Dead Man's Song (Pine Deep 2)

Crow had time to get inside, switch on the lights, and slide a Coldplay CD into the box before the little bell above the door jangled and Mike Sweeney came in. Crow had been smiling while he waited for Mike to show up their first workday together, but his smile dimmed when he saw the vicious bruises that darkened the boy’s face. By main force of will he dialed his smile back up to an acceptable brightness and said, “Welcome to the dungeon, Igor. ”

Mike grinned back, and though his smile looked happy there was just a trace of a wince there. Crow thought about he’d like to take a quick road trip over to Vic Wingate’s place and beat him to within an inch of his miserable life. No jury would touch me, he thought.

“How are you feelin’, Crow?” Mike asked, taking Crow’s proffered hand.

“Like dookey. How ’bout you?”

“Good. ” It had been pretty clear to Crow that even walking across the floor had caused Mike some pain. Riding that bike must have been a bitch.

“Which falls under my personal definition of ‘bullshit,’” he said.

“No, really. ”

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“Bing! Bing! Bing! We’re hitting a solid eight on the bullshit meter. ”

“Crow…don’t, okay?” Mike eyes slid away from Crow’s and his smile leaked away. In profile and with the bruises, Mike looked like an old man instead of a kid. Old and sick. Crow leaned on the counter that separated them and forced eye contact with the boy. “Look, kid, I’m not hideously stupid. If you’re in pain, you’re allowed to say, ‘Gosh, Crow, I hurt like a complete sumbitch. ’ This is an acceptable response to inquiries about your current state of well-being. ”

It was clear that Mike couldn’t decide whether to laugh or flee. His eyes had a shifty, uncertain look. Even so, he said, “Gosh, Crow, I hurt like a complete son of a bitch. ”

“‘Sumbitch,’ son. This is a hick town, the correct term is ‘sumbitch. ’”

“I hurt like a complete sumbitch. ”

“Good. Now watch your language, you juvenile delinquent. ”

This time Mike did laugh. A bit. “How’s your…uh, I mean, Val?”

“My ‘uh, I mean Val’ is doing pretty good; and fiancée is the word you’re fumbling for. She’s home sleeping right now, and Sarah Wolfe is keeping her company. You know her? The mayor’s wife?”

“I deliver their paper,” Mike said, nodding. “Well…did. I guess I’m going to quit now that I’m working here. ”

“Val sends her best, by the way. She said that you’re a sweetheart for helping me out here. ”

Mike flushed red.

“But enough of this banter, today we’re going to explore the exciting world of retail sales. First step—inventory. ” He gave a stage wink. “Takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. I’m like…tingling. ”

For the next two hours Crow took Mike through the steps of checking the shelves against what was stored in the tiny stockroom and then filling out order sheets. Crow let Mike make the next ten calls while Crow tried not to backseat drive; by the fifth call it was easier to block the urge. They worked together to stock the shelves—a job Crow had left half finished when Terry Wolfe had talked him into going out to shut down the Haunted Hayride a few days ago, though it seemed like months to Crow. As they worked, Crow saw the boy try to disguise his many winces as he bent and stretched to fill the bins of costumes, baskets of rubber severed hands and other body parts, trays of goggly eyeballs, racks of Gummi centipedes and faux Cockroach Clusters, and tables filled with everything from smoking cauldrons to marked-down Freddy Krueger gloves (because, as Crow explained it Mike, Nightmare on Elm Street was soooo five minutes ago). At one point Mike was stretching his arm up to hang a half dozen Aslan the Lion costumes on a high peg when he gave a small sudden cry and dropped them. He pressed a hand to his ribs for a moment and stood there, wincing and making hissing-pipe noises.

“How’s that rib treatin’ you?” Crow asked with fake disaffection.

“Hurts,” Mike said tightly, then added, “like a sumbitch. ”

“All of this happened when you fell off your bike, right? That your story?”

The pain gradually left his face, and Mike took in a breath and slowly exhaled. He did not face Crow but instead appeared to be looking for an answer in the foamy packing materials of a box of plastic cockroaches. “Yeah. Bike. ”

“If I keep asking, am I always going to get the same story?”

“Probably,” Mike said, fiddling with the label on the carton, peeling it with a thumbnail.

“Mike?” The boy did not look up.

“Mike,” Crow said more firmly, “look at me for a sec. ” After a moment’s hesitation, Mike did. His eyes rose to meet Crow’s, fell away self-consciously, and then rose again. “Mike,” Crow said softly, “I won’t ask again. It’s up to you to decide if you want to talk about it. ”