Ghost Road Blues

Ferro waited it out, used to this kind of reaction, having already gotten it from Chief Bernhardt, his officers, and the two cops from the other towns. Everyone reacted like this: how could they not? The murders at the Cape May Lighthouse had made the papers across the country and throughout much of the world. Two books had already been written about them, and Jonathan Demme was already making a movie based on it starring Don Cheadle and Colin Farrell.

“How much of the story do you know?” asked Ferro, lighting up a Camel with a silver Zippo with the F.O.P. symbol engraved on it.

Terry’s throat was as dry as paste as he sipped the coffee. “Just what everyone else in the world knows,” he said. “Some madman tore up an entire group of senior citizens who were visiting the lighthouse in Cape May. Forced them all into the observation room of the lighthouse and then cut them to pieces and left bizarre messages on all the walls. Something like eighteen dead, though two were supposed to have actually been tortured to death before being cut to pieces.”

“That’s the gist of it.”

“I thought no one knew who did that. I mean…do you guys actually know who did that?”

Ferro looked grave and even a little secretive. “This is all South Jersey P.D. and the FBI, but some of it kind of spilled over into my backyard. I know that the investigative team has been looking at Karl Ruger for months now, but it’s one of those situations where they know more than they can prove. Most of it comes from hearsay — one ex-con said this and a hooker from Atlantic City said the other — but lately a lot of people seem to know that Ruger did the job. It isn’t known if he did it alone, or if he masterminded it, or what. One theory is that someone hired it done with Ruger as the hitter.”

Gus was appalled. “Why would anyone pay someone to do something like that?”

Ferro exhaled through his nose. “It’s complicated. I’m sure you’re aware of all the infighting among the families in Philly. The so-called don died of lung cancer nineteen months ago and, since he didn’t have any sons, everyone who thinks he has a claim to the title is vying for it. Well, to make a long story short—”

Terry held up a hand. “Detective Ferro, as fascinating as this all would be to another police officer, I personally don’t care even a little bit about the dynamics of Philadelphia criminal politics. Just tell me how this is going to impact my town.”

Ferro’s mouth snapped shut with a click and for the first time he looked off-balance. Terry could see that he was used to always being in charge and probably enjoyed the scope and drama of the ongoing battle between cops and robbers, but right now Terry’s head was pounding and listening to what amounted to a recap of the last four seasons of The Sopranos was not going to help any.

LaMastra stepped in and summed up: “We think Ruger was hired to do a hit on relatives of one of the crime lords, and he overdid it.”

“You don’t say,” Terry murmured. “So, Ruger gets the Hannibal Lecter award for head case of the decade. And…?”

Ferro pursed his lips, considering. “Well, the degree of rage demonstrated in those killings in Cape May, and what we saw on the surveillance video of the shoot-out earlier today, clearly paint Ruger as both extremely dangerous and completely unstable.”

“Mm, I’ve heard homicidal maniacs can be like that,” Terry said dryly.

Ignoring the mayor’s tone, Ferro said, “He’s on the run and under pressure and he has apparently stopped somewhere in your town. When he did the hit in New Jersey he killed a lot of innocent bystanders as well.”

Terry nodded. “I take your point. So why is this guy walking the streets at all?”

“As I said, more is known than can be proved. The killer left no useful clues, and he certainly didn’t leave any witnesses. Even so, people talk, and some of the talk has pointed the investigative team in the direction of Karl Ruger. It would be fair to say that an arrest would have been made within a week, two at the outside.”

“So, how the heck did a psycho hit man get involved in a drug heist?”

“Philly’s getting too hot,” said LaMastra. “Word started getting around that Karl was maybe the hitter, and that meant that sooner of later he’d end up in a field somewhere, hands tied behind his back with his cock cut off and stuffed in his—”

“I…uh…get the basic idea,” Terry said, cutting him off and shooting a significant glance at Shirley.

