Ghost Road Blues (Pine Deep 1)

Barney considered. “Maybe thirty people. Been gone ’bout twenty minutes. ”

“Shit…er, I mean shoot. ” He cocked an eye at Mike, who was grinning. “You didn’t hear that, right?”

“Shit no. ”

“Good,” Crow said, and in a mock under-?his-?voice tone he added, “Juvenile delinquent. ”

“He’ll be done in another twenty, twenty-?five,” said Barney. “Number one just came in five, ten minutes ago. Three’ll be out another ten. ”

“I’m gonna take one of the ATVs and go fetch Coop. Anyone else shows up, turn ’em away. Except for Mike’s folks, they’re going to pick him up. His bike’s in my trunk. ” Barney looked confused, and Crow elaborated. “He got run off the road by some dumb-?ass trucker. Got banged up a bit. ”

“I’m okay,” Mike said bravely.

Crow said, “Busted a rib or two and cracked his head on a rock. No, don’t look like that, he’s not going to die on you. His folks are going to take him over to the hospital for some X-?rays. ”

“That sucks,” he said, but Mike just shrugged. Carefully.

Crow said, “Look, Barney, there’s something serious going on. There are three assholes from Philly, bank robbers or something, who may be hiding out somewhere around here. The mayor wants everybody who belongs in town back in town, and all the kids at home. ”

“What? That’s it?”

“That’s it, as far as I know. ”

“Well, that’s not so much. ”

“Yeah, but you know how Terry Wolfe is. ”

“Yeah. He’s scared of his own shadow. I mean he never even comes out here, not even during the day. ”

“Mr. Wolfe’s okay, Barney. He’s just a busy guy. He owns a lot of things. He’s always busy. That’s why he pays me to manage this joint. ” There was just the faintest edge to Crow’s voice, and Barney caught it.

“Cool, man. ”

“Anyway, if you see anyone you don’t know—any adults I mean—or if anything weird happens, call me on my cell. ”

“Weird? Dude…this is a haunted hayride, you know. ”

Crow smiled and winked at him and put the car into gear. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, nodding to the knife handle, “you ought to have that looked at. ”

“Yeah,” said Barney, “this thing is killing me. ”

2

The night was stretching forward into darkness, racing toward the dead hours that are forgotten by the light. All across Pine Deep, hearts were beginning to beat just a bit faster, minute-?by-?minute; lungs were gulping in air and gasping it out. In just a few hours the pitch and pulse of the night had changed, accelerated, jumped toward haste and action and frenzy.

There was the scent of blood on the dark winds, and the promise of much, much more; a perfume of destruction and pain carried to every part of the town, even to the darkest and most remote of places. The scent seemed to sink into the rich earth of the town, seeking out those who craved that aroma.

Deep in the darkness, someone became aware of that perfume; someone laid bare his senses and absorbed the scent of death, the energy of fear, the electricity of hate. He filled himself with the essence of hurt and dread, and he smiled. Teeth long caked with wormy soil, and lips withered to dry tautness peeled into a grin that betrayed the pernicious delight of the smiler. Above and around him the black tons of earth trembled as he laughed.

3

Ruger’s tiny automatic made lightning flashes and thunderstorm booms that crashed off the living room walls. Two black holes appeared high on the top panel of the door and cordite burned the air. Val screamed and lunged frantically for the doorknob, but Ruger sprang to his feet, knocking the rocking chair over, and with a ferocious sweep of his arm he sent her reeling back into her father’s arms. Guthrie fell back onto the couch with Val sitting down hard on top of him; he grunted in pain and the breath whooshed out of him for the second time. Connie screamed, too, but she made no move at Ruger: she just sat there on the couch covering her face with both hands and screaming shrilly through her fingers.

Ruger grabbed the knob and with a violent jerk whipped the door open, bringing his gun up high and steady as he did so. Outside, on the wide plank porch, Mark Guthrie stood in a frozen posture of absolute and uncomprehending shock: half crouched, stock-?still, wide-?eyed, and staring with dinner-?plate eyes at the gun in the hand of a man he didn’t know. The bullets must have missed his face by inches and there were tiny splinters on his cheek, standing up like needles in a pincushion.

“Welcome home,” hissed Ruger and grabbed a handful of Mark’s shirt, pulled him close, and kneed him savagely in the crotch. Mark let loose with a high whistling shriek and folded in half at the waist. Connie and Val screamed, but Ruger ignored them and dragged the man into the house and flung him the length of the living room. Mark was a knotted cannonball of agony and he caromed off the wall and collapsed onto an occasional table that splintered under him. Mark, table, a vase of dried flowers, and some small picture frames collapsed onto the floor.

Val lunged up again and Ruger backhanded her down onto the couch; again she sprawled across her father’s lap and he caught her as she started to roll off onto the floor. Ruger turned to Val’s brother and kicked him viciously in the thigh and as Mark opened his mouth to scream, Ruger jammed the barrel of his pistol under his nose. “Just fucking lie there. ” The scream died in his throat.