“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.
Chapter 9
(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?”