Ghost Road Blues (Pine Deep 1)

2

“The mayor is in a meeting right now, may I take a message?”

“Ginny, it’s me. Crow. ”

“Oh, hi, how are you?”

“I’m fine, I…”

“My God, do you know about all the stuff that’s happening around here?” Ginny asked in a low and conspiratorial voice.

“Some of it. Look, I’m calling from my cell and I don’t have much time. Reception sucks out here. I need to speak to Terry. ”

“Oh, gee, Crow, like I said he’s in a meeting. ” For effect she added, “With Philadelphia narcotics detectives,” as if they were something akin to angels with burning swords.

“I know that. It’s about that stuff that I’m calling. Or might be, anyway. Can you tell him I’m on the phone?”

“Oh, I don’t know—”

“Ginny, Terry deputized me tonight, so you can consider this official business. ”

“You’re back with the department?”

“More or less. Look, Ginny, just get him for me, will you?”

Ginny thought about it for another exasperating few seconds, and then said, “Okay, Crow. I’ll just do that. ”

“Thanks,” Crow said, and as soon as she put him on hold, he said, “Hallelujah. ” Crow had never liked Ginny Welsh, though she never knew it. Ginny acted as if being the receptionist-?cum-?dispatcher-?cum-?secretary put her at the very heart of regional law enforcement.

While he waited, Crow looked over at Mike Sweeney, who sat in the passenger seat of his car. The boy’s bike was stowed in the trunk, the trunk’s hood held down with bungee cords. The kid looked very small and young as he sat there, and it made Crow feel really bad for him. Mike Sweeney, or Iron Mike as Crow had nicknamed him last year, was one of those bright but lonely kids with so much imagination that it almost, but not quite, made up for the fact that he had few friends. It was easy to see that the kid was on a totally different intellectual plane than his age-?group peers, and whereas intellectuality would probably see him in good stead among the adult community of Pine Deep in later years, it was quickly turning him into an embittered loner as a teenager. Crow also knew that Mike’s home life was a little rough, and that was something he could relate to.

Mike saw him looking and offered a smile.

Iron Mike was a regular customer at the Crow’s Nest, converting his hard-?earned newspaper route money into model kits, comics, and copies of Fangoria. The kid knew almost as much about classic horror films as Crow did, but was the master by far when it came to science fiction. Crow was introspective enough to know that the nature of his own store, as well as his extensive readings of horror fiction and folklore, was part of his personal escape route. To make a monster look less scary, shine a bright light on him—you get to see the zippers and spirit gum and latex. That—and the bottle—had been Crow’s way of not dealing with the events of the Black Harvest, and he was fully aware of that fact. His dissociation was entirely deliberate.

It appeared to him, though, that Mike on the other hand walked a very fine line between reality and fantasy and was far less aware of it. Crow knew that Mike called his bike the War Machine, and that he often drifted away in thought, visiting who knew what kind of interior landscape. Crow wondered if he would grow out of the fantasies, or would grow strong enough to confront them. Therapy rather than sour mash.

Crow knew Vic Wingate very well. Vic was older than Crow and had been a legend in Pine Deep for decades. He was known as a hitter. Totally fearless in a bar fight and just as tough as he thought he was, but a world-?class asshole nonetheless. More than once Crow had seen Mike walking with that stiffness that only comes from a leather belt wielded with enthusiasm. It made Crow sick and furious, but also frustrated because there wasn’t anything he could do about it, as he knew from personal experience. His own dad had a hard hand and used it way too often. In his heart, Crow would love to invite Vic to step behind the proverbial woodshed and dance him a bit. Crow wasn’t entirely sure he could take Vic, but he would love to try. The problem there was that Vic was tight with Gus Bernhardt and Jim Polk, and he was too smart to accept a private challenge. Anyone who went up against Vic, or tried to sucker punch him, wound up first in the hospital and then in jail, or in court. Vic was as cunning as he was vicious.

So, not being able to do anything about the problem, Crow tried to tackle at least one of the symptoms and had befriended Mike, treating him like a real person, which was the case anyway, and once in a while trying to work into conversation some of the values Crow himself found useful in life. He had even shown Mike a few jujitsu moves, hoping the kid would get hooked on martial arts the way he had. It had helped Crow stand up to his own abusive father—maybe it would help Mike do the same. Predators generally don’t like prey that shows its own claws and teeth.

The kid was looking at him through the window, no longer smiling. Crow shrugged elaborately and pointed at the phone. Mike nodded. Crow had stepped out of the car to make the call, not wanting the boy to hear about the manhunt. The kid looked like he’d been through enough already.

“Crow?” Terry’s voice came over the phone with no warning, making Crow jump.

“Terry? Yeah. ”

“Oh man, Crow, tell me nothing happened at the hayride. ”

“Huh? Oh no, I haven’t gotten there yet. ”

There was a brief silence on the line; then in a controlled voice, Terry said, “You, ah, haven’t even gotten there yet? I see. ”

“No, you don’t. I’m not dodging it, it’s just that something else came up. ”

Another silence. “Something ‘else’ came up? Crow,” Terry said, “you do remember we have a crisis going on around here?”

Crow walked another couple of paces from the car. “I have Mike Sweeney with me. ”