2

“The mayor is in a meeting right now, may I take a message?”

“Ginny, it’s me. Crow.”

“Oh, hi, how are you?”

“I’m fine, I…”

“My God, do you know about all the stuff that’s happening around here?” Ginny asked in a low and conspiratorial voice.

“Some of it. Look, I’m calling from my cell and I don’t have much time. Reception sucks out here. I need to speak to Terry.”

“Oh, gee, Crow, like I said he’s in a meeting.” For effect she added, “With Philadelphia narcotics detectives,” as if they were something akin to angels with burning swords.

“I know that. It’s about that stuff that I’m calling. Or might be, anyway. Can you tell him I’m on the phone?”

“Oh, I don’t know—”

“Ginny, Terry deputized me tonight, so you can consider this official business.”

“You’re back with the department?”

“More or less. Look, Ginny, just get him for me, will you?”

Ginny thought about it for another exasperating few seconds, and then said, “Okay, Crow. I’ll just do that.”

“Thanks,” Crow said, and as soon as she put him on hold, he said, “Hallelujah.” Crow had never liked Ginny Welsh, though she never knew it. Ginny acted as if being the receptionist-​cum-​dispatcher-​cum-​secretary put her at the very heart of regional law enforcement.

While he waited, Crow looked over at Mike Sweeney, who sat in the passenger seat of his car. The boy’s bike was stowed in the trunk, the trunk’s hood held down with bungee cords. The kid looked very small and young as he sat there, and it made Crow feel really bad for him. Mike Sweeney, or Iron Mike as Crow had nicknamed him last year, was one of those bright but lonely kids with so much imagination that it almost, but not quite, made up for the fact that he had few friends. It was easy to see that the kid was on a totally different intellectual plane than his age-​group peers, and whereas intellectuality would probably see him in good stead among the adult community of Pine Deep in later years, it was quickly turning him into an embittered loner as a teenager. Crow also knew that Mike’s home life was a little rough, and that was something he could relate to.

Mike saw him looking and offered a smile.

Iron Mike was a regular customer at the Crow’s Nest, converting his hard-​earned newspaper route money into model kits, comics, and copies of Fangoria. The kid knew almost as much about classic horror films as Crow did, but was the master by far when it came to science fiction. Crow was introspective enough to know that the nature of his own store, as well as his extensive readings of horror fiction and folklore, was part of his personal escape route. To make a monster look less scary, shine a bright light on him—you get to see the zippers and spirit gum and latex. That—and the bottle—had been Crow’s way of not dealing with the events of the Black Harvest, and he was fully aware of that fact. His dissociation was entirely deliberate.

It appeared to him, though, that Mike on the other hand walked a very fine line between reality and fantasy and was far less aware of it. Crow knew that Mike called his bike the War Machine, and that he often drifted away in thought, visiting who knew what kind of interior landscape. Crow wondered if he would grow out of the fantasies, or would grow strong enough to confront them. Therapy rather than sour mash.

Crow knew Vic Wingate very well. Vic was older than Crow and had been a legend in Pine Deep for decades. He was known as a hitter. Totally fearless in a bar fight and just as tough as he thought he was, but a world-​class asshole nonetheless. More than once Crow had seen Mike walking with that stiffness that only comes from a leather belt wielded with enthusiasm. It made Crow sick and furious, but also frustrated because there wasn’t anything he could do about it, as he knew from personal experience. His own dad had a hard hand and used it way too often. In his heart, Crow would love to invite Vic to step behind the proverbial woodshed and dance him a bit. Crow wasn’t entirely sure he could take Vic, but he would love to try. The problem there was that Vic was tight with Gus Bernhardt and Jim Polk, and he was too smart to accept a private challenge. Anyone who went up against Vic, or tried to sucker punch him, wound up first in the hospital and then in jail, or in court. Vic was as cunning as he was vicious.

So, not being able to do anything about the problem, Crow tried to tackle at least one of the symptoms and had befriended Mike, treating him like a real person, which was the case anyway, and once in a while trying to work into conversation some of the values Crow himself found useful in life. He had even shown Mike a few jujitsu moves, hoping the kid would get hooked on martial arts the way he had. It had helped Crow stand up to his own abusive father—maybe it would help Mike do the same. Predators generally don’t like prey that shows its own claws and teeth.

