Dead Man's Song

Page 18

“Thank God,” he said, and then picked up his cell phone again and stepped back into the world.
Chapter 6
(1)
Late that afternoon Ferro advised Gus to impose a curfew on the town. The chief looked at him as if he’s just suggested that they should all dance naked down Corn Hill. “With Boyd still out there it’s the safest thing,” Ferro insisted.
“The town selectmen will have my balls if I do that. This is October!”
LaMastra looked from him to his partner. “See, Frank, I told you he’d go all Jaws on us.” In a mocking tone of voice he said, “We can’t close the beaches…it’s Fourth of July weekend!”
“Vince, please,” Ferro said.
Gus went as red as a tomato, his body swelling as if it was about to burst. “This is hardly something to joke about—”
“We apologize, Chief,” Ferro said, shooting a harsh look at LaMastra. “Vince and I are both tired and frustrated.”
The chief grunted. They were sitting in Gus’s office on Corn Hill. There was a lot of bustle as off-duty officers were coming in to replace the working shift. Everyone looked angry and there was a lot of harsh chatter about what they’d do if they found the bastard who had killed two of their own.
“But,” Ferro pushed on, “a curfew does seem to be the best course of action. Boyd is still out there, and—”
“Don’t patronize me, Frank. I’m not stupid. I know how dangerous the situation is, but you have to appreciate my position. Pine Deep is a tourist town and decisions that affect the tourism industry are not made by me. Terry makes the principal decisions—”
“The mayor’s off the radar, Chief,” LaMastra observed.
“Which means that Harry LeBeau has authority,” Gus said stubbornly, “and even then he has to get a majority vote from the selectmen, even in a police emergency.” When he saw the looks on their faces he added defensively, “I didn’t set it up, but it’s more than my job is worth to issue a curfew without permission.” He paused, realizing how that sounded, and added, “Even if I do agree.”
“Well, can you at least give LeBeau a call and set things in motion? The sun is already down.”
Gus stared at him for a long five count, then abruptly stood up and walked into his private office and slammed the door. Through the glass Ferro could see him snatch up the phone. He turned to LaMastra, dropped his voice, and snapped, “Jesus, Vince, do you have to make smartass comments to everyone? What is it with you?”
Unmoved, LaMastra quietly said, “I guess my bullshit tolerance has bottomed out over the last couple of days. Working with that guy is maybe a short step up from working with a sock puppet.”
“It’s his town.”
“Oh, screw that, Frank. People are dying—cops are dying. I just don’t see why we should be even asking him. I thought the mayor put us in charge.”
“Of the manhunt, yes, but this is a town policy issue. We push too hard on this and the mayor makes a call to our boss and we’re both writing parking tickets in West Philly.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to play politics here.”
Ferro shrugged. “The chief’s making the call, isn’t he?”
Through the glass they could see Gus, his face even redder, gesturing emphatically as he shouted into the phone. They shared a look, eyebrows raised, then settled down at desks to update their reports on their laptops. Ten minutes later Gus’s door banged open and he stalked across the room toward them, face dark, a thick vein popping on his forehead. He stopped in front of Ferro’s desk and glared down at him. “Well, I pitched the curfew idea to LeBeau and eight of the selectmen one at a time and got my ass handed to me by every single one of them.”
Ferro flicked a warning look at LaMastra, who only mouthed the word “Jaws.”
“Best I might get from them was permission to issue an advisory.”
“‘An advisory,’” Ferro echoed.
“We can broadcast a suggestion that ‘everyone stay indoors until the current criminal investigation is over.’” He said it with the intonation of someone repeating a quote. “Since almost every business in town subscribes to the township listserv, we can send out an e-mail with the same suggestion, and that is as far as they are going to budge until they hear from Terry.”
Ferro stared up at the pocked surface of the drop-ceiling panels. “Okay, then that will have to do.”
The e-mail was drafted and sent, with the request that each store owner forward it to his local client list—a suggestion Gus thought would be universally ignored—and a copy of it was faxed to the local radio station, WHWN, the “Voice of the Pennsylvania Pinelands,” which was broadcast out of Pinelands College. Word had already spread about the murders that morning at Guthrie Farm, and the whisper-stream spread the news about the “advisory.” The overwhelming reaction from both townsfolk and tourists was to pour into the streets. Within a couple of hours Pine Deep became one huge party, with impromptu bonfires flaring up in the farmers’ fields closest to the town proper, and tailgate parties sparking to life in parking lots of a dozen stores. More than half of the shops on Main Street and Corn Hill decided to stay open past the usual closing hour, and all the bars and restaurants were packed with chattering crowds. When Ferro and LaMastra left the chief’s office to walk back to the Harvestman to turn in, they encountered huge crowds of people, laughter, blaring music, and a pandemic of celebration. As they passed the open door of Jacko’s Pub, a drunk girl in a very tight T-shirt staggered out of the door, her forehead painted with a lipstick jack-o’-lantern, a drink in either hand. “Here fellas, these’ll just kill ya!” She tried to hand them the drinks, but Ferro gave her his stony face and pushed past. LaMastra paused for a moment, took the drink and downed it in a single gulp, winked at the girl, and then hurried to catch up with Ferro, his throat burning with whatever was in the drink.
