“No,” Terry said with a vigorous shake of his head, “it can’t be that simple.”
“Not saying it is, brother,” Crow said, “but it’s at least part of the puzzle. What’s your doc say about it?”
“He thinks it’s stress.”
“And you don’t?” He waved his hands to indicate the town. “You’re the mayor of Shitstorm, USA. Can we say ‘blight’? Can we say ‘township-wide financial crisis’? Not to mention Ruger and those other ass-clowns shooting up the place.”
“This started before Ruger.”
“Has it gotten worse since he’s been here?”
A silence, then Terry nodded. Crow gave a “well, there you are” hand gesture.
“No,” Terry said, “there’s more.”
(2)
Vic always drove carefully. He’d never so much as logged a parking ticket, let alone a speeding ticket, so when he saw that there was a police unit behind him he didn’t sweat being pulled over. On the other hand, he was less than half a mile from the hospital, heading away from it on the only major road that passed those gates. He stared at the headlights of the cruiser in his rearview mirror and his mind was working, working.
When the light ahead turned red, he made a decision and braked to a stop, pulling halfway onto the shoulder and waving his arm out the window. As the cruiser pulled up Vic could see that it was Dave Golub riding alone. He knew Golub through Polk. A big Jewish kid playing cop to pay his way through law school. Vic grinned. “Hey! Dave!”
Golub peered through his passenger window and saw who it was. He put his unit in park and hit the button to drop the window. “Vic?”
“Yeah, glad to see you,” Vic said and jerked his door open. “You’re a gift from God, let me tell you.”
“Everything okay?”
“Oh, well it is and it ain’t,” Vic said, flashing his grin. “I hit a deer a couple miles back. Mashed the son of a bitch but good and slung him in the back.” He jerked a thumb toward the truck bed. “But I just heard a thump and I think the poor bastard ain’t dead after all. Mind taking a look?”
Without waiting for an answer he started walking back toward the tailgate, knowing that Golub would follow. He just hoped he wouldn’t call it in, but didn’t think he would. Vic was a townie and everybody knew Vic. Vic never got drunk, never got into trouble, and he was a buddy with Polk.
Golub said, “Sure, but I’m no vet,” and got out.
As he crunched along the gravel on the shoulder, Vic waited, one hand inside the cab holding onto the corner of the tarp, sizing Golub up. The kid was huge, maybe six-five and beefy tending toward soft. Vic knew he could take him if he had to, but that wasn’t on the menu.
“Let me see what you got,” Golub said, putting one hand on the rim of the bed and using the other to shine his light at the tarp. “If it’s still wounded I can call someone to bring out one of those humane-killer things, and—”
As he said this, Vic whipped back the tarp. There was nothing humane about what happened next.
(3)
Val parted the curtains just slightly and peered out. The kitchen was dark and she could see Terry and Crow outside. “What do you think they’re talking about?” she asked.
“Besides what’s going on in town?” Sarah asked from the doorway. She had her arms folded and was leaning against the frame. “Probably talking about Terry’s dreams.”
Val let the curtains fall closed and turned to Sarah. “Dreams?”
“Come in to the parlor.” When they were seated on opposite sides of the fireplace, Sarah leaned close, taking Val’s hand. “I know you and Terry don’t get along that well…”
“That’s ancient history.”
“No, it isn’t,” Sarah said, “but it’s good of you to say it. The point is, Terry loves Crow like a brother, and if I had to guess what he’s doing out there, he’s opening up to him about some stuff he should have told him weeks ago. You see…Terry has been having some problems.” She paused. “Psychological problems.” Val squeezed Sarah’s hand, and Sarah took a breath and plunged ahead. “Terry is telling Crow, and I need to tell someone, too, and I was going to call you a few days ago, and then all of this stuff happened with your dad, and the farm and all.”
“It’s been bad for all of us, honey, but if you need to get something off your chest don’t worry about how I’m going to take it. Tell you the truth, right now I need to be somebody’s rock, if you know what I’m saying. I’m not good at being vulnerable—I need to be the strong one. That make sense?”
Sarah smiled and there were tears in her eyes. “Of course it does, Val. Sometimes I think you’re the toughest one of all of us. I know Crow thinks that, too; and it may surprise you to know, but so does Terry.” She dabbed at her eyes. “I don’t know if he’s ever managed to say it, but he’s really sorry about what happened. He knows he betrayed you, he knows he broke your heart. It was a bad time for him and if he could take it back and make it right, he would, but sometimes Terry is wound so tight he doesn’t know how to reach people. Sure, he’s great at press conferences, but he’s never been very good at getting to the heart of things. You know that as well as anyone.”
