Crow screamed and staggered back, cupping his testicles, yet backpedaling to give himself room.
Ruger got to his feet, covered in mud like a golem, and he smiled with muddy teeth. “I’m going to fuck you up so bad they’ll have to bury you in installments. ”
“Talk is cheap, dickhead,” Crow wheezed. His groin felt as if it were on fire.
Ruger hurled a handful of mud at Crow’s face, and followed it with another rush.
Crow was not as hurt as he pretended. A strike to the groin, even a hard one, does little actual damage. It’s just pain, and it is the pain that stops most people, but some people don’t care as much about pain. They know it, they’re used to it; it may not be an old friend, but it is an old companion. Crow was long acquainted with pain, even the pain of a hard punch in the balls. It hurt him, but hurt can be dealt with.
He waited in his half crouch, looking done-?in, letting Ruger close the distance, letting Ruger provide the force.
Then he slid in between Ruger’s reaching arms and turned half away, catching one of his arms with one hand, and cupping the back of his neck with the other and then pivoted his body as fast as he could. Ruger’s force, plus the speed and arc of the turn, plucked Ruger right off the ground and sent him flying right into the driver’s door of the big brown Impala. The back of Ruger’s head slammed into it and he rebounded with a grunt, leaving a deep dent in Missy’s door. He slid down to the ground shaking his head, tried to get to his feet, and fell back again against the door, head lolling.
Crow stepped forward and grabbed him by the hair, hauled him ten inches away from the car so he could look at the man’s face, snarled in disgust, and then literally threw him backward into the same dented spot on the fender, ringing his skull off the crumpled metal. Ruger sagged bonelessly to the ground by the tire and lay there in the rain, blood running from his scalp.
Crow looked down at him, watching for signs of trickery. Ruger didn’t flicker so much as an eyelash. Just to be sure, and because his battered face was really starting to hurt like a bastard—and because the dread of this man still turned an icy knife of terror in Crow’s guts—Crow kicked him in the mouth and shattered all of the man’s front teeth.
Ruger fell over sideways, face forward into the mud.
Crow stood there, swaying, feeling his knees wanting to buckle. Fireworks were going off at the corners of his vision and there was something wrong with his head—it felt as if it had been badly broken and poorly taped back together. He wanted to vomit, or collapse. Instead, gasping, holding one hand to his streaming nose, he turned and slogged through the rain and the mud to Val. He swooped down on her, gathering her in his arms, aware of her hurt, her dangling arm, her bruised face, but needing to feel her solidity, her realness in his arms. He showered kisses on her mud-?streaked face, kissed her hair and her eyes. She was crying with big, painful sobs, and each one stabbed into Crow as surely as a needle.
“Baby, baby, baby,” murmured. “What happened here? What did he do to you? My sweet baby…”
Her voice was a strained croak, the vocal cords bruised beyond normal speech. She was still half conscious, swimming on the edge of a big waterfall that wanted to take her over and down into the blackness.
Somewhere, half drowned by rain, the wail of police sirens could be heard, coming, coming…The sirens made her remember.
“Daddy!” she cried. “Oh my God, Crow…Daddy’s out there!”
“What? Where?”
“In the cornfield. He needs help. I tried to help him, but I couldn’t, Crow, I couldn’t…” she rambled, hysterical, almost inarticulate with trauma. It was all catching up to her now, overwhelming her. The iron determination that had kept her steady earlier was crumbling now as grief and injury took hold.
“Val,” Crow said sharply, trying to steady her. “What about your dad? What’s wrong with him? Where is he? What the hell happened here?”
The sirens were louder, closer.
“In the cornfield. We were helping the hurt man. We tried to run. I heard a shot. Daddy…he…”
“Jesus Christ! Did that son of a bitch shoot your father? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“I tried to help him. I did. But I couldn’t…my arm…I just couldn’t. ”
“Shh, shh,” he soothed. “It’ll be okay. Just tell me where he is. I’ll go get him. And see? See there? Cops. There are cops coming. They’ll help, too. ”
“Help?” she asked in a little girl voice that broke Crow’s heart.
“Yes, baby, they’ll help. Now tell me where your dad is. Tell me so I can go help him. ”
The police cars screeched as they slid to a halt outside the front of the house, siren
s dying away, but the lights swirling red in the storm. Crow could hear doors opening and slamming. He turned and in as loud a voice as he could manage, he yelled, “Hey! Back here! We need help!”
The sloshy sound of footsteps drew near, and Crow could see flashlight beams dancing. Two officers, still silhouetted behind the lights, came racing toward them, guns drawn.
“Mr. Guthrie?” one of them called.
“No, it’s me. Malcolm Crow. And Valerie Guthrie. Call for an ambulance, she’s hurt. ”