Dead Man's Song

Page 22

He closed his eyes for a moment so that he could recall the passage from John 2:18, “Dear children, this is the last hour; and as you have heard that the antichrist is coming, even now many antichrists have come. This is how we know it is the last hour.”
Every chance he could he took his wrecker out and prowled the roads looking for the Beast, and each time he found nothing. Not a single trace, and no hints or guidance from above. Why was it so hard? It had to be some kind of test, he was sure of it. Sitting there while the press conference rambled on, Eddie picked up one of his Bibles and searched for passages about arrogance and pride, trying to burn the words into his brain. He swore to his Father that he would never let pride overcome his judgment. Next time he would make sure the Beast was dead. Dead for good and all. Opening the way to God’s promised thousand years of peace on Earth. He smiled.
Eddie turned back to the TV screen and continued to smile at Mayor Wolfe’s face. Yes, here was one who could be saved, and he recited from Romans 13: “The hour has come for you to wake up from your slumber, because our salvation is nearer now than when we first believed. The night is nearly over; the day is almost here. So let us put aside the deeds of darkness and put on the armor of light.”
Thinking this, he stripped off his clothes so that his own armor of light would glow from beneath his skin and shine throughout his house, and then he went upstairs to pray.
(3)
When Terry left the press conference he had every intention of just driving home, popping a handful of Xanax, and climbing back into bed. He did get into his car and did drive away, but just as he braked at the stoplight a voice next to him said, “Everyone respects you, Terry. Everyone likes you.”
He turned and looked at Mandy, who was sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat, her large green eyes filled with light, her pale heart-shaped face framed by masses of red curls—a brighter red than Terry’s darker reddish brown. Terry gripped the steering wheel with both hands until the leather cover creaked within his fists. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then popped them open, hoping that it would have cleared his vision of the sight of her. Mandy was twirling a strand of hair around one finger. The front of her green dress was slashed and hung in red tatters down her chest.
“You have to leave me alone,” he said.
Mandy sighed. “Everyone in town loves you, Terry. They trust you.”
“Go away.”
“They rely on you to try and make things right. That’s what you do.” Her voice was Mandy’s but the diction was that of the adult she had never lived to become. “If you keep doing this then you’re going to let everyone down.” She reached out with a blood-caked finger and touched his sleeve. Terry whimpered at the touch and jerked his arm away. The streetlight turned green and the car behind him tooted its horn. “If you keep doing this you’re going to hurt everyone—”
“Stop this, goddamnit! You’ve got to stop saying this stuff—”
“Terry…if you keep trying to fight it, you’re only going to lose. You know that. It’s getting stronger, Terry. He’s getting stronger. You’re falling apart, and when you break down it will take over.” Mandy leaned toward him and he cut a look at her face. There was nothing childlike in those green eyes, nothing innocent in the harsh curl of her lips as she said, “You’re going to be just like him and you know it!”
Screaming in denial, Terry stamped down on the brakes and at the same time swept a backhand toward her. Not to hit her, but to drive her back, to drive away what she was saying. His hand met no resistance until it thumped against the backrest of the empty seat.
With trembling hands he dug in his pocket for his pill case, fumbled it open, and popped a blue 1-milligram Xanax tab into his mouth. There were only three more in the case, and only one of the 4-mg Risperdals—not that the antipsychotics were doing him any good. The Xanax was better because it just mellowed the edges of things. As soon as he could trust himself to operate the car, he drove straight to the pharmacy to get his prescription refilled.
(4)
Mike Sweeney sat on the edge of his bed holding an ice pack to his face, wondering why he wasn’t in as much pain as he should have been. Vic had hit him a good one and Mike was an expert on bruising. He could always predict how big a bruise would follow a certain kind of hit, how much it would hurt, when it would fade. This one should have been a solid seven on his pain scale, and he should be feeling a dull ache at the base of his skull. Whiplash was another old comrade, but even though there was redness and swelling, it wasn’t half of what he expected it to be. Maybe not a quarter as bad.
It was weird, and Mike knew that he should be alarmed—not that he wanted to feel worse, but what was happening wasn’t normal. That was obvious, and he had sat there for half an hour just thinking about it—and then like a switch being thrown he wasn’t thinking about it. Or about anything.
Fugue.
When he blinked his eyes clear, an hour was gone from the day and the ice bag was just slush, lying on the floor where it had fallen. Mike reached down and picked it up with no surface awareness, either of it having fallen or of now picking it up. The time and everything it had witnessed was gone. Just gone.
