Ghost Road Blues (Pine Deep 1)

His revelation about Vic’s humanity was still with him, but as the aches and pains asserted themselves more with each hour since the beating, the wonder and delight of the epiphany diminished somewhat in grandeur. Yes, he’d outlast Vic. Sure, but how many beatings would there be between then and now?

Mike wasn’t sure how many more beatings like that he could take. There was no part of him that wasn’t sore or swollen. He had ice packs pressed against his mouth and cheeks. When he’d gone to the bathroom his pee had been bloody, which really scared him.

He could outlast Vic if he wanted to, but would he want to live through the years between now and then? Mike really wasn’t sure.

On the other hand…

The one thing that kept Mike from sliding right over the edge was what had happened at the end of the beating. The look in Vic’s face. It had only been there for a split second, but it had been there. Mike could not understand it, but for that second Vic had looked scared. Of him.

But—why? It made no sense. Vic had been in total charge. He’d beaten Mike to a pulp and Mike hadn’t been able to do so much as block a punch. It had all been Vic.

So, why had he stepped back like that at the end? What had happened? What had he seen, or had he thought he’d seen? Mike remembered smiling, but it had been involuntary. He had no idea why he had even done it.

And yet…it had stopped Vic cold.

Why?

With a hiss of pain he made himself sit up. He needed to get out of the house, to be out in the sunlight, to be away from here. He tottered into the bathroom to pee, and it was still coming out more red than yellow. Maybe I’ll get blood poisoning and die, he thought, and the idea comforted him. He opened the medicine chest and took down the oversized bottle of Advil. He went through a bottle that size every month. Mike shook four of the blue gelcaps into his palm, slapped them past his bruised lips, and washed them down with two glasses of water.

It took him a long time to put on a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers. His ribs hurt, but not nearly as much as his face. When he looked in the mirror to comb his hair, the only thing he recognized were the blue eyes staring hopelessly out of the mask of purple and red. The eye that had puffed up last night had settled down now, thanks to ice packs, but there was a splash of yellow and dark brown bruising ringing both eyes.

He lowered his head. Vic’s face swam before his inner eye and he thought some of the blackest thoughts he owned. He wished he had a gun.

The image of Vic’s locked gun case popped into his head and he spent several minutes considering his options. Breaking into that case wouldn’t be difficult, not as long as it didn’t matter if Vic found out. Only stealth was difficult, but to smash the glass and take a hammer to the locks…that would be easy. Mike had never shot a gun, but TV was a pretty good teacher, and he figured he could load one, find the safety, point it, and shoot.

The question was—who would he shoot? Would he blow Vic’s head off his shoulders, or his own? Both options held a lot of appeal to him.

Real serious appeal.

He walked downstairs carefully and quietly, not wanting to be heard. He was pretty sure Vic was still at work, but he did sometimes come home for lunch. The house was quiet. Mom was asleep in front of the TV in her room, her teacup still smelling of gin and fresh lime even this early in the day. Mike was lucky: Vic was at work, and Mike hoped that a car would fall off the lift and crush him. The thought made him want to smile, but his face hurt too much to make him dare flex those pulped muscles.

As Mike fished in the closet for his nylon windbreaker, he heard the TV rattle on about some no-?fly zone somewhere in a country he never heard of. He was at the door when he heard the words “Pine Deep. ” Mike stopped in surprise and listened.

“…in Bucks County, where authorities are investigating a shoot-?out that left at least one person dead and three wounded, including two police officers. ”

Mike held his breath and strained to hear every word.

“According to Pine Deep Police Chief Gus Bernhardt, at about nine o’clock last night, an unknown assailant broke into the farmhouse of Henry Guthrie, one of the town’s most prosperous farmers, and attempted to rob Mr. Guthrie and his family. The police department has not released complete details yet, but what is known is that the intruder physically assaulted several members of the Guthrie household. When local officers arrived, the intruder opened fire. After a short but intense exchange of shots, the intruder fled, leaving behind a scene of devastation. Mr. Henry Guthrie, sixty-?four, a well-?respected member of the Pine Deep Growers Commission, was shot and killed. ”

Mike gasped, clapping one hand to his bruised lips.

“Wounded in the exchange of shots were Officers Rhoda Thomas, twenty-?six, a law student doing intern work with the Pine Deep Police Department, and Malcolm Crow, forty, a local businessman who had recently been reinstated as an officer. Ms. Thomas sustained two gunshot wounds and is listed in serious condition at County Hospital. Mr. Crow also sustained a pair of gunshot wounds, among other injuries, and is listed in stable condition. Also injured during the break-?in were Mark Guthrie, thirty-?six, son of Henry Guthrie, his wife, Connie, thirty-?one, and Valerie Guthrie, forty. Ms. Guthrie, the daughter of the murdered man, is the fiancée of Officer Crow. Mark, Connie, and Valerie Guthrie are all listed in fair condition. Sources in the chief’s department claim that the intruder may have been seriously injured himself during the exchange of shots. Chief Gus Bernhardt is conducting a full investigation as well as a manhunt for the intruder who has brought such heartache and pain to the Guthrie family.

“In other news…”

“Crow…” Mike breathed. “Oh no!” He left the house as fast as his battered body could manage.

8

Crow stared up at the ceiling, trying to count the tiny holes in one selected panel of acoustic tile for want of something—anything—to do. He was well into triple digits when there was a tentative knock on the door. “Come in,” Crow called. “Please!”

The men who entered the room were total strangers to Crow, but he knew their type. They had the cop look, despite stubble-?covered chins; eyes smudged with sleep deprivation, and badly combed hair. One man was tall, balding, and had the dour face of a mortician; his colleague was younger, bigger, brawnier, and looked more cheerful, though that was muted by a mask of weariness. The younger man had a blond buzz cut and a cold cigarette dangling limply from the corner of his mouth. Both men wore rumpled suits that looked as if hoboes had slept in them first.

“Mr. Crow?” asked the balding man with the mournful face.

“What’s left of him. ”