broke your heart. It was a bad time for him and if he could take it back and make it right, he would, but sometimes Terry is wound so tight he doesn’t know how to reach people. Sure, he’s great at press conferences, but he’s never been very good at getting to the heart of things. You know that as well as anyone.”

Val nodded, and thinking about the grudge she’d been holding for almost sixteen years she felt suddenly ashamed. She sighed, and then gave Sarah a rueful smile. “Okay, sweetie, as far as I’m concerned that stuff is ancient history. I’m officially calling a truce.”

“Thank God,” Sarah said, and the relief was plain on her face, “because right now I need you to help me with what Terry’s going through. If you want to…if you can.”

“Sarah…” Val said, squeezing her hand again. “We’re all in this together.”

Sarah took another deep breath and let it out as a sigh, her eyes shifting from Val to the fire and then to her hands, which were wriggling and knotting in her lap. “It’s…well…I think Terry is losing his mind,” she said.

(4)

“More…like what?” Crow asked slowly.

It took Terry a full minute to make his mouth form the words. “Crow…my dead sister, Mandy’s been following me lately.” When Crow’s mouth dropped open, Terry added, “And she’s been trying to get me to kill myself.”

“Holy leaping ratshit!”

“How well you put it,” Terry said with a weak smile, but his voice cracked. He looked at the coffee in his cup, sighed, and emptied the cup over the rail, stood up without a word, and went inside. When he came out he had a bottle of Weyerbacher Imperial Pumpkin Ale. He unscrewed the cap, tossed it out into the shadows, and took a long pull.

Crow forced himself to say, “Why, Terry? Why would Mandy want you dead?”

Terry pulled a chair close to the chaise longue and sat down, leaning his big forearms on his thighs, his blue eyes crackling with tension and fear, the beer bottle swaying like a plumb bob from his laced fingers. “Mandy is afraid that the beast is going to take over and that I’m going to become…”

“Become what?” Crow whispered. Icy hands were clamped around his spine.

Tears filled Terry’s eyes and for the first time Crow truly had a measure of the hell that his friend was in. “Crow…she thinks that if the beast takes over I’ll become just like Ubel Griswold.”

Each of those words hit Crow over the heart like punches, and each one was a harder blow than anything Ruger had thrown at him.
Ubel Griswold sends his regards.
“Oh my God!” he croaked, when he found his voice. He steeled himself to ask, “Terry…I’ve asked you a dozen times since we were kids and you always blow me off…but how much do you remember of what happened to you and Mandy that day?”

Which is when Terry’s cell phone rang. The sound made Crow jump and spill his coffee all over Party Cat, who hissed and leapt up and ran out into the yard. As Crow jumped up to slap at the lukewarm stains spreading on his jeans, he heard one-half of the conversation. “Hello. Gus…yes, what’s—?
What?
When? Jesus H. Christ, Gus…how did he get into the bloody
hospital
?” A pause. “Was anyone hurt? Well, thank God for that. No, I’m at home. I’ll…be there in just a few minutes.”