In its fugue the chrysalis evolves.
If he had looked in a mirror at that moment, he would have seen that the bruising on his face had diminished by almost 80 percent.
In its chrysalis the imago undergoes a steady process of change.
The TV was on, the sound low, and Mike started watching it, catching up to the flow of time without being aware of having stepped out of its stream, catching replays of the mayor’s press conference. Mike sat there and watched until it was over and then turned and looked out of his bedroom window for a long time, his consciousness coming back on line one circuit at a time.
It was only the second of October and the leaves were already turning colors. They seemed pretty, but somehow Mike didn’t like the look of them. It was like they were too bright, too flashy, like the shiny suit of one of those guys who hangs out by the schoolyard and tries to dazzle you with his clothes and his ride and all the time he just wants to sell you some weed.
He scratched his bruised cheek. It hurt, but not as much as it should have.
Even when it slumbers the chrysalis continues to change.
(5)
Vic Wingate switched off the radio and stared through the windshield as his pickup rolled quietly down A-32 toward the canal bridge. He’d just heard the load of horseshit Terry Wolfe had foisted on the press. He snorted and slapped his jacket pockets until he found his cigarettes, shook one out of the pack, and punched in the dashboard lighter. That gullible bunch of dickheads had swallowed every scrap of nonsense Wolfe had tossed to them, and it was very convenient to Vic’s plans to have such a master of spin control as Terry Wolfe. Quiet and calm was good for business. Well…for Vic’s business at any rate. He lit his cigarette. Vic’s and the Man’s.
(6)
Crow was back in Val’s room, and Saul Weinstock was with them, all of them glued to the TV as Terry worked his magic with the press. Every time Terry made a particularly brilliant statement Crow and Weinstock yelled “Boorah!” at the screen. Val just rolled her eyes.
“Terry looks pretty sharp,” Weinstock said. “Better than he has for days.”
On the TV a pair of news commentators were dissecting every single word Terry had said. “I have to admit,” Val said, “Terry was in rare form. He really owned that crowd of reporters.”
“Except for that little guy,” Weinstock said. “The one that looks like George from Seinfeld. I’ve seen him around. He’s the one that broke the whole story. Willard Fowler Newton, from Black Marsh. Doesn’t look like much but he must be a hell of a reporter if he was able to figure out everything that was going on.”
Crow pursed his lips. “Well, the story is coast-to-coast now, so strap yourselves in, kiddies, I think we’re about to have a helluva ride.”
Totally without inflection, Val said, “Yippee.”
Weinstock looked at his watch. “So…you two ready to check out of this hotel or what?”
(7)
Terry and Sarah Wolfe arrived in late afternoon to take Crow and Val home from the hospital. Two armed police officers—Head and Golub—escorted them from their rooms, one leading the procession of two wheelchairs and the other bringing up the rear. Both of them carried shotguns at port arms. A half-dozen other officers had been brought in to create and enforce a cordon that kept the press back from the hospital entrance as the patients were carefully handed into Terry’s Humvee and buckled in. Once everyone was in, Head and Golub lead the way in their unit, with the Humvee following, and another police car following, with Coralita Toombes behind the wheel. Police barricades were set up across the parking lot entrance, blocking the press vehicles in for ten minutes, allowing them all to make a clean getaway.
Val’s farm was still a crime scene, so Crow and Val spent the night with Terry. Just the effort of leaving the hospital and getting in and out of cars exhausted them, and Sarah got them into bed and tucked in, bullying them into taking their pills. In ten minutes they were asleep, face-to-face, their foreheads touching. Terry headed back to the office, his artifice of calm slipping inch-by-inch.
Golub and Head stayed in their unit, parked in the driveway, eating turkey-and-cheese sandwiches Sarah made for them, sipping hot coffee, watching the flocks of tourists go by, listening to the frustrated reports of the officers engaged in the search. Between bites, Golub said, “You think this Boyd clown is still here in town?”
Head shook his head. “Nah. He’s long gone by now. My guess, he’s over in Jersey somewhere. Probably looking to boost a car and head north to Newark or the Apple.”
“I hope you’re wrong, man,” Golub said, and took another bite. “I would love for us to catch this prick.”
“Catch?” Head said with a cold smile that looked like a shooter’s squint. “Nah, nobody I knows wants to catch him.”