Ferro glared at his partner and LaMastra gave Terry and the officers an apologetic nod. “I think it’s a fair guess that not everyone knows it was him, or at least not the right ones. If they did, parts of him would be showing up in fifty different states. More likely it’s that no one knew it was him until just recently, probably as recently as last night or this morning. It was all breaking fast. The way we figure it is that when Ruger got wind of the rumors he immediately organized the drug hit to give him some traveling money. The fact that he was working with Boyd seems to bear that out.”

“Why’s that?”

“Boyd was a kind of small-time fixer. A travel agent,” said LaMastra. When Terry looked perplexed, he explained, “He gets people out of the country when things get hot. Fake IDs, passports, whatever. Because he’s good at it everyone leaves him alone.”

Sergeant Ferro nodded. “If they were working together, then it’s probably a good bet that Boyd was going to arrange to get Ruger out of the States. He stole a lot of money and that buys a lot of plastic surgery and false ID. There are places where a new face and new papers and a million dollars could get you lost in a big hurry.”

“So he split,” Terry said, “and now he’s running around loose in Pine Deep?”

Ferro and LaMastra both looked at him soberly. “Yes,” they agreed.

Terry looked at Gus, who shrugged and shook his head. “So, now what?”

Ferro pursed his lips. “Well, Your Honor, the rest of our boys should be here any time now. They have surveillance pictures of Ruger, Boyd, and Macchio that we’ll distribute. Since the road posts in Crestville failed to spot them, then we have to assume that they’ve stopped here and decided to hole up. That means we have to work out a search and detain program that will run them to ground.”

“Uh, Sergeant, this is not really the sort of thing that our chief’s department is used to handling,” said Gus diffidently. “I mean, we don’t really do manhunts….”

Ferro looked faintly amused. “Don’t worry, Chief, you’ll be getting a lot of help from my team. We can probably count on the state police and by tomorrow probably the FBI as well, not to mention some pinch hitters from the neighboring towns. We’re used to doing this sort of thing. I don’t mean to usurp any authority from you, sir, but we have a set way of handing these things, and if you’ll let us, we can run the show for you.” He glanced at Terry. “If that’s acceptable to you, sir?”

“Darn straight!” Terry said. “Like I said, I don’t care if you have to call in the National Guard, just do what you have to do. Chief Bernhardt will be more than happy to defer to your greater expertise.” He glanced at Gus, who, rather than looking offended at the loss of authority, appeared to be massively relieved. “You tell us what to do,” he concluded, “and we’ll give it a go.”

Ferro nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Mayor, Chief. Okay,” he said and clapped his hands, “let’s get to work.”

(3)

The wrecker was a gleaming, grotesque monstrosity. From the rat-eye red of its running lights to the shroud-black opacity of its tinted windows, it appeared every inch a pernicious and predatory thing, soaring along the road in a hideous silence. The split-rim hubcaps were polished to a spotless chrome finish, as was every cold metal accessory from the twin exhaust stacks to the guardrails that looked as if they had come from some ornate and disinterred coffin. The duel sets of rear wheels pushed the behemoth along the road at a ghastly speed, whipping along past harvested and unharvested fields, past whitewashed telephone poles that looked like old bones, past the bolted doors of night-darkened houses. Aside from the faint whine of the tire rubber on the macadam and the fainter growl of the perfectly tuned engine, the wrecker made no other sound; for all the noise it made it might have been a midnight wind.

In the cabin, Tow-Truck Eddie squatted in a repulsive tangle of ungainly muscularity, unnaturally disfigured by knots of muscles. Muscle upon muscle, tendons like bundles of piano wire, veins like high-pressure hoses. Even his face was hard with bulging muscles, bunching as the driver clenched and unclenched his jaw. He drove in complete silence, eyes fixed and staring, barely seeing the road as it unrolled itself before his headlights, big hands gripping the nubbed and leather-wrapped wheel with crushing force.