“Sir, let me—”

“And now the big, bad Cape May Killer—who was brought to ground by a man I reinstated as a police officer and not by your storm troopers—has gone missing from the morgue, and his psycho cohort is shooting at my constituents. Is this some plot to make my life a personal hell? Doesn’t the world of law enforcement like small tourist towns? Tell me, Sergeant Ferro, just what is it that we did to deserve all this crap?”

Ferro said nothing, allowing a little time for the words to cease their emotional echoes. Before he could speak, LaMastra said, “There now, do you feel better?”

Terry wheeled on him. “You know, I’m beginning to get a little weary of your smart-ass remarks.”

Holding up his hands, LaMastra said, “Whoa! Sorry, Mr. Mayor, I was just trying to lighten the mood.”

Terry rubbed his palms over his face as he sank back into his chair, and his hands somewhat muffled his voice. “About the only thing that could even begin to lighten my mood, Detective, would be the news this insanity is over.”

“Well, sir,” said Ferro after clearing his throat. “It appears that you are going to get your wish.”

It took Terry three or four seconds to absorb that and for a moment he looked almost comical as he peered at them from between his opened palms. “What?”

Nodding, Ferro said, “We are going to be pulling out very soon, possibly as early as tomorrow.”

“But…but…”

“Let me explain, sir,” said Ferro. “While it’s true that Boyd took a couple of shots at Mr. Carby, we have been able to gather reliable evidence to suggest that Boyd has since left town. Since this afternoon he has been spotted by three different eyewitness—in Black Marsh.”

If he was expecting the mayor to jump for joy, Ferro was disappointed. Terry sucked his teeth for a moment as he sat with his head cocked. “Big deal. You told me the other day, too. Same thing, eyewitnesses and all. Didn’t amount to much, though, did it? Boyd came back to Pine Deep, slaughtered two police officers, and stole a body from the morgue. Maybe you haven’t checked a map lately, Detective Ferro, but Black Marsh is only right across a short bridge. People go back and forth across it every goddamn day!”

Ferro flinched as Terry hammered home the last few words. He gave himself a moment, and then said, “Yes, sir, that’s very true. However, the three reports were all by reliable witnesses, so we know that—for better or worse—he is there. Since those reports we’ve had roadblocks at every bridge. We’ve already sent the bulk of the task force over to New Jersey and they are following several promising leads. Boyd was last seen climbing into the back of a pickup truck that was pulling out of a diner on A-32 near Wilson Mills Road south of Lambertville. We ran the plates and the truck was eventually located in a Pep Boys parking lot in Trenton. Driver said that he had no idea anyone had climbed into the back of his truck—he was playing his radio loud and didn’t hear anything. He checks out, and we believe him. Boyd left dirty fingerprints all over the truck bed. Unfortunately, Boyd was no longer in the truck when it was located, so we have no way of knowing how far he traveled before climbing out again, but it’s clear he’s heading away from here.”

“Best guess,” LaMastra said, “is that Boyd’s trying to make it to New York. We know from his jacket that he’s well connected there.”

“Still, no matter what his destination,” said Ferro, “the bottom line is that there are no bad guys in your town anymore. Two are dead, one is elsewhere, and therefore, Mr. Mayor, this ball game is about over. Chief Bernhardt will be following up on the investigation of who might have let Boyd into the hospital, but that’s far less important at this point.”

Terry stared at them both for a long time, hardly breathing, processing what he had just heard, then he exhaled so long and thoroughly that he seemed to deflate. He leaned his head back and stared upward at the ceiling for nearly thirty seconds. Ferro and LaMastra exchanged a look; LaMastra shrugged.

“What about Ruger’s body?” Terry asked.

“I doubt he took it with him, so we can only assume he wanted to bury it for some reason known only to himself. One theory is that Ruger may have hidden the money and cocaine and Boyd thought he could find some record of it on Ruger’s person, a note or a lockbox key. Another theory is that he may have thought Ruger might have had some useful papers on him.”

“Or, Boyd could just be a total nutcase,” LaMastra said.

Ferro nodded. “From his recent actions it seems clear that Boyd is mentally unstable, so I don’t really want to speculate on why he would want to do this, but there was no evidence that he took the body with him when he left Pine Deep. He just left.”

“Well,” Terry said, “then that means you guys really are done here. What else remains to be done?”

LaMastra shrugged. “We have to tidy up all the jurisdictional paperwork, check to make sure we have all the physical evidence we need, call in the troops, that sort of thing.”

“What about the missing money and cocaine?”

