Dead Man's Song

Page 48

Weary and sick as he was, his smile blossomed and he looked down at the lovely curves of his guitar and knew something he hadn’t known before. Is this why I’m here? He wondered. Is this why the grave vomited me back into this damn town? To save this boy?
The Bone Man raised his guitar to his lips and kissed it, his eyelids fluttering closed.
Let it be so, he prayed. God…have at least that much mercy.
(4)
LaMastra stayed in the car while Ferro went in to the hospital to say good-bye to Saul Weinstock.
“Real sorry to see you go, Frank,” Weinstock said, and meant it.
The doctor was freshly dressed and neatly shaved, but Ferro thought he looked careworn. It was understandable. He said, “You’re about the only one who is. From your esteemed mayor’s reaction I was waiting for villagers with torches to drive us out of town.”
Weinstock’s left eye twitched, but he kept smiling. “Terry’s under a lot of pressure. We all are. The blight and all, and the stuff out at the Guthrie’s farm. He used to date Val, you know. Fifteen years ago or so. He liked Henry, and he’s taking his death pretty hard. I guess we’re all taking this…hard.” Weinstock cleared his throat. “I personally would like to see you stay, Frank.”
“Vince is glad to be leaving,” Ferro said. “This place has gotten to him.”
“And it hasn’t gotten to you?”
“Well, it is a fairly creepy town, you have to admit. Says so on all the billboards.”
“Yeah,” Weinstock said, drawing out the word. For a minute it looked like he was going to add something, then just shook his head.
“Something up, Saul?”
The doctor took a second with that. He said, “Frank…if anything else weird turns up…? I mean, anything associated with the case…can I call you?”
“Well—Chief Bernhardt is handling—”
“No, Frank…can I call you?” He paused. “If it’s something I don’t think Gus can handle.”
Ferro studied him, then shrugged. “Sure. Why not? If it’s associated with the case, you can always give me a call.”
“What if it’s somewhat tangential to the case?”
“You’ve lost me.”
Weinstock started to say something, then smiled and shook his head. “I’m tired and I’m babbling. Have a good trip back, Frank. Come out sometime and we can play some golf. You play golf?”
“Badly.”
“Good, ’cause I like to win.” They stood and shook hands and Weinstock held on for just a second too long and squeezed just a bit too hard, then he let go and sank back down into his chair. Ferro gave him a last puzzled smile, a nod, and then left.
In the empty elevator he said to himself, “Vince was right. This town is screwy.”
Twenty minutes later the phone on Weinstock’s desk buzzed and he pushed the button. “The courier’s here, doctor,” said his secretary.
“Send him right in.”
Weinstock was fitting the hard plastic cover over the cooler as his door opened and a young man entered, eyebrows raised expectantly. He wore a uniform and cap with the DHL logo on it. “Pickup?” the man asked.
“Right here.” Weinstock sealed the dry-ice-packed cooler with orange tape. A second identical cooler sat on one corner of his desk. “Labels are ready. The labs are expecting these.”
If the driver found anything unusual in a hospital’s administrator personally sending samples to separate laboratories in Manhattan and Philadelphia, he didn’t let it show. It probably never occurred to him, just another pickup. DHL handled tens of thousands of medical courier jobs every day. Weinstock signed on the electronic clipboard and the courier took one cooler in each hand, wished the doctor a “Nice day,” and left.
When he was gone, Weinstock sank down in his seat and leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and tried to still the hammering of his heart. That took awhile. When he finally opened his eyes, the quality of sunlight in the room had changed and there were slanting shadows angled across his office, and he realized that he must have fallen asleep. Darting a look at the clock he was shocked to see that over two hours had passed. The sun was already behind the far mountains and night was coming on fast. “Shit!” he hissed as he jumped up and headed for the door. He wanted to be home before dark.
Once he was in his car, Weinstock punched Crow’s number into his cell and listened to it ring five times before a voice answered: “Crow’s Nest.”
“Who’s this?” Weinstock barked.
“Mike Sweeney, how may I help you?”
“Is Crow there?”
“He’s with a customer, sir, may I—”
Weinstock punched the disconnect button. “Damn,” he said as he drove through the gathering gloom.
Chapter 17
(1)
“They want to keep us one more day,” Mark said, his frustration and tension clear all the way down the phone lines. “Seems they wanted to have another counseling session with Weeping Beauty.”
