Dead Man's Song (Pine Deep 2)

Terry grunted and nodded.

“Damn, brother. You talk to your shrink about all this?”

Terry pulled a big pillbox out of his pocket and rattled it. “All he knows how to do is prescribe drugs. ” Terry began opening cabinets, shoving boxes of Fruit Loops and Count Chocula back and forth in search of nothing in particular. He took a box of Wheat Thins from one cabinet, fished inside, stared at the cracker as if it was something totally alien to this planet, and then ate it without tasting it. He slammed the box back into the cabinet. Gloomily, he stalked back into the living room and threw himself into an overstuffed chair. In silence Crow finished making the tea and handed a mug to Terry, who took it with and a grunt. Terry said, “Crow, for God’s sake, stop looking at me like I have two heads. If I’m going crazy, then I’m going crazy. Don’t worry, once Halloween is over I’m planning on checking myself into a hospital for a nice long stay, and when I get out—providing they don’t throw away the key—I’m taking Sarah and the kids to Jamaica for the rest of the winter. No crops, blighted or otherwise. And no Halloween. ”

“Sounds like a plan. ” Crow cleared his throat again.

“And stop clearing your goddamn throat. ”

“Well, dude, cut me a break. My best friend is going crackers on me and I have no freaking clue about what to say or what to do. ”

Terry looked at him and for a moment a smile softened the worry lines on his face. “Being my best friend is doing a lot, believe me. ”

“Pardon me while I say nothing during the awkward pause that has to follow that kind of statement. ”

Terry threw a small pillow at him; Crow ducked. “I really didn’t come here to discuss my lost marbles,” he said. “I think there’s something wrong with Saul. ”

“You think there’s something wrong with someone else?” Which made Terry grin again. Crow liked to see it. “But I know what you mean. Coupla times we almost had a conversation about something, but each time we get right up to it he gets spooked and bugs out. ”

“Saul’s gotten really withdrawn the last couple of days. Skipped dinner last night, and those plans were made weeks ago, and blew me off again for lunch today. I talked to Rachel and she says he’s acting weird at home, too. He’s all paranoid, jumps at his own shadow. I just think something’s wrong with him. ”

“You think he’s sick?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say he was more scared than sick, and believe I know the signs and symptoms. ”

“Scared? Of what?”

“I don’t know. ”

“Maybe he’s seeing ghosts, too,” Crow said.

Terry shot him a look. “That a joke?”

“No—hard as it is to believe. At Henry’s funeral Saul asked me if I believed in ghosts. ”

“What’d you tell him?”

“Just what you’d expect me to tell him, that of course I believed in ghosts. Let’s face it, big mon, I kind of believe in everything. ”

“All this seems to have started around the time the whole Ruger-Boyd thing got going. Did he say why he was asking about ghosts?”

“No. Not yet, anyway. Maybe this is not about ghosts, bro. Maybe this is like some kind of mass hysteria. Like a town wide case of post-traumatic stress disorder. With the blight, the Ruger thing…everyone’s genuinely freaked, and for good reason. Happy suburbia doesn’t really prepare folks for this kind of stuff. ”

“No kidding. Really?”

Crow grinned. He sipped his tea and said, “Terry…there’s something else I want to talk to you about. You know that reporter, Newton from Black Marsh? The one you hate?”

“How could I forget?”

“Well, he’s working on a feature piece about the town’s haunted history, hoping to sell it to one of the Sunday color supplements like Parade. Anyway, he came out to the farm the other day and interviewed me and Val, and…well, I decided to tell him all about the summer of ’76. Everything…including about Griswold. ”

Terry dropped his teacup and it shattered on the floor, spattering his trouser cuffs.

(6)

“How’d he take it?” Val asked.

Crow was stretched out on his couch, alone in his apartment. Through the door he could hear Mike talking to a customer, but inside the room was quiet. Muddy Whiskers was curled into a warm ball against his hip. “It could have gone better. First he just sat there in stunned silence for like a minute, minute and a half—and then he started yelling. Called me stupid, called me an insensitive asshole, called me a few other words that a week ago I would have bet a thousand dollars that he didn’t even know, and then he stormed out. ”