(2)
Val and Crow sat side by side on his cramped bed, Crow’s good arm around her. Both of them were now free of the IV bottles and Weinstock had said that they would be released the following day. Polk sat by the door staring at the news, and Toombes was slumped in a chair by the window reading a Walter Mosley novel, but she also kept glancing up at the TV, which showed the burgeoning party in Pine Deep.
“Gotta love this town,” Crow said, giving Val a gentle squeeze, mindful of her wrenched shoulder.
“This is crazy,” Val said sourly. “People have no respect. No common sense, either. Don’t they know what’s out there?” Her voice was fierce enough to make both cops turn and look at her, but she was unabashed. “People can be so damn stupid sometimes.”
“I heard that,” Toombes murmured, and then bowed her head over her novel again.
Crow’s cell rang and he disentangled himself from Val and reached for it, checked the display, and said to Val, “It’s Terry!”
He flipped the phone open. “Hey, Wolfman…where the hell you been?”
“Hi, Crow. How are you? How’s Val?”
“Able to sit up and take nourishment.”
“Good, good,” Terry said in a vague way that made Crow think he hadn’t even registered the answer. “Look, I just got off the phone with Harry and he more or less brought me up to speed.” He cleared his throat and when he spoke again his voice was a bit more human. “Jesus, I can’t believe that Ruger actually attacked you at the hospital. I’m glad you killed the bastard.” It took Crow a second to register what Terry had just said. Jesus? Bastard? Wow, Crow thought.
“I doubt anyone’ll shed tears at his funeral,” Crow muttered.
“And…I heard about Nels Cowan and Jimmy Castle. It’s horrible but…I’m off-balance with the timetable here. Are they sure Ruger didn’t do that?’
“Ruger was DOA when that went down. Apparently his buddy Boyd did it.”
“Boyd? That doesn’t make any sense. Those Philly cops told me he was harmless.”
“I guess they were wrong.”
“Goddamn it!” There it was again.
“Have you been watching the news?”
“I’m watching it now. Place is going to hell, and I’ve got to get back on top of this situation. I’m heading over to Gus’s. Talk to you later.”
“Hey, wait a min—” But Terry had hung up. Crow slowly closed his phone and turned to Val.
“What was that all about?” she asked. He told her, emphasizing the startling changes in Terry’s vocabulary. She arched an eyebrow. “Terry? Cursing? Oh, come on….”
“Hand to God, sweetie.”
“Must be strain,” she said.
“Must be something.”
(3)
Vic spun around, whipping a pistol out of his belt and dropping into a shooter’s crouch as Kenneth Boyd stepped heavily out from between two maples. Vic’s scowl melted away and he smiled as he straightened, easing the hammer down and shoving the gun back into the shoulder rig he wore under his windbreaker. He’d been waiting for over an hour, seated cross-legged on the tailgate of his pickup, chain-smoking and working things through in his head, waiting for Boyd, who took his sweet time getting there.
Boyd stood in the darkness under an elm, staring hungrily at him. The forest and the field were both cast in shadows thrown by the mountains, but Boyd stood in the heart of the darkness, shying away from even the wan daylight.
Vic stretched his legs and stood, affecting a yawn, then he turned and as he started walking toward the forest he slapped his thigh and whistled. “Here, boy!”
With red hatred in his eyes, Boyd followed, his lips curling back to reveal a row of jagged teeth that looked more like they should belong in the mouth of a barracuda rather than a man. Together they went deep into the woods.
Vic always kept a small canvas folding chair in a zippered vinyl bag stowed behind one of the rhododendrons by the edge of the swamp. He unzipped it casually, pointedly not looking at Boyd, showing both his lack of fear and total disregard for the creature, especially here in the presence of the Man. He took his time setting up the chair, pushing the legs down into the mossy earth until they held firm against roots or stones, and then he sat down, facing the muddy pool. Bubbles were constantly rising to the surface of the pool, popping with a mingled smell of sulfur, methane, and rotting meat. Vic had long since grown used to the smell, but he took a lucifer match from his shirt pocket, popped it alight with a thumbnail, and held the flame to a fresh cigarette, then flicked the still burning match at Boyd. It bounced off the creature’s cheek and save for a tiny flaring of eyes and nostrils Boyd did not react. Those eyes never left Vic’s throat, however, and after a few minutes, as Vic sat there and smoked—his own eyes fixed on the black pool—cold spittle gathered in Boyd’s mouth and dripped in fat drops to his chest.