Val nodded, and thinking about the grudge she’d been holding for almost sixteen years she felt suddenly ashamed. She sighed, and then gave Sarah a rueful smile. “Okay, sweetie, as far as I’m concerned that stuff is ancient history. I’m officially calling a truce.”
“Thank God,” Sarah said, and the relief was plain on her face, “because right now I need you to help me with what Terry’s going through. If you want to…if you can.”
“Sarah…” Val said, squeezing her hand again. “We’re all in this together.”
Sarah took another deep breath and let it out as a sigh, her eyes shifting from Val to the fire and then to her hands, which were wriggling and knotting in her lap. “It’s…well…I think Terry is losing his mind,” she said.
(4)
“More…like what?” Crow asked slowly.
It took Terry a full minute to make his mouth form the words. “Crow…my dead sister, Mandy’s been following me lately.” When Crow’s mouth dropped open, Terry added, “And she’s been trying to get me to kill myself.”
“Holy leaping ratshit!”
“How well you put it,” Terry said with a weak smile, but his voice cracked. He looked at the coffee in his cup, sighed, and emptied the cup over the rail, stood up without a word, and went inside. When he came out he had a bottle of Weyerbacher Imperial Pumpkin Ale. He unscrewed the cap, tossed it out into the shadows, and took a long pull.
Crow forced himself to say, “Why, Terry? Why would Mandy want you dead?”
Terry pulled a chair close to the chaise longue and sat down, leaning his big forearms on his thighs, his blue eyes crackling with tension and fear, the beer bottle swaying like a plumb bob from his laced fingers. “Mandy is afraid that the beast is going to take over and that I’m going to become…”
“Become what?” Crow whispered. Icy hands were clamped around his spine.
Tears filled Terry’s eyes and for the first time Crow truly had a measure of the hell that his friend was in. “Crow…she thinks that if the beast takes over I’ll become just like Ubel Griswold.”
Each of those words hit Crow over the heart like punches, and each one was a harder blow than anything Ruger had thrown at him. Ubel Griswold sends his regards. “Oh my God!” he croaked, when he found his voice. He steeled himself to ask, “Terry…I’ve asked you a dozen times since we were kids and you always blow me off…but how much do you remember of what happened to you and Mandy that day?”
Which is when Terry’s cell phone rang. The sound made Crow jump and spill his coffee all over Party Cat, who hissed and leapt up and ran out into the yard. As Crow jumped up to slap at the lukewarm stains spreading on his jeans, he heard one-half of the conversation. “Hello. Gus…yes, what’s—? What? When? Jesus H. Christ, Gus…how did he get into the bloody hospital?” A pause. “Was anyone hurt? Well, thank God for that. No, I’m at home. I’ll…be there in just a few minutes.”
Terry snapped his phone shut and stood with his eyes closed and one hand clapped over his head, fingers knotted in his hair as if he wanted to rip a handful of it out. He took an awkward step backward and staggered, but Crow darted forward and caught him before he fell. He helped Terry to the rail and took the phone out of his hand.
“Terry, what’s wrong?”
Terry Wolfe leaned on the rail, sucking in great lungfuls of air. “Is this never going to stop?” he asked the night. The crow in the tree cawed again, a little louder this time; then in a fractured voice he said, “Kenneth Boyd just broke into Pinelands Hospital and stole Karl Ruger’s body.”
Crow felt as if someone has just punched all of the air out of his lungs. He opened his mouth, but there was nothing in his vocabulary to respond to that, so he stared at Terry as around them both the moon opened its mocking white eye and the dark silence roared.
Interlude
The Carby Place was one of those farms that would have been a delight for a wandering Tom Joad: ramshackle and down at the heels, but honest, and it grew crops that fed the family with just enough left over to bring in a few thousand a month. Every month it was a stretch to meet the bills, pay something on the mortgage, put clothes on the kids. There were only thirty such farms left in Pine Deep, and with inflation and the blight, soon there would be none. Gaither Carby knew that and still he managed to crawl out of bed every morning, pull on his work clothes, choke down a breakfast, and then lumber out to the fields to try and fight another battle in a lost war. He could sell out, and after the mortgage was settled there would be enough equity left to maybe buy a trailer home in Bensalem, and then maybe finish out life working some shit job until he was old enough to apply for social security. Either way he looked the road went nowhere.
