lurch.
Or was that morning sickness? She tugged her right hand out of her pocket and placed her palm and spread fingers over her stomach. She was forty and had never been pregnant before. When Ruger had broken into the house he’d punched her in the stomach and Val had been terrified that her baby—her
Val stopped and turned, looking up at the clouds. They were not yet so dense as to be featureless and while she stared at them, at the shapes and shadows formed by the slowly changing billows, she imagined that she saw a face up there.
Chapter 18
(1)
When Newton parked in the turnaround, Crow was standing on the top step of the porch, a bottle of Yoo-Hoo in one hand, a Phillies ball cap pushed back on his head and a smile on his face. As Newton got out and approached, he saw that Val Guthrie was seated on a porch swing. He recognized her from the stock photos his paper had run after the shooting. Unlike Crow, she was not smiling, and her eyes were even colder and less welcoming than the cop’s had been.
“Welcome aboard,” Crow said and took one step down as he extended his hand. “This is my fiancee, Val Guthrie.”
He nodded to Val. “Good afternoon, Ms. Guthrie. Please accept my condolences. And…thanks for taking some time out to chat with me. I can’t even imagine how tough things must be for you both right now.” He offered his hand to her and her grip was stronger than his by a long way.
“Glad to have you, Mr. Newton,” Val said. “I read your articles. I appreciate the things you said about my father.” Her eyes were a hard, dark blue and though there was obvious sadness in them, they were not weak eyes in any way. Her gaze was level, direct, and unwavering. “I’ve read other pieces about what happened, and some writers have used some pretty unfair descriptions, calling Dad ‘an old man’ and insinuating that he was too old to outrun the bullet that killed him. What do you think about that?”
Newton felt his neck get hot. He was never good around women at the best of times, and Val Guthrie made him immeasurably uncomfortable. A dozen different replies flitted through his head, but he liked the strength he saw in her eyes, and all thoughts of dissembling—or of defending his fellow journalists—melted away. “Quite frankly, Ms. Guthrie, even if your father had been a twenty-year-old Olympic track star he couldn’t have outrun a bullet. No one can. That’s why cowards like Karl Ruger use guns.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Crow give him a tiny nod of approval. Newton plowed on. “Since the other day I’ve been asking around about your father and the picture I got was that, despite his age, he was one tough son of a bitch, if you don’t mind me being frank. So, if I interpret the facts right, I believe he died to save your life, which qualifies him in my book as a hero. I wish I’d had the chance to know him.”
Val looked up at him for a moment. Her eyes didn’t soften, but she did give him a small smile. “Thank you, Mr. Newton.”
“Please, just call me Newton…or Newt. Everyone does.”
“Val,” she said, nodding. She was a very pretty woman, a few years older than Newton, and with the kind of intensity that had always frightened him. She wore a thin silver chain around her neck on which was a cross— surprisingly delicate for so strong a woman—that hung just above the vee of her blouse. He noticed that her only concession to apparent vulnerability was that she absently touched the cross from time to time, as if drawing comfort from it.
To Crow, she said, “I like this one. He can stay.”
“You want something to drink, Newt?” Crow asked. “Ice tea? Something?”
“If you have another one of those,” he said gesturing with his chin toward Crow’s Yoo-Hoo, “then I’ll have one.”
“Good man.” Crow went into the house and came back out with two cold bottles for them, and a cup of coffee for Val. To Newton he said, “Pull up a pew.” They sat down, shook their bottles, opened them, and exchanged a nod as they took their first sips. “Where do we start?” Crow asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Well,” Newton said, removing a small tape recorder from his briefcase, “first I want to know if it’s okay if I tape this.”
Crow nodded. “Sure, but I do have a couple of conditions before we start. I’m willing to tell you the whole story of the Pine Deep Massacre, and everything I know about the Bone Man, but only on two conditions.”
Newton hedged. “What conditions?”
“First,” said Crow, “you don’t print any part of it I tell you not to print.”
“I don’t know if I can agree to that.”
Crow spread his hands. “Have a nice trip back. Watch out for potholes.”
“No! No, I mean, how can I—”
“Newt, listen to me, I’m going to give you a hell of a story. I’m not joking here, and it’s as intense a story as you’re ever likely to write. If I want something kept out of it, then you have to trust that I have a good reason, but you also have to trust that what I will let you write about will be well worth any small concessions. So…?”
The reporter gave it some thought, but in the end his curiosity won out over any objections he might have otherwise raised. “Okay. I agree. What’s the second condition?”
Crow smiled faintly. “That if you don’t believe me, at least do me the courtesy of not laughing in my face.”
“Of course not—”
“Good, ’cause some of what I have to tell you is going to be pretty hard to swallow. I haven’t told this story to too many people—actually I’ve only told it to Val, and she was there for most of it—and I don’t feel like being ridiculed for it.”
From that Newton supposed that Crow had been too drunk to remember telling the story to Toby, but he decided not to mention it. “I can promise you that I won’t laugh or mock or anything. Just tell me, and I’ll listen.”
“Okay,” Crow said, nodding. “I’m taking you on faith, Newt. Don’t make me sorry about that. You can turn your recorder on.” He paused and closed his eyes, collecting scraps of old memories from a closet deep within his mind. He began speaking before he opened his eyes. “If you can believe it, except for Val’s dad being killed, the stuff that happened here these last few days were nothing compared to what happened thirty years ago. I mean, Karl Ruger and his cronies were bad enough, but back then we had someone as close to the devil as anyone I ever