“Mark! Do you have to be like that?”
Silence for a few heartbeats. “It’s not like I said it in front of her.”
“You shouldn’t have said it all.” She expected him to say something else, peevish or defensive, but there was nothing. She said, “What time tomorrow should we pick you up?”
“You don’t need to bother,” he snapped. “Buck Franklin from the Rotary is coming by.”
“I’d like to be there anyway,” Val said, “for Connie.”
“Don’t bother,” Mark said, and hung up.
She set down the phone and looked at it thoughtfully for a while, lips pursed, twin vertical frown lines between her brows. Crow would have had something witty and biting and funny to say, even to the silent phone, but he wasn’t here and the best Val could manage was, “ass,” which was appropriate enough.
Around her the house was huge and silent, filled with brown shadows. She knew that every door was locked and every window shut and pinned. Crow had seen to that before he had left for town to put in some hours at the store. He wouldn’t be back until the middle of the afternoon, and then at four a reporter was coming over to interview Crow about the events of thirty years ago. That should be loads of fun, she thought.
She went downstairs to her father’s room, hesitated in the doorway for a while, steeled herself, and went into the room, past the bed that was now empty of both her mother and father, to the big oak wardrobe. The doors swung open quietly. She knelt down and dug around until she found a old shoe-box tied with a piece of hairy twine. Val brought this over to the desk by the window and sat down. Though her left arm still ached it was better each day. She untied the twine, set the lid aside, and removed a bundle wrapped in an oil-stained cloth. Val unwrapped it and stared at the contents for a long while, frowning.
There was a small cleaning kit in the box, which she opened to the smell of gun oil. Val slowly and methodically stripped and cleaned the .45 Colt Commander. When she was finished, she loaded the magazine and slapped it into place. These motions hurt her shoulder, but not that much, and even if the pain had been intense Val would not have cared. When she closed her eyes she saw the dead face of Karl Ruger—but with his eyes open and his wet lips curled into a leering grin. Now, with the pistol, when she saw that face in her mind it would be at the far end of a steel gun sight. And if Boyd came calling, well…that would be too bad for him.
(2)
Three times yesterday and twice today Tow-Truck Eddie drove past the Crow’s Nest and slowed to peer in the window. After that first try, when all he could see was a blurred face, he’d circled back an hour later, but this time all he saw was Crow moving around the store. No one else. He tried it late in the day, near closing, and again all he saw was Crow. No sign of the Beast. Doubt chewed at him. This morning he parked his wrecker in a side street and walked past the store as surreptitiously as he could, pausing to peer inside. Again, just Crow, though this time he was with customers, all of who were adults. No sign of a teenage boy anywhere.
Could he have changed his appearance? This thought wormed its way into his thoughts and wouldn’t go away, even though the great booming voice of his Father told him that the Beast in boy skin was there. Right there. Right now.
Eddie could not see him at all. Not even the blurred outline of him. Nothing.
He would keep coming back, though, he promised his Father that. Nothing on earth would stop him. Yet deep inside him, far down in the soil of his heart, the first real seeds of doubt were beginning to take root.
The Bone Man felt desperately weak, but even though he kept having to dip into the shallow well of his strength to hide the boy from those penetrating blue eyes he did not feel any weaker than he had earlier. Perhaps he had bottomed out somehow, had dropped as far as he could drop. Well, he thought, if that was so then it was so, and it was something he could—well live with was not quite right, and for once he smiled ruefully at the perversity of his condition—even so it was something he could endure.
The crucial thing for him was that this was something he was actually able to accomplish, and for once he truly felt that he understood why he had been brought back. If he could save the boy, at least until Halloween, then his life and death and whatever the hell this was would all be important. It would matter…and more important to him, it would make sense. He stood there invisible in the sunlight and watched the wrecker drive away, and despite the agonizing weariness the Bone Man felt good.
(3)
“I’m going to throw some punches at you,” Crow said, raising his hands and settling his body into a boxing posture—knees flexed, chin tucked into his right shoulder, hands high, fists tight. “What I want you to do is block anything you see.” Mike’s eyes were a little glassy, and Crow thought he saw the beginnings of tears forming. The kid’s bruises looked a lot better today, but his eyes were still spooked. “You ready?” Crow asked, though it was clear the only thing Mike was ready for was a mad dash down the alley.