“It would just be a few questions?”
“Nope.”
“It won’t take long. Just a few—”
“No squared. No to the fifth power.” Crow reached for the handle.
“I could beg.”
Crow blinked. “What?”
“I’d be happy to beg,” Newton said. “Or grovel. I grovel nicely.” Newton got down on his knees and clasped his hands in front of him. “How’s this?”
“Impressive,” Crow said, laughing quietly. “Now get the hell up, Newbury.”
“Newton.”
“Whatever. Get up, you look like an idiot.” As Newton rose, Crow cocked his head to one side and thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “I know you…you’re the joker who broke the story about Ruger. You look taller on TV.”
Newton’s throat went red. “I stood on a box.”
Crow cracked up, then immediately pressed a hand quickly to his side. “Ow!”
“Are you all right?”
“No I’m not all right, you friggin’ cheesehead. I got shot the other day, or don’t you read the papers?” His love handles burned under the bandages, but the pain passed quickly. Crow blew out cooked air through pursed lips and cocked an eye at Newton. “You’re still here?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions…and just so you know, it’s not about the Karl Ruger thing.” Crow opened his mouth but before he could say anything Newton plowed ahead. “I’ve been assigned to write a feature on the haunted history of Pine Deep. It’s for the Sunday edition that’ll be out the week before Halloween. I’m researching the whole thing, starting way back and going up to the Pine Deep Massacre of thirty years ago.”
Crow narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Yeah? Just what do you think you know about that?”
“Not enough,” Newton said honestly. “Mostly just what everyone seems to know, which is more urban legend than historical fact. Apparently, thirty years ago some guy named Oren Morse killed a bunch of people and—”
“Well, there’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Newton,” Crow snapped, jabbing the air with a stiffened finger. “The Bone Man never killed any of those people. He was not the Reaper, and anyone who says different is a frigging liar!” His face went scarlet as he took a threatening step forward.
“Whoa, Mr. Crow, I didn’t mean to offend—”
Crow glared at him, but the moment passed and he backed up a step. “Look,” he said with less venom, “I know a lot of people think the Bone Man was the Reaper, but I know for a fact that he wasn’t.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because I was there when it all happened.”
“But that was thirty years ago. You couldn’t have been more than—”
“I was nine, but I remember it all. Every charming detail like it was yesterday, so don’t go telling me who killed who.”
“Mr. Crow,” Newton said, holding his hands up, palms out. “Look, I’m just trying to find out what happened, okay? I’m not the one who’s saying Oren Morse did the killings. That’s the local legend. To me it’s just a starting point, but I wanted to interview you so I could get your take on it. The people I asked so far say you’re an expert on local folklore. I can’t count the number of articles I saw on the Net that quote you about one ghost story or another. So don’t get me wrong—if I don’t have the full story it’s only because I haven’t gotten the full story yet.”
Crow chewed on that for a moment and saw, far up the hill, a tiny figure on a bike. Mike heading to the shop to start his first day. “Look, tell you what, Newt—can I call you Newt?”
“If it gets me an interview you can call me Kermit the Frog.”
“Fine. If you want to interview me, Kermit, then meet me at the Guthrie farm tomorrow afternoon. You know where that is, I’m sure. Be there at four. No other reporters, no cameras, just you. Bring a tape recorder if you want, but I get to decide what gets said and what gets printed. That’s the deal I always make with reporters, and I won’t say word one without an agreement. Don’t worry, you’ll get better value for your time if you play it my way than if you don’t.”
“Okay then. But, tell me something, Mr. Crow…”
“Just call me Crow.”
“Okay. Tell me, Crow, why is it you’re so sure that Oren Morse didn’t commit all those murders.”
Crow’s eyes drilled holes through Newt. “Because the Bone Man saved my life, that’s why.” He paused. “Come around four tomorrow and I’ll tell you all about it.”
He ambled away into his store as Newton stared after him. “Goddamned right I’ll be there,” he said to himself.
(3)
Ferro and LaMastra arrived at the crime scene in less than ten minutes. The bridge was blocked off on both sides of the river by cruisers with their lights flashing. They had to wait for a criminalist, but that was routine because a blind man could read the scene, even with the dense cloud cover that cast the whole landscape in a false twilight gloom.
