The road behind him was becoming a steady line of headlights and taillights with no way to identify one car from another. One of them was surely going to be the police car.

The exercise of walking warmed him marginally and he quickened his pace.

The cruiser came back and prowled the road again, but by the time Eddie’s searchlight washed across the Haunted Hayride sign Mike was more than a mile away, lost in darkness and distance, heading away from the road.

With every step the boy drew closer to Dark Hollow.

Chapter 25

Mischief Night—October 30

1

“They’re here,” Val said, and Crow looked up from the menu as two tall men were ushered into the dining room by Erin, the wife of the restaurant’s owner. She brought them to the table, gave the detectives menus, and took orders for coffee—decaf for Ferro, espresso for his partner, Vince LaMastra.

Ferro looked like a younger, less good-humored Morgan Freeman and had an undertaker’s dour face and the hard shark’s eyes of a long-time cop. LaMastra looked every bit the ex-college football player he was, with broad shoulders, blond hair that was cut high and tight, and an out-of-season tan. Crow remembered LaMastra as a jokester, always smiling, but right now he looked as serious as his partner.

“Are we eating and talking, or just talking?” Ferro asked.

“I’m hungry,” said LaMastra. “What’s good here?”

“Everything,” Crow said, “but I can really recommend the pizza. Best anywhere.”

“That works,” Ferro said and they ordered two pies, one with the works, one plain, both well done. The dining room was large, with grapevines painted on the walls and a wide-screen plasma TV showing Portuguese soccer. Danny, the owner, came by to shake hands with Crow and his friends, flashing everyone a brilliant smile, and left them with a big bowl of steaming baked garlic knots. Crow had ordered them with double garlic.

“Long drive up here,” Ferro said when they were alone. “Lots of traffic.”

Val leaned her forearms on the table and said, “Then let’s cut right to it.”

“Works for me,” LaMastra agreed, tearing into the garlic knots.

Ferro said, “Where’s Dr. Weinstock?”

“He had some personal business,” Crow said. “We’ll see him later,”

“Well…that remains to be seen.”

Val took a folder out of an old leather briefcase that sat on an empty chair, flipped it open, and handed Ferro the top pages. “This is the report from the State Police crime scene investigator who participated in the cleanup after Boyd killed my brother.”

Ferro hesitated a moment before taking it. “How did you get this?”

“From Saul.”

“You’re not allowed to have this, you know.”

“You can arrest me later. Read it, Frank.”

Ferro gave her a narrow stare before putting on a pair of reading glasses. “Why am I looking at this?”

“Just read it.”

He did, with LaMastra leaning sideways to read past his shoulders. Ferro started frowning first, but LaMastra caught up. “This is questionable reportage,” Ferro said.

“Yeah,” agreed LaMastra. “Says here that Boyd had a large number of healed-over injuries consistent with bullet wounds.” He looked up. “‘A large number’?”

“Interesting,” Val said, “isn’t it?”

Crow reached out and tapped a paragraph. “It also says that from initial inspection it looked like Boyd had a partially healed broken leg.”

The pizzas arrived and Crow served slices. Nobody spoke until the waitress was well out of earshot.

Ferro sprinkled hot peppers on his pizza. “Okay…so are you reporting a case of improper crime scene assessment? That’s a state matter.”

Val’s pizza sat untouched on her plate. “That’s just it, Frank. The crime scene assessment was one hundred percent accurate.”

Both detectives paused in the midst of chewing.

“What?” LaMastra said around a mouthful of pizza.

2

Vic banged on the door and waited until the padlocks inside were keyed and the chains pulled through; then he opened the door and went in, a toolbox in each hand. The white-faced figures moved back away from him as he entered, knowing not to speak unless spoken to. One of Vic’s house rules, especially in this house.

Griswold’s house was gloomy and dark, but over the years Vic’s night vision had improved, and besides no one knew this house better than he did. Long before Griswold had awakened from his long sleep, long before the Red Wave had even been conceived, he’d walked here.

He set the toolboxes down and looked around, feeling the energy of the place. It was here where Vic went after he’d orchestrated the murder of Oren Morse. That had been such a terrible, terrible night. As soon as Vic saw Morse he knew that Griswold had to be dead, that the nigger had killed him. Even now, thirty years later that thought filled him with crimson rage. Once that black bastard had paid for that murder and been nailed to the scarecrow post, Vic had come down here to the house in the Hollow, had opened this very door, and then gone inside. All that night he had lain curled in a fetal ball of pain at the foot of Griswold’s bed, weeping and lost, torn to pieces by Griswold’s death.

