Bad Moon Rising (Pine Deep 3)

The pizzas arrived and Crow served slices. Nobody spoke until the waitress was well out of earshot.

Ferro sprinkled hot peppers on his pizza. “Okay…so are you reporting a case of improper crime scene assessment? That’s a state matter. ”

Val’s pizza sat untouched on her plate. “That’s just it, Frank. The crime scene assessment was one hundred percent accurate. ”

Both detectives paused in the midst of chewing.

“What?” LaMastra said around a mouthful of pizza.

2

Vic banged on the door and waited until the padlocks inside were keyed and the chains pulled through; then he opened the door and went in, a toolbox in each hand. The white-faced figures moved back away from him as he entered, knowing not to speak unless spoken to. One of Vic’s house rules, especially in this house.

Griswold’s house was gloomy and dark, but over the years Vic’s night vision had improved, and besides no one knew this house better than he did. Long before Griswold had awakened from his long sleep, long before the Red Wave had even been conceived, he’d walked here.

He set the toolboxes down and looked around, feeling the energy of the place. It was here where Vic went after he’d orchestrated the murder of Oren Morse. That had been such a terrible, terrible night. As soon as Vic saw Morse he knew that Griswold had to be dead, that the nigger had killed him. Even now, thirty years later that thought filled him with crimson rage. Once that black bastard had paid for that murder and been nailed to the scarecrow post, Vic had come down here to the house in the Hollow, had opened this very door, and then gone inside. All that night he had lain curled in a fetal ball of pain at the foot of Griswold’s bed, weeping and lost, torn to pieces by Griswold’s death.

None of the other men had come with him. Not even Polk or Jimmy Crow. Like the apostles after the arrest of Christ they’d lost faith and fled, and only Vic had come to his master’s house. Alone there in the wretched darkness of that first night he had prayed for hours—not to God, because that would be an insult to the Man—but to darker, less defined powers. Had Vic known at the time where Morse had buried Griswold’s body he would have dug him up, washed and dressed him in the old Reichsleader uniform—his favorite, Griswold told him many times, of all the many uniforms he’d worn over the years. Then he would have buried him properly, with the correct rites read over him so that his return would have been assured, and so it would have been much faster. By the time he learned where Griswold was actually buried it was both too late and no longer the right thing to do. Funny how that worked out.

As it was years passed before the Man awoke, and that sweet night seventeen years ago when that glorious voice first spoke in his head was Vic’s most precious memory. The very first word the Man spoke after those years of nothingness was “Vic. ”

Calling him, calling the one who always loved him, who always believed in him.

So much had happened since then. Vic moved through the living room, ignoring the pale-faced figures that moved aside to let him pass. Avoiding certain spots—tripwires and hidden floor triggers that he’d installed himself—Vic went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out a beer. There was no electricity in the house, but blocks of ice kept his beer cold. He twisted off the top and dropped it into a trash can. Vic never littered, especially here.

He fired up a small Coleman lantern and turned it up to medium and set it on the table. Drinking his beer, Vic looked around at the walls, the paintings of Hitler and other great thinkers of the twentieth century. Vic felt a stirring in his heart and in his loins. He’d have to make sure those paintings were removed, sent to one of his storage units.

He sensed someone behind him and turned. Dave Golub was there, a big moonfaced hulk of a kid who had always been something of a clumsy goof, but Vic hadn’t heard him approach. They were all like that. Ghost-footed. Vic just gave him an uptick of his chin.

“Karl said you wanted a count. ” He handed over a sheet of paper that showed the location of every nest in town. Beside each location there was a number, and a tally at the bottom of the page.

“That’s everyone?”

“Yes, sir. Less about ten of the Dead Heads that Karl wanted put down. Ones who wouldn’t listen. ”

Vic frowned. “Still a lot of mouths to feed. ”

Golub stared at him for a moment, perp

lexed, then when he realized that Vic had made a joke he laughed. It was a bad fake of a laugh, but it showed respect and Vic appreciated the gesture.

“You and McVey all set to handle the candy?”

“Sure. We have about eight guys with us. None of the ones with too much teeth. Guys like me and Shanahan who can blend in. ”

“No Dead Heads either. ”

“Oh, no sir. The ones who are still left are locked up. ”

“Any word on Mike?”

“No. I had everyone out looking last night, and those guys who can take sunlight are still out there. Nobody’s seen him. ” Golub paused. “Is that going to be okay for us? If we don’t find him, I mean?”

Vic sucked on the mouth of the beer bottle. “Let’s just say it’d be better for all of us if we found him. ”

He dismissed Golub with a curt nod and sipped his beer. His face still hurt from Mike’s lucky punches. Little bastard. God, how he wished he could just do what he wanted to do to that kid and have done with it. Two or three hours and some power tools would be a nice way to punch his ticket. Make him pay for the hurt and the humiliation. Yeah, that would be sweet. That’d take the sting out.

He sat down at the kitchen table and took out his notebook. Tomorrow was Halloween. Even though he’d worked so hard for all these years to bring the Plan to this point, it was hard to believe that it was all ready to launch. Tonight he’d set the dynamite and wire the radio detonators. The boxes of candy would be distributed all throughout the town, and a few in the neighboring towns of Crestville and Black Marsh. Spreading joy, Vic thought.