Ghost Road Blues (Pine Deep 1)

“What about farm hands? You can’t work this big old place by yourselves. ”

“We have a few regular hands, and we have some day labor come in. ”

“Wetbacks?”

“Some migrant workers, a few local boys. ”

“Any of them getting any from Val over there?”

Guthrie ground his teeth and tried to find some kind of answer that would not result in a beating or a bullet, but Karl waved the question away. “Forget it. Trick question. What I meant to say, is there anyone else who’s likely to come sniffing around after her tonight?”

Val tensed, her fingers digging in to her father’s skin. “No,” she heard her dad say.

“What, no boyfriends?” Ruger asked Val.

“He lives in town,” said Connie, and then clapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes growing as wide as saucers as she realized she had spoken out of turn. With a weary sigh, Karl stood up and walked over to her.

“No, please don’t!” Guthrie said.

“Let her alone!” pleaded Val.

Ruger looked at them for a moment, considering. “She broke the rules. Loss of points. What can I do?”

“She’s just scared. She didn’t mean anything,” Val protested, half rising.

Ruger swung the gun around so fast it became a silvery blur. The edge of the barrel caught Val across the forehead just below the hairline and knocked her back against the armrest. Her father began lunging at Ruger, but the man was so frighteningly quick; Ruger twisted and drove his gun-?hand elbow into Guthrie’s solar plexus as the old man struggled to stand. All the air and fight went out of Guthrie, and he collapsed against the dazed and bleeding Val. The two of them huddled in a bloody and motionless heap.

Ruger gave a world-?weary sigh. “I can see this is going to be a long night after all, folks. Oh well, shit happens, huh?” As his irrepressible smile crept back onto his lips, he turned to Connie, who was so terrified that she was not even breathing. Both of her hands beat the air in front her, warding off imagined blows. Ruger bent down toward her and batted her hands out of the way. Connie squeezed her eyes shut and turned as far away as she could, her whole face twisted in expectation of the pain. Ruger kept leaning forward until his lips were only a couple of inches away from her face. He did not touch her, not so much as a hair on her head. Instead, he said in a sharp voice: “Boo!”

Connie screamed and fainted.

Chapter 10

1

Tow-?Truck Eddie moved through the rooms of his house as if he were exploring a marvelous new country. Everything he looked at appeared fresh and mysterious and wonderful. He stood for a time in the dining room, listening to the old grandfather clock ticking out the seconds of his new existence, and he realized that with each passing moment new universes were being created and old suns were dying glorious deaths. All for him.

In the kitchen, he took tomatoes and crushed them in his strong fingers, and understood the message that they had always tried to tell him about the truths hidden in living blood; how could he have missed the meaning of this parable for so long? He licked the pulp from his hands and marveled in the taste, so like blood.

Upstairs in his bedroom, he picked up a five-?pound plate from his weight set and pressed the flat side of it against his cheek, delighting in the coolness and roughness of the hard black iron.

Down in the laundry room, he stripped out of his soiled clothes and crammed them into his tiny washing machine. He poured a precise capful of Wisk over them and washed them in cold water. Naked, he inspected his body, astounded at the fineness of his skin, at the textural differences between the flesh of his stomach and that on the inside of each wrist; at the difference in sensation between the cool air of the cellar on his thighs and on his face. He inspected his flaccid penis and wondered what kind of seed it would dispense, now that he had become a true son of God. Would his children share his power? Would the act of inseminating a woman likewise bestow grace on her? The thought made his penis jump, begin to swell, but he forced those thoughts away. They were not proper for this moment; they were thoughts from before, and he would allow them only at the proper time, and with the proper ceremony, but not in the squalid laundry room of his house.

Still naked, he ran up the stairs, and the exertion felt so good he ran up and down the stairs twenty-?five times. Sweat flowed from his pores and coated him with a fine sheen. When he walked into the living room and stood before the mirror, he saw how the sweat helped define each of his muscles. He turned this way and that, flexing his arms and chest, swelling his lats, flexing the bulky quadriceps and abdominals. Even with all the thousands of hours he had spent with weights, he had never fully realized just how perfect his body had become, especially for a man of his age. He looked thirty rather than fifty. His body was more superb than any Greek statue: each muscle rippling like bundles of bridge cable beneath the firm tautness of his skin. From the broad expanse of the pectoralis major to the tapering peroneus brevis he stood as a model of metahuman perfection, and a whole hour passed before he could tear himself away from his own image. What a perfect vessel, he thought. What a perfect temple for the Holy Spirit.

He wished that he could somehow clone himself so that he could always be able to look at that body, maybe even to hold it, kiss it, make reverent love to it.

What would it feel like, he wondered, to make love to one’s own body? Surely it must be the most perfect love anyone could ever experience.

Walking back and forth through the house, he watched the clock tick toward ten o’clock. He had been home for nearly an hour and a half, and still the level of energetic excitement hadn’t abated even one iota.

He laughed out loud, full of a pure delight, and turned a graceful pirouette in the middle of the living room.

2

Vic Wingate was turning the crank of his antique printer; yellow handbills zipped out from under the roller and settled down into the tray. A haze of blue cigarette smoke tinted the air of the cellar. It fascinated him to watch the blank sheets of paper go in one end of the roller and pop out of the other a second later fi

lled with words and pictures. Even though it was a lot of work to do it this way, and though he could have done it far easier and much faster on his computer, Vic preferred the ink and the mess and the feel of doing it by hand.