“Boyd must have been trying to cross the river,” LaMastra said, working it out as they carefully picked their way up the slope to the bridge, careful not to smudge any of Boyd’s muddy footprints. “You can see where he approached from upstream keeping down at the bank so as not to be seen from the road.” He pointed. “Prints come up here and he must have been trying to make a dash for the Jersey side when that farmer—what’s his name?”
Ferro looked at his notepad. “Carby. Gaither Carby.”
“When Carby comes over and nearly hits him. Boyd takes some potshots at him and then hauls ass across the bridge.”
Ferro nodded and they walked the length of the bridge, watching as step-by-step the muddy prints faded to nothingness as Boyd’s shoes were scraped clean by the rough timbers. Even with the trail gone the evidence was clear enough.
“I got brass!” called Coralita Toombes, who was squatting by the steelwork on the left side of the bridge. She set up a few little markers that looked like tiny sandwich signs, each one sequentially numbered. “Three of ’em.”
As other officers arrived Ferro had them fan out and search on both sides of the river, and a BOLO was issued for all adjoining New Jersey jurisdictions. Ferro chewed a stick of gum and looked slowly back and forth from one side of the bridge to the other, frowning. LaMastra saw the look and came over. “Problem?”
“No…not really. Just, doesn’t this all seem like a bit of a rerun?”
“Yeah, but let’s face it, the guy absolutely had to get out of town. With any luck the next time we hear from him he’ll be getting picked up at either the Canadian or Mexican border.”
Ferro nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. Yet after three more hours of searching they found nothing to contradict the indications that Kenneth Boyd had left Pine Deep.
(4)
Crow had time to get inside, switch on the lights, and slide a Coldplay CD into the box before the little bell above the door jangled and Mike Sweeney came in. Crow had been smiling while he waited for Mike to show up their first workday together, but his smile dimmed when he saw the vicious bruises that darkened the boy’s face. By main force of will he dialed his smile back up to an acceptable brightness and said, “Welcome to the dungeon, Igor.”
Mike grinned back, and though his smile looked happy there was just a trace of a wince there. Crow thought about he’d like to take a quick road trip over to Vic Wingate’s place and beat him to within an inch of his miserable life. No jury would touch me, he thought.
“How are you feelin’, Crow?” Mike asked, taking Crow’s proffered hand.
“Like dookey. How ’bout you?”
“Good.” It had been pretty clear to Crow that even walking across the floor had caused Mike some pain. Riding that bike must have been a bitch.
“Which falls under my personal definition of ‘bullshit,’” he said.
“No, really.”
“Bing! Bing! Bing! We’re hitting a solid eight on the bullshit meter.”
“Crow…don’t, okay?” Mike eyes slid away from Crow’s and his smile leaked away. In profile and with the bruises, Mike looked like an old man instead of a kid. Old and sick. Crow leaned on the counter that separated them and forced eye contact with the boy. “Look, kid, I’m not hideously stupid. If you’re in pain, you’re allowed to say, ‘Gosh, Crow, I hurt like a complete sumbitch.’ This is an acceptable response to inquiries about your current state of well-being.”
It was clear that Mike couldn’t decide whether to laugh or flee. His eyes had a shifty, uncertain look. Even so, he said, “Gosh, Crow, I hurt like a complete son of a bitch.”
“‘Sumbitch,’ son. This is a hick town, the correct term is ‘sumbitch.’”
“I hurt like a complete sumbitch.”
“Good. Now watch your language, you juvenile delinquent.”
This time Mike did laugh. A bit. “How’s your…uh, I mean, Val?”
“My ‘uh, I mean Val’ is doing pretty good; and fiancée is the word you’re fumbling for. She’s home sleeping right now, and Sarah Wolfe is keeping her company. You know her? The mayor’s wife?”
“I deliver their paper,” Mike said, nodding. “Well…did. I guess I’m going to quit now that I’m working here.”
“Val sends her best, by the way. She said that you’re a sweetheart for helping me out here.”
Mike flushed red.
“But enough of this banter, today we’re going to explore the exciting world of retail sales. First step—inventory.” He gave a stage wink. “Takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. I’m like…tingling.”
