“Yo,” said a voice after the t
hird ring.
“BK? It’s Crow. ”
“Hey hey, man. I’ve been seeing you all over the news.
What the hell’s happening out there in the sticks?” BK was Bentley Kingsman, an old martial arts buddy of Crow’s. They had trained briefly under the same instructor back in the mid-1980s, and had crossed paths so often at tournaments that they’d become friends. Not that they’d ever faced each other on the mat—BK at six-four and built like a phone booth was roughly twice Crow’s size—but students of theirs had traded some kicks over the years. BK worked as a cooler, or head bouncer, at one of Philadelphia’s most popular strip bars.
“Yeah, things have been pretty crazy out here. ” He gave BK the necessarily edited version of all that had happened.
“Damn, brother…that’s some rough shit. Give Val my best. ”
“Will do. Look, BK, the reason I’m calling is that I’ve been asked to oversee our big Halloween Festival. You know the one. ”
“Sure, the Hayride and all. It’s been in the papers, too. ”
“Well, with everything that’s happened I’ve gotten a bit spooked, so I want to beef up security for Halloween, just to make sure everything’s cool. ”
“Spooked…or you know something’s up?”
“Just spooked, but I could use some muscle for Mischief Night and Halloween. I’ve got twelve different venues to cover—the Hayride, three different movie marathons, a bunch of celebrity appearances, a parade, and a blues concert. Any chance you could help me out?”
“Volunteer or pay gig?”
“Definitely a pay gig, so I need top of the line. ”
“I know some guys. Depends on what you need. ”
Crow outlined his needs.
BK whistled. “That’s a lot of feet on the ground. I can probably get Jim Winterbottom and some of his JKD guys; maybe Rick Robinson—he has that big jujutsu school over in White Marsh. Dave Pantano and some of his Kenpo boys. Maybe a few off-duty cops, too, if you don’t mind paying them under the table. I assume you’re looking for guys who can keep it cool, right?”
“I want you there, too. ”
“Jeez…Halloween’s a big night at the club. ”
Crow said nothing, letting BK think about it.
“Yeah, okay, I’ll get someone to cover for me. I’ll be there, and I’ll bring Billy, too. ” Billy Christmas was BK’s best friend, a fellow bouncer who looked like a male model but fought like a junkyard dog. They made a colorful team.
“Thanks, BK…I owe you one. ”
“Hey, as long as the check clears you don’t owe me shit, brother. ”
They sorted out a few details and then Crow hung up, feeling much more relieved. BK would put together a tight team for him, he knew that, and knowing it made the problem seem a lot less vast. He fished in the glove box and came out with Eddy “The Chief” Clearwater’s Reservation Blues and slid it into the player, and as the first cut “Winds of Change” began with its moody guitars and brooding horns, Crow put the car in gear and headed out of town.
He didn’t head home though, at least not yet. Instead he took the side road that led out of town and as soon as he cleared the jam of tourist cars he found himself out on the highway, rolling along the undulating black ribbon of A-32 out into the farmlands. A few fields were still thick with tall corn, the last of the season; but most had either been harvested down to brown stubble or razed and plowed under to try and halt the advance of the blight. Only a few of the roadside farm stands were open, the ones that could afford to import goods for resale. A few stayed open with their own products, but they were rare; among them, Guthrie Farm-goods, staffed by family members of farms that had been badly hit. More of Henry’s goodwill.
Crow brooded on that as he drove. Henry and Terry, the town’s two most successful men and the ones with the biggest hearts. One dead, the other dying as the Black Harvest ground along.
He passed Tow-Truck Eddie in his wrecker and tooted his horn, but Eddie either didn’t see him or didn’t recognize him and the big machine thundered past, heading toward town. Crow also passed Vic Wingate’s midnight-blue pickup truck. Behind the glare of the headlights he could see two shadowy silhouettes in the cab, but he couldn’t see their faces. Vic and some other asshole who apparently possessed the ability to tolerate Vic’s company. Crow didn’t toot or wave, but just drove on.
When he came to Val’s farm he saw that the police guard was no longer stationed at the entrance. No one and nothing left to protect. Crow’s mood soured even more as he made the left and crunched slowly up the gravel drive to the house. He switched off the lights and engine and sat there in the silence, watching the house. There were a few lights on, some cops probably not bothering to switch them off as they left. Those yellow rectangles of light usually looked so homey, but now they felt so remote, empty of all of their promise of warmth and acceptance. The whole house seemed drained, like a battery that’s almost run down—not quite dead—but with only enough energy to be frustrating, or a cheat.
He got out and walked to the back of his car, opened the trunk, took his Beretta out of a plastic tackle box, shrugged out of his jacket, slipped on the shoulder rig, hung the Beretta in the clamshell holster, and pulled the jacket back on. He didn’t ask himself why, with all the players off the board, he felt the need to wear the pistol; part of him didn’t want to delve that deeply. Not at the moment.
He crossed the driveway, then slowed to a stop as something far to his left caught his eye. Crow peered into the gloom, seeing what he first thought—bizarrely—were tendrils, like the waving arms of an octopus or squid, but then he grunted as he realized that he was seeing the torn ends of crime scene tape fluttering in the wind down by the barn. In the distance the tape seemed to move in eerie slow motion.