gun, but TV was a pretty good teacher, and he figured he could load one, find the safety, point it, and shoot.
The question was — who would he shoot? Would he blow Vic’s head off his shoulders, or his own? Both options held a lot of appeal to him.
Real serious appeal.
He walked downstairs carefully and quietly, not wanting to be heard. He was pretty sure Vic was still at work, but he did sometimes come home for lunch. The house was quiet. Mom was asleep in front of the TV in her room, her teacup still smelling of gin and fresh lime even this early in the day. Mike was lucky: Vic was at work, and Mike hoped that a car would fall off the lift and crush him. The thought made him want to smile, but his face hurt too much to make him dare flex those pulped muscles.
As Mike fished in the closet for his nylon windbreaker, he heard the TV rattle on about some no-fly zone somewhere in a country he never heard of. He was at the door when he heard the words “Pine Deep.” Mike stopped in surprise and listened.
“…in Bucks County, where authorities are investigating a shoot-out that left at least one person dead and three wounded, including two police officers.”
Mike held his breath and strained to hear every word.
“According to Pine Deep Police Chief Gus Bernhardt, at about nine o’clock last night, an unknown assailant broke into the farmhouse of Henry Guthrie, one of the town’s most prosperous farmers, and attempted to rob Mr. Guthrie and his family. The police department has not released complete details yet, but what is known is that the intruder physically assaulted several members of the Guthrie household. When local officers arrived, the intruder opened fire. After a short but intense exchange of shots, the intruder fled, leaving behind a scene of devastation. Mr. Henry Guthrie, sixty-four, a well-respected member of the Pine Deep Growers Commission, was shot and killed.”
Mike gasped, clapping one hand to his bruised lips.
“Wounded in the exchange of shots were Officers Rhoda Thomas, twenty-six, a law student doing intern work with the Pine Deep Police Department, and Malcolm Crow, forty, a local businessman who had recently been reinstated as an officer. Ms. Thomas sustained two gunshot wounds and is listed in serious condition at County Hospital. Mr. Crow also sustained a pair of gunshot wounds, among other injuries, and is listed in stable condition. Also injured during the break-in were Mark Guthrie, thirty-six, son of Henry Guthrie, his wife, Connie, thirty-one, and Valerie Guthrie, forty. Ms. Guthrie, the daughter of the murdered man, is the fiancee of Officer Crow. Mark, Connie, and Valerie Guthrie are all listed in fair condition. Sources in the chief’s department claim that the intruder may have been seriously injured himself during the exchange of shots. Chief Gus Bernhardt is conducting a full investigation as well as a manhunt for the intruder who has brought such heartache and pain to the Guthrie family.
“In other news…”
“Crow…” Mike breathed. “Oh no!” He left the house as fast as his battered body could manage.
Crow stared up at the ceiling, trying to count the tiny holes in one selected panel of acoustic tile for want of something — anything — to do. He was well into triple digits when there was a tentative knock on the door. “Come in,” Crow called. “Please!”
The men who entered the room were total strangers to Crow, but he knew their type. They had the cop look, despite stubble-covered chins; eyes smudged with sleep deprivation, and badly combed hair. One man was tall, balding, and had the dour face of a mortician; his colleague was younger, bigger, brawnier, and looked more cheerful, though that was muted by a mask of weariness. The younger man had a blond buzz cut and a cold cigarette dangling limply from the corner of his mouth. Both men wore rumpled suits that looked as if hoboes had slept in them first.
“Mr. Crow?” asked the balding man with the mournful face.
“What’s left of him.”
“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”
“Since I’m bored out of my mind, I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to sell me life insurance.”
The younger man grinned at that; the older one did not. They both pulled up orange plastic chairs of the type that had aluminum legs and looked like they had been designed for the sole purpose of making the user uncomfortable. Both men sat down, sighing in unison with obvious weariness.
Crow looked at them, half smiling. “Let me guess,” he said, “Philly cops?”
“Right the first time. I’m Vince LaMastra, and this is my partner, Detective Sergeant Frank Ferro.”
“Did I meet you guys last night?”
“Yes, sir. We were out at the house.”
Crow’s hands were bandaged, and one was hooked to an IV, so they just exchanged nods, and Crow was even careful about that. His head still felt as if it had been used in a soccer match.
“Mr. Crow,” began Ferro, “first, I want to say that on behalf of myself, my partner, and the other law- enforcement officers, I want to thank you and commend you for your bravery and resourcefulness last night.”
“Aw, shucks,” Crow drawled. “’Tweren’t nothing.”
“I’m serious, sir. You managed to save the lives of four people, not to mention yourself, and faced down a man who is widely regarded as extremely dangerous.”
“Oh, come on.”
“No joke, man,” LaMastra agreed, nodding vigorously. “You went up against Karl Ruger and whipped his ass.”
“Truth to tell,” Crow said, rubbing his jaw with a skinned knuckle, “it was kind of a mutual ass-whipping. And quite frankly — isn’t everyone making a bit too much out of that? Okay, so I won a fight. Considering everything else that’s going on, what’s the big deal?”
“Uh-huh,” said Ferro quietly. “Mr. Crow—”
“Look, if you would, just call me Crow. My old man was ‘Mr. Crow’ and he was kind of an asshole. I’m just Crow to everyone.”
“Tell me, Crow,” said Ferro, trying it on, “how is it that you are as dirty a fighter as Karl Ruger? You box?”
Crow shook his head. “Martial arts.”
“Karate?”
“Jujitsu.”
LaMastra brightened. “No kidding? I did some judo in college, and I—”
Ferro looked at him until he stopped talking, and then the detective turned back to Crow. “The mayor and quite a number of the town’s officers have been telling us stories of your exploits. Fighting biker gangs, that sort of thing,” Ferro said in a tone that suggested he didn’t believe much of what he’d heard.
Crow didn’t feel like making a case for himself, and besides, half of what the cop had been told probably was a pack of lies. “People love to exaggerate.”
“Frequently,” Ferro said quietly.
Was the cop baiting him? Crow wondered. “Tell you one thing, though, I never fought anyone tougher. Or faster. Son of a bitch was something else. You can’t imagine how cat-quick this guy is. He’s every bit as dangerous as everyone thinks he is. Maybe more. No remorse, either. He shot Rhoda Thomas and me without any hesitation.”
“He’s killed a lot of people,” LaMastra said. “It’s nothing new to him.”
“It’s nothing to him at all,” Ferro summed up. He tilted his head to one side, appraising Crow. “You know, despite how banged up you are, you’re lucky to be alive and in fairly good working condition.”
“Gosh, I feel like dancing.”
“No, seriously. Ruger has a habit of doing some rather horrible things to the people he doesn’t like.”
“I heard about the whole Cape May thing.”
“Ah. Well, that’s just part of it,” LaMastra said. “He also did a number on one of his buddies. Spoiled him. Tore him to—”
“I think Mr. Crow gets the point.”
“Yeah, Terry Wolfe said something,” Crow agreed. “So, why’d he do it?”
Ferro shrugged. “It’s possible there was a power struggle over who was going to lead the group and Ruger flipped out on his partner.”