None of the other men had come with him. Not even Polk or Jimmy Crow. Like the apostles after the arrest of Christ they’d lost faith and fled, and only Vic had come to his master’s house. Alone there in the wretched darkness of that first night he had prayed for hours—not to God, because that would be an insult to the Man—but to darker, less defined powers. Had Vic known at the time where Morse had buried Griswold’s body he would have dug him up, washed and dressed him in the old Reichsleader uniform—his favorite, Griswold told him many times, of all the many uniforms he’d worn over the years. Then he would have buried him properly, with the correct rites read over him so that his return would have been assured, and so it would have been much faster. By the time he learned where Griswold was actually buried it was both too late and no longer the right thing to do. Funny how that worked out.

As it was years passed before the Man awoke, and that sweet night seventeen years ago when that glorious voice first spoke in his head was Vic’s most precious memory. The very first word the Man spoke after those years of nothingness was “Vic.”

Calling him, calling the one who always loved him, who always believed in him.

So much had happened since then. Vic moved through the living room, ignoring the pale-faced figures that moved aside to let him pass. Avoiding certain spots—tripwires and hidden floor triggers that he’d installed himself—Vic went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out a beer. There was no electricity in the house, but blocks of ice kept his beer cold. He twisted off the top and dropped it into a trash can. Vic never littered, especially here.

He fired up a small Coleman lantern and turned it up to medium and set it on the table. Drinking his beer, Vic looked around at the walls, the paintings of Hitler and other great thinkers of the twentieth century. Vic felt a stirring in his heart and in his loins. He’d have to make sure those paintings were removed, sent to one of his storage units.

He sensed someone behind him and turned. Dave Golub was there, a big moonfaced hulk of a kid who had always been something of a clumsy goof, but Vic hadn’t heard him approach. They were all like that. Ghost-footed. Vic just gave him an uptick of his chin.

“Karl said you wanted a count.” He handed over a sheet of paper that showed the location of every nest in town. Beside each location there was a number, and a tally at the bottom of the page.

“That’s everyone?”

“Yes, sir. Less about ten of the Dead Heads that Karl wanted put down. Ones who wouldn’t listen.”

Vic frowned. “Still a lot of mouths to feed.”

Golub stared at him for a moment, perplexed, then when he realized that Vic had made a joke he laughed. It was a bad fake of a laugh, but it showed respect and Vic appreciated the gesture.

“You and McVey all set to handle the candy?”

“Sure. We have about eight guys with us. None of the ones with too much teeth. Guys like me and Shanahan who can blend in.”

“No Dead Heads either.”

“Oh, no sir. The ones who are still left are locked up.”

“Any word on Mike?”

“No. I had everyone out looking last night, and those guys who can take sunlight are still out there. Nobody’s seen him.” Golub paused. “Is that going to be okay for us? If we don’t find him, I mean?”

Vic sucked on the mouth of the beer bottle. “Let’s just say it’d be better for all of us if we found him.”

He dismissed Golub with a curt nod and sipped his beer. His face still hurt from Mike’s lucky punches. Little bastard. God, how he wished he could just do what he wanted to do to that kid and have done with it. Two or three hours and some power tools would be a nice way to punch his ticket. Make him pay for the hurt and the humiliation. Yeah, that would be sweet. That’d take the sting out.

He sat down at the kitchen table and took out his notebook. Tomorrow was Halloween. Even though he’d worked so hard for all these years to bring the Plan to this point, it was hard to believe that it was all ready to launch. Tonight he’d set the dynamite and wire the radio detonators. The boxes of candy would be distributed all throughout the town, and a few in the neighboring towns of Crestville and Black Marsh. Spreading joy, Vic thought.

The candy was not precisely part of the Plan, but Vic had put it into play as a backup. The Plan was complicated and something could go wrong. If the Plan failed, or if any part of it misfired and the authorities came in before the Man rose, then the candy would be part of a cover story. And even if the Plan worked according to the Man’s vision and intention, it would be useful to muddy the waters for a while, at least until the Red Wave took hold and started sweeping toward both coasts. Ultra-high doses of hallucinogens were in the candy, more would be dumped into the town’s water supply, and at least a quarter of all the bottled water that would be sold to tourists was spiked with LSD or haloperidol.