Ferro spread his hands. “Chief Bernhardt will conduct a search and contact us if he finds anything. If he needs backup he can contact the state police. Ruger and Boyd must had hidden the stuff somewhere near the Guthrie farm, or maybe in the state forest, so it’ll probably turn up sooner or later. Since your busy season is here, the chief’s going to keep the reactivated officers on for now, so there will still be extra eyes open until the money and drugs are found, and until the media circus hauls down its tents and leaves town, which I assume will be in waves. The Cape May story is still newsworthy so some reporters will linger until they’ve interviewed everyone even remotely associated with the incidents here. Eventually they’ll all be gone to cover other stuff and you’ll have your town all to yourself. Despite everything, Mr. Mayor, all of this hullabaloo may actually help bring in tourist dollars, now that the real danger is over.”

The mayor sat there and steepled his fingers. A number of expressions came and went across his haggard face, but he said nothing for such a long time that LaMastra started fidgeting. Abruptly Terry slapped his thighs with both hands, stood up quickly, and said, “Gentlemen, I can’t say it has been a pleasure, but I do thank you for all you’ve done. Please feel free to visit again anytime you want to buy some pumpkins, watch a Halloween parade, or take a trip on the Haunted Hayride. Just don’t bring any more serial killers to my town, okay?”

Rising, Ferro gave him a wan smile. “We’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Mayor.”

They shook hands, but there was no warmth in it.

(3)

Tow-Truck Eddie’s wrecker glided along in the line of cars waiting to make the turn at the stop sign. He was three cars away from rolling right abreast of the big display window of the Crow’s Nest, and within his mind the voice of God did not speak in words but instead pulsed with an almost sexual rhythm, though Eddie did not relate the sensation to anything sexual. Instead he felt that incessant pounding in his brain and took it for the heartbeat of his own godly inner self, his Christ self, as it rose in a different kind of ecstasy—as it prepared for the slaughter of the Beast. The Christ about to confront and conquer the Antichrist.

Another car turned and he moved forward. He could see the window clearly enough, filled with tombstones and severed limbs, draped with cobwebs and hung with bats and spiders. Eddie’s lip curled in disgust at the pagan display. Such things will fall and the sinners be brought to understanding through blood and the Sword of the Lamb. Soon enough. A pickup truck made the turn and Eddie was now almost abreast of the store. He could see two figures moving around but there was sun glare on the glass and he couldn’t make out the features. Then the last car in line made the turn and Eddie moved forward again and turned full in his seat to stare. The angle was better and there was no glare so he could see that the figure on the left was definitely Malcolm Crow. He flicked his eyes to the other, certain that it had to the Beast in his disguise as a human boy. He squinted, picking out details. He could see that the figure wore jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. That it was not a large figure—about Crow’s size, who was short—but the face was indistinct. He shielded his eyes, leaned forward, even cupped his hands around his eyes to shield them from any sun glare. The clothes were clear enough but the face remained blurred, like a photograph when someone has turned their head at just the wrong moment. Eddie stared and stared and then behind him a whole row of cars began nailing their horns. Eddie jumped, frustrated and angry, and took his foot off the gas, but even as the truck moved forward and again the angle of light on the glass changed to an even clearer view, the face of the second figure in the store remained blurred.

Doubt sewed threads through his heart and he turned and drove away. In his head the urgent guttural chant had stopped completely and when he spoke to God, there was no answer. Frowning, Tow-Truck Eddie made the turn and headed out of town.

When the wrecker was gone, the Bone Man stepped from in front of the window and nearly collapsed, his hands falling away from the strings of his guitar. Perhaps if he had more substance, gravity would have grabbed him and dragged him down against the ground outside the Crow’s Nest. Even so, a wave of sick exhaustion flooded through him. He tried to throw up, but he was empty, just a shell, and he didn’t even have the benefit of that release. He was thoroughly drained. Since last night, when he had played his guitar in the night to try and soothe the terrible dreams that were spreading like a plague throughout the town, he had been weak. That alone had cost him, and all day he had tried to husband what little strength was left to him, to conserve what few powers he possessed. This last act of standing between the boy and the eye of the killer in the truck made him feel as if there was nothing left. He felt less substantial than a fleeting hope.

Yet there was still a faintness of a smile on his gray lips. The wrecker had moved on. The driver had not seen the boy. Somehow the act of playing his songs while standing in the way—in harm’s way for sure—had turned the killer’s eye. Maybe turned Griswold’s eye as well. God, he thought, please let it be so. Please throw me at least that much of a bone.