The kid was looking at him through the window, no longer smiling. Crow shrugged elaborately and pointed at the phone. Mike nodded. Crow had stepped out of the car to make the call, not wanting the boy to hear about the manhunt. The kid looked like he’d been through enough already.

“Crow?” Terry’s voice came over the phone with no warning, making Crow jump.

“Terry? Yeah.”

“Oh man, Crow, tell me nothing happened at the hayride.”

“Huh? Oh no, I haven’t gotten there yet.”

There was a brief silence on the line; then in a controlled voice, Terry said, “You, ah, haven’t even gotten there yet? I see.”

“No, you don’t. I’m not dodging it, it’s just that something else came up.”

Another silence. “Something ‘else’ came up? Crow,” Terry said, “you do remember we have a crisis going on around here?”

Crow walked another couple of paces from the car. “I have Mike Sweeney with me.”

“Who, may I ask, is Mike Sweeney?”

“Kid who delivers the paper.”

“Okay. And you’re what—learning his route?”

“No. Actually I almost ran him over. Don’t panic, it was just by accident, though…I wasn’t aiming for him.”

“I should hope not.”

“But someone else tried to do it intentionally.” Silence. Crow said, “Terry?”

There was a sigh at the other end of the line. “Tell me that again. Someone else tried to…”

“…Run him over, yeah. The kid was pedaling along A-32 when this tow-​truck comes zooming down the road and tries to run him over.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Crow, the guy probably didn’t see him. Kid on a bike out on the highway. Like I said, the trucker probably never saw him. You just said you almost did the same thing.”

“Kid says that the tow-​truck went out of its way to chase him down. The kid was in the oncoming lane, crowding the shoulder, and the truck swerved into the lane and accelerated toward him.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I believe he’s telling the truth, Terry.” For just a moment Crow thought about the incident from a different perspective. Mike’s stepfather was Vic Wingate, who was widely believed to be physically abusive to the kid; and Vic worked for Shanahan’s Garage, and Shanahan owned a tow-​truck. Could it have been Vic behind the wheel? He thought about that for a second and then dismissed it as fanciful.

“Crow, we really do have more important fish to fry than some trucker, probably drunk, who may or may not have even seen the kid. I mean, really.”

“Kid got hurt.”

A pause. “Hurt? How bad? Do you need an ambulance?”

“No, nothing like that. Busted rib or two, some bruises. Got a bit of a knock on the head, though. I think he should go to the emergency room. At least have a doctor look at the rib and his head.”

“Where are you now?”

“On A-32, on the service pull-​off near Shandy’s Curve. I can’t lug the kid all the way to the hayride with me, though, and if I take him over to the hospital, I won’t get to the hayride until well after eleven.”

“That’s too late.”

“Uh-​huh.”

“Can’t you call his folks? Have them pick him up at the hayride?”

“Mm. I guess so….”

“Try it.”

“Maybe. Guess who is stepdad is? Vic Wingate.”

There was a thick silence on the line. “Oh. Great.”

“Uh-​huh.” Everyone in town knew Vic Wingate. Those who weren’t downright afraid of him merely loathed him. “Because of the accident, the kid’s really late. Vic has this thing about being home on time….”

“Vic’ll probably give the kid a hiding for having the temerity to have his ribs broken.”

“That would be my call,” Crow agreed.

“So, what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to call him, actually. Tell him that Mike was run down by a reckless driver and is going to be needed as a material witness.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can.”

“We’ll never find whoever tried to run him down. The kid’ll never be called as a witness, you know that.”

“Sure. I know it, and you know it, but Vic Wingate doesn’t know it. But if he thinks that the cops are going to want to talk to Mike occasionally, he might be a little less likely to slap the kid around. At least for a little while.”

“I just don’t know….”

“Oh, come on, Terry. You’re a politician, lie to the man. It’s no skin off your nose, and it might keep the kid from having some of his skin belted off.”

“Oh…okay, okay. Whatever. Darn it, Crow, one of these days all that spillage from your bleeding heart is going to drown you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’ll make the call or not?”

“Yeah, I’ll make the call, but listen, Crow, you get your behind out to that hayride. We’ve got to get those kids out of there. The smelly stuff is really flying around here tonight.”