Bad Moon Rising

Chapter 30

(1)

For twenty-four hours now Tow-Truck Eddie had been cruising the roads around Pine Deep. When his shift was over he swapped the cruiser for his wrecker and went back out on the road, but there was no sign at all of the Beast. As each moment passed he felt the twin fists of tension and despair beat at him.

He was failing in his Holy Mission. The Beast had actually been in his grasp and he’d lost him. Blood boiled in his veins, and he gripped the steering wheel of the wrecker with such force that the knobbed wheel was slowly being twisted out of shape. Hulking in the cab of the wrecker, he drove through the noisy crowds, praying for guidance, begging for the chance to let his work begin.

(2)

The official version that Ferro concocted was that a pair of criminals in ski masks broke into the morgue, ostensibly to steal medical supplies, and Val and Crow happened to be there discussing the release of her brother’s body with Dr. Weinstock. Ferro and LaMastra had come back up from Philly to interview Ms. Guthrie and officially close the Ruger/Boyd case. The morgue video cameras were still out of commission and the criminals turned off the lights and in the ensuing confusion shots were fired but luckily the only person struck was the already dead Mark Guthrie. However, in the darkness everyone was generally knocked about, and Dr. Weinstock was bitten by one of the assailants. The attackers fled and their identities were still unknown.

It was a load of horseshit, but they only had to sell it to Gus Bernhardt and he would buy swamp real estate from a guy in a shiny suit. Weinstock, injured as he was, was lucid enough to browbeat the hospital staff, and no one questioned Weinstock on anything anyway. Jonatha and Newton were too difficult to fit into the scenario, so they left before Weinstock called it in.

LaMastra was surprised that everyone seemed to buy the story, but Crow pointed out, “Dude, after everything that’s happened since Ruger came to town, this shit actually sounds reasonable.”

Weinstock was admitted into his own hospital. His shoulder needed twenty-two stitches, and he was scheduled for an MRI to see what kind of damage was done to the tendons. Even as he was being wheeled into the ER he was diagnosing himself, bullying the residents and nurses and generally making a pain in the ass of himself.

One of the residents put five stitches in the glass cut on LaMastra’s jaw, and nurses handed out ice packs to Crow and Ferro. Val was hurt, too, but not in a way that required treatment. She sat in Crow’s ER unit and just stared into the middle distance, and Crow could guess what she was seeing. When the ER docs were done with him, Crow dragged a chair over and sat down next to Val, pulling her close, whispering soothing words to her over and over again.

“I’m so sorry, baby…but you did what you had to do.”

It was maybe the fiftieth time he said that during the four hours they were in the ER, and Val finally pushed herself back and Crow could see the fierce hurt in her eyes. Pitching her voice low, she said, “I know that, damn it!”

Crow’s next words died on his tongue.

“I know what I did was right. God, Crow…do you think I’m sitting here torn up with self-loathing for what happened? I thought you knew me by now.”

She turned her angry face away and stared at the wall for a while.

Crow almost said, “I’m sorry,” but didn’t. He was learning.

After a while she turned back. Her eyes were as cold as any Crow had ever seen.

“Honey…listen to me. Do you understand what I’m feeling? Can you guess what’s tearing me up inside?”

He took a moment with that, then said, “Yeah, I think I can.” He licked his lips. “You want to find Ruger, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said in an almost inhuman whisper, filled with urgency. “If he’s still alive, if he’s one of them, then yes, I want to find him.”

“And Griswold?”

“Yes!” she hissed, and took his hands in hers, squeezing them with painful force. “Dear God in Heaven, but I want to find them and I want to make them pay!”

Crow nodded slowly and bent and kissed her hands.

“Then that’s what we’re going to do.”

(3)

Newton and Jonatha left the hospital and headed back to her hotel room. During the short drive neither said a word, and they remained silent until she had closed and locked her door. She engaged both locks and then stepped aside as Newton dragged over one of the room’s two overstuffed chairs and wedged its back under the doorknob. When he gave it a shake and saw how steady it was, she nodded. Then they checked the window. It was a big picture window and was not designed to be opened. The glass was thick and heavy; there was no balcony, so no need for a sliding door. There were no other windows or doors in the room.

Jonatha went around and turned on all the lights. They turned on the television and sat there, she on the edge of her bed, Newton on the other chair. Newton channel surfed. They watched Everybody Hates Chris and even though the studio audience was howling, neither of them cracked so much as a smile. They watched some of Deal or No Deal. They watched ten minutes of a Patriots-Vikings game on ESPN though neither of them knew a thing about football. They watched The Dog Whisperer. They took none of it in. They didn’t speak at all.

At around ten-thirty Jonatha got up and went into the bathroom. She closed the door and was in there for a long time. Newton could hear the shower running and it made him look at his own hands and clothes. He was filthy. He reeked of garlic and stank of sweat and dried blood. His head hurt terribly where he had struck the floor. He hurt all over. Inside and out.

They had seen a vampire. An actual vampire. Not a hypothetical one, but right there in the flesh. It had touched him. Newton felt unbearably unclean.

In his mind it wasn’t Val’s brother—Newton had only ever seen him a few times around town and didn’t know him—but even if he had he was sure that what he had seen tonight was not Mark Guthrie. This had been a monster.

He shivered once, then again, and the second time it was a whole frigid body ripple that popped gooseflesh along his skin, stood his hair up on end, and made him feel desperately cold to the core of his being. “Oh God…,” he moaned, but his teeth were chattering so bad they sounded like knuckles knocking on glass.

Newton didn’t hear the bathroom door open. “Newt…?”

He turned at the sound of her voice; Jonatha stood there in a blue terrycloth robe that was pulled close at the throat and cinched tight around her waist. She came and knelt next to him. “What’s wrong?”

He opened his mouth, tried to tell her that he was cold, tried to tell her that she looked beautiful, tried to tell her that it was all over, tried to tell her that he was sorry. A dozen thoughts collided in his head and none of them made it to his lips. His teeth were chattering so bad he couldn’t talk.

Jonatha grabbed the comforter off the bed and wrapped it around Newton even as she pulled him down out