Vic figured that maybe it was time to amp up on the kid. If the Man’s other plan for getting rid of the little pussy didn’t work out, then it was up to Vic to accomplish his goal. If he upped the ante on Mike, made the beatings a bit worse—but not so bad that those cops that weren’t in his pocket would be forced to step in—then maybe the kid would finally get the fucking message and realize that, yes, life is hell so maybe it’d be better to jump off a fucking bridge. Or something. Vic had left razor blades on the side of the tub several times, but the little bastard was too damn dense to take a hint.
Not for the first time Vic wished he could just strangle the little fucker. That would feel so good! But the Man was very, very specific on that point. If Mike were to die from a corrupt or evil hand, then the Man’s whole plan would be in deep shit. Which sucked, because Vic ached to feel Mike’s throat collapse in his hands. Then he’d be free of Mike, and would be finally able to cut loose of that drunken whore, Lois. What a goddamn waste of human tissue she was. Couldn’t cook, lousy in the sack unless Vic beat the shit out of her first, and nowadays she was drunk all the time.
The things I do for the Man , Vic thought, feeling peevish.
Upstairs he could hear the phone ringing. He listened, counting the rings. Three. Four. Five. Five? Christ, how many times had he told that cow to get the phone by three rings at the most? Fucking five rings?
Vic closed his eyes and smiled with the first real pleasure of the day. If both Mike and Lois were going to defy him like this, then it might turn out to be a really interesting evening. Really interesting.
He was already heading toward the stairs when he heard Lois’s tentative knock on the door. In a hesitant, quavering voice she called, “Vic? Vic, honey?”
“What?” he growled, mounting the stairs two at a time.
“Phone call for you, honey.”
He jerked the door open. “So I heard. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but did I not hear the phone ring, what, five times?”
Lois stood there, her blue cotton bathrobe pulled tight around her body, the belt cinched and knotted around her slim waist. Her brown hair was tousled from sleep and her eyes were red and rheumy from vodka. Fear reeled drunkenly in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, honey. I was asleep. I didn’t hear…I mean…I got it as fast as I…”
He held up a warning finger and she shut up. “You go into the living room and wait for me. Don’t you dare sit down, either, Lois. When I’m done with my call, we’ll go over the phone rules again. Okay? Go on now.”
Lois shrank back, her mouth opening to form words of protest, to voice some kind of plea, but she did not dare make a sound. It would always be much worse if she tried to plead for tolerance, and horribly worse if she begged. She clutched the folds of her robe to her throat and cowered out of the room.
Vic waited until she was out of the kitchen until he let the smile form on his lips. He liked that color blue on her. He reached for the phone.
“This is Vic.”
“Mr. Wingate? This is Terry Wolfe.”
Vic tensed, instantly on the defensive. Why the hell would the mayor be calling him? “Yeah?” he asked cautiously.
“Mr. Wingate, I’m calling on behalf of your stepson, Mike?”
“Christ, what’s the little shit done now?”
“Oh, nothing like that. No, he was involved in an accident, Mr. Wingate.”
Equal amounts of hope and fear surged up in Vic’s heart. “Yeah? What kind of accident?”
“He was riding his bike on A-32 when someone, a trucker, ran him off the road near where Old Mill Road cuts over to the hayride. Now, he’s not badly hurt, but he is banged up a bit. A passing motorist took him to the Haunted Hayride, and the manager there called me and asked if I would notify you.”
“The hayride? That’s all the way the hell out—”
The mayor’s voice cut him off smoothly. “I know it’s a bit of a haul, Mr. Wingate, but as the boy’s health and welfare are involved, I’m sure you would want to go pick him up.”
Vic’s eyes were narrowed. The phone call had a weird, fishy smell to it, but there was nowhere to go with it except to agree. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever. I’ll go fetch him.”
“Thank you, Mr. Win—”
Vic hung up on him and stood for a moment, arms folded, lips pursed, staring at the phone. A trucker, he thought. A trucker running the kid off the road. He wondered if that driver had been at the wheel of a tow-truck.
He smiled slowly, believing his guess to be right. If the little punk had been run down by a tow-truck, then that would be perfect. That was what the Man had been trying to orchestrate for a while now, but Vic hadn’t known the plan was in full swing already.
He nodded and chuckled. “That’s cool.”
Then he remembered Lois waiting for him in the living room.
Definitely a hands-on kind of night , he thought as he strolled out of the kitchen.
3
“Does the mayor want you to arrest him?” Mike asked as Missy took curve after curve.
“Who—our guest psycho? Two words best express it. Hell no!” Crow shook his head. “I’m just an errand boy, and that’s all. I’m gonna go out, close down the hayride, wait for your folks to pick you up, and then I’m done with it.”
