our boy Ruger?”
“Karl Ruger’s body was taken to the morgue where an autopsy will be performed tomorrow by yours truly. Though I’d rather just run him through a composter and let it be.”
“Amen to that,” said Gus and LaMastra at the same time.
“Here’s the part I don’t get, gentlemen, and maybe there’s some new street drug that can turn someone into Superman, but cursory examination showed that Ruger had been shot over two dozen times,” Weinstock said, pausing to let that sink in. “There were five original wounds, which had all started to close. Yes, you heard me. They were healing. Since the day before yesterday. And then there were all of the shots collectively fired by Crow and Val. You want to tell me how a man with five bullets in him eludes your police manhunt for two days and then breaks in here, knocks out our maintenance guy, knocks out a cop and beats the living shit out of two more people, and then only goes down after they empty two guns into him from a range of about six feet?” He looked at them, his mouth smiling but his eyes very hard and, perhaps, a little afraid. “You want to tell me how that’s possible, guys, and I’ll get us all on the cover of the
Gus just looked into his coffee cup. LaMastra was staring at Ferro, and Ferro was meeting the doctor’s flat stare, but after a few seconds all he could do was shake his head.
“He is dead, though, right?” asked Gus.
“Oh yes. Karl Ruger is very, very dead. He’s wrapped in plastic and in the fridge. But to tell you the truth, fellas,” Weinstock said, “I’m not even sure I want to do the autopsy on this guy. I’m not sure I know enough medicine to go in there and figure this out, and no, that’s not a joke.”
Vic Wingate listened to the news late into the night, then called Jim Polk for the inside word.
Polk said, “Yeah, he’s dead. Crow and Val Guthrie shot the living hell out of him.”
“Good,” Vic said. “Good.”
There was silence on the line for a moment and then Polk asked, “Vic?”
“Yeah?”
“Is this part of…you know? The
Vic laughed. “Everything’s part of it, Jimmy. Everything.”
“But — maybe I was reading this wrong, but I kind of had the impression that this Ruger clown was supposed to be on your side. I mean…our…side.”
“He is.”
“Not no more he ain’t.”
Vic just laughed and hung up.
He sat back in his lounger and crossed his ankles. The house above him was quiet. Lois was passed out on the couch and Mike had gone to bed on time. Vic had let him be tonight — there had been too much going on. Tomorrow he’d start working on some way to steer Mike back into Tow-Truck Eddie’s path, but that could wait. There was still a whole month before Mike absolutely had to be killed. Plenty of time.
For now Vic could relax and revel in the fact that everything the Man had said would happen
Happy, content, Vic Wingate drifted off to sleep.
Malcolm Crow lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling, eyes wide despite the pull of the morphine, cold sweat beading on his face. Everything was quiet now. Val was safe and protected. Even though Ruger was gone, there was now an officer stationed in her room, just as Jerry Head was now parked in his room.
Weinstock had let Crow stay with Val all the way up until the drugs knocked her out, and then he’d kissed her — kissed his
And Val was going to be his wife.
His
Before she had drifted off to sleep Val had clutched his hand with hers — a small but strong hand now stained with powder burns — and in a desperate voice had asked, “Is it over, Crow?”
Crow had kissed her hand and her lips. “Yeah, it’s over, baby. He’s dead.” His mouth was full of stitches and it hurt to talk, but that was something they both needed to hear aloud. “He’s dead. Gone.”
Her lip curled as she said, “And I hope his soul burns in hell!” There was still fear in Val’s eyes, but there was steel there, too, and Crow loved her for the strength he saw there. His heart swelled to the breaking point.
“For all eternity,” Crow agreed heartily. He caressed her hair. “We did it, Val — we stopped him. You and me, baby. Your dad can rest now, Val. It’s over.”
“It’s over,” she echoed, and closed her eyes for so long Crow thought that the drugs finally had her, but then she opened her eyes and lifted her hand, looking at the engagement ring sparkling on her finger. “It’s so beautiful…” she murmured and drifted off to sleep.
Crow kissed her forehead and her eyes and her lips and then let the orderly help him back to his wheelchair. His body felt ancient and badly used, but his heart was young. All the way back to his room joy at the prospect of a future with Val kept leaping up inside him, but it was like something on one end of a seesaw. As it peaked and dropped back down, another intense emotion soared up.
A total, abject, and penetrating terror. While he had been with Val he had forced it down into the recesses of his mind, but nothing would compel it to stay there. Ruger’s last words kept echoing in his brain.
How the hell had Ruger known about Griswold? How could he have found out about that killer and how had he known to use Griswold’s name like a hammer to hit him? How? It made no sense at all.
Griswold was dead — thirty years dead. At least, everyone thought he was dead. He had vanished off the face of the earth at the end of the Black Harvest. The Bone Man had been killed for his murder. Griswold couldn’t be alive. It was impossible. So…how had Ruger known about him, and why had he said what he said?
Only two people in all of Pine Deep knew what kind of man Griswold had been — himself and Terry. Griswold had nearly killed Terry, and had in fact murdered Crow’s older brother, just as he had murdered little Mandy Wolfe, and so many others. He had tried to kill Crow, but the Bone Man had been there. Had just chanced to be there, and had come after Griswold swinging a shovel and yelling fit to wake everyone in the neighborhood, and everyone had come running. Maybe Griswold could have killed them both, but when all the neighbors had come running — a mass of people who had been filled with grief and impotent rage all through that horrible season — Griswold had fled.
All those years ago young Malcolm Crow had seen Griswold very clearly in the bright spill of moonlight. He had seen Griswold’s face, had seen it change. Had seen it become the true face of Griswold. He had told his father what he’d seen, and had been whipped for lying.
The Bone Man had seen it, too, and had gone hunting for both the man and the monster. Had he really killed him before the mob had beaten him to death and strung him up on the scarecrow post? Crow had always believed that…but now he wondered.
Griswold had been a monster. So had Karl Ruger, and Crow had seen a change in him, too. The image of Ruger’s eyes turning from brown to red would not leave Crow’s mind. He hadn’t imagined it. No way. Was it the same kind of change? Was Ruger the same kind of monster as Griswold? Or…was he something else? Something different? He thought about Ruger lying on a slab in the morgue down in the basement, and he wondered. Did the morgue drawers have locks? Was the morgue itself locked?
His stitched and battered mouth hurt abominably but he didn’t want more painkillers. They’d just put him to sleep, and Crow was not sure he ever wanted to go to sleep again. Yesterday he had dreamed of Karl Ruger and last night Ruger had shown up. Not exactly the same as his dream, but so close as to be terrifying. If he let himself sleep now, what would he dream? His skin crawled at the thought.