“But you’re a cop, aren’t you?”
“Kind of…well, not really. I’ve been reinstated just for tonight. Can’t have civilians doing official work.”
“You used to be one, though?”
Crow said nothing, his eyes watching the road.
“Crow? Didn’t you used to be a cop?”
“Once upon a time, young Jedi.”
“Why’d you quit?”
They drove on for almost half a mile before Crow answered that. He gave Mike a brief, searching look and then refocused on the road.
“Sometimes things don’t work out,” he said simply, then smiled. “Besides, if I was a cop, whom would you buy your comics from?”
“Probably Nick’s Comic Cave in Crestville. Or maybe at Waldenbooks in—”
“Mike…?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up when grown folks are talking.”
Mike grinned. Outside the windows the black fields whipped by, beards of corn glowing with the cold moonlight. “Do you think the chief will catch him?”
Crow was about to suggest that Gus Bernhardt couldn’t catch the clap in a whorehouse, but thought better of it. He said, “I guess he might. He has a lot of help from Philly cops. By morning there’ll be more cops in town than tourists.”
“Won’t the tourists be scared off anyway ’cause of what’s happening?”
Crow snorted. “Hardly. We’ll probably have a banner day, once this gets out. People love blood and guts as much as they do a good five-alarm fire. Draws ’em like flies to sh…uh, garbage.”
“You were going to say ‘like flies to shit.’”
“Yes, but I didn’t, and you shouldn’t either.”
“Jeez, Crow, I’m fourteen!”
“Yeah, well, there’s some that think being fourteen is the same as being a kid. Kind of a popular notion, I hear tell.”
“Yeah, well. What do you think?”
Crow looked at him, looked past the smile at the Mike Sweeney whose father was dead, whose mother was a drunk, and whose stepfather was known to beat him so bad that he missed a dozen days from school a year.
He sighed. “Not everybody grows up at the same speed, I guess.”
Mike grunted.
“I still don’t want to hear you use bad language regardless.”
Mike smiled. “Okay, boss.”
“Okay then.” They looked at each other and grinned. Crow said, “How’re the ribs?”
“They hurt like a son of a bitch,” Mike said. Crow goggled at him, and then they both burst out laughing. Mike laughed, winced, and kept on laughing, clapping a hand to his aching side.
“You juvenile delinquent!” Crow gasped.
A half mile later they passed a massive billboard painted with witches and goblins and leering black cats. Written in dripping black and red letters it proclaimed:
PINE DEEP HAUNTED HAYRIDE
Biggest in the East Coast
5 miles
WE’LL SCARE YOU SILLY !
They drove on.
Chapter 11
1
Terry drank the last of the reheated coffee, oblivious of its appalling taste, and set the cup down on Ginny’s desk. The Xanax was kicking in and he felt a little of the tension seep out of his muscles. Ginny quickly picked up the cup, put a pink Post-It sheet under it as a coaster, and set it down again. The mayor folded his arms, hiked one half of his rump onto the edge of her desk, and looked hard and long at Gus Bernhardt. “So, here we are.”
“Yeah,” Gus said. “Fine kettle of frigging fish.”
“Language, language,” Ginny said sotto voce.
“Frigging’s not a curse, you silly bitch,” Gus muttered under his breath as he went back to staring at the huge aerial-survey map of the town and its close neighbors covering the entire wall above Ginny’s desk.
Across the room Sergeant Ferro and Detective LaMastra were standing, heads together in conversation with officers from the first wave of Philadelphia cops. Every once in a while, LaMastra would look over at Terry and raise his eyebrows by way of sympathetic acknowledgment.
Terry glanced at the clock. It was just past ten, two and a half hours since he’d gotten the call at Crow’s shop. Most of that time had been spent laboriously trying to explain the peculiar geography of Pine Deep to the pinch-hitting cops. Geographically speaking, Pine Deep was an island, bordered completely by running streams of water: Pine River along the west and its estuary, Black Creek to the south, and then the thin and wandering northern line of the Crescent Canal and the broad Delaware River to the east. Between Black Marsh and the outlying houses of Pine Deep, A-32 rose up into a series of foothills and wannabe-mountains, taking gymnastic turns around sheer cliffs and doing roller-coaster rises and dips past the vast Pine Deep State Forest from which the town borrowed its name. The forest surrounded the farmlands and thrust tentative fingers back toward A-32 every few miles so that the long protrusions formed borders between some of the larger farms. The main body of the forest lay solidly westward, and sprawled as far over as Newton’s Reach, a tourist attraction town preserved intact from Colonial times, right down to the working blacksmith’s shop and the tours conducted by high school seniors wearing tricorns and three-button breeches.
