Dead Man's Song

(4)



Three hours later Vic was in his lounger, his face showing more anger than he wanted as he watched Ruger continue to stare out the backdoor’s peephole. His phone rang and when he saw it was Polk he flipped it open. “Make it brief,” Vic snapped.



“Just got home from the hospital. I got grilled by that nigger cop, Ferro, but it’s cool. After I let you in I went out a service entrance and came back and visited Rhoda, so I was in her room when everyone started making a fuss. I’m in the clear. All they know is that someone let Boyd in, but they don’t know who. They just know it wasn’t me.”



“Good work, Jimmy boy.” He closed his phone without saying good-bye and called to Ruger. “You thirsty?”



“Of course I am.”



“You have any idea what to do about that?” Ruger was standing at Vic’s cellar door, peering through the peephole at the empty street. He didn’t answer the question, so Vic said, “You deaf?”



“I heard you,” Ruger whispered. “If you’re hoping to get some jollies by seeing me jones for some O-positive, then too bad. It’s not like the movies, asshole. I can wait.” He touched the wood of the door with the tips of his long white fingers and as he watched the street he drew his fingertips slowly down the length of the door, from head height to waist level. Each black fingernail left a visible groove in the oak and little curls of wood fluttered to the cement floor. “When I need to feed, I’ll feed.”



Vic heard the faint screech as the nails grooved the wood. There was no visible change in his face, but his hand moved with apparently casualness from the armrest to the butt of the pistol tucked down between thigh and cushion. “I just fixed that shit, so don’t go messing with it.” In truth he had been furious—and visibly shaken—when he’d come home and found that Ruger had torn the lock open. At the time he had wheeled on Ruger and had given him a searching, accusing glare. “Did you try to go out?”



Ruger kept his face bland while he said, “Do I look like a Crispy Critter? I’m not stupid, you know.” Then because he knew more explanation would be needed, he contrived another lie. “I was getting antsy and wanted to take a look outside and just tore open the door, forgetting what time of day it was.” He was pretty sure Vic bought that, and thereafter Ruger changed the subject.



Vic lit a cigarette. “You know, sport, everyone in town is talking about how Malcolm Crow and Val Guthrie bitch-slapped you. Twice. That cockup at the hospital was a real mess.” Ruger answered with silence. “What am I supposed to think about that, sport? What’s the Man supposed to think about that?”



That far end of the cellar was mostly in shadows and Vic’s face was a pale vagueness in the gloom. Even so, Vic could see—or thought he saw—the red burn of Ruger’s eyes.



“News flash, asshole—when you come back from the dead there’s no how-to manual. I was barely turned when I hit the hospital.” He licked his lips. “Times are changing, though. Every minute I keep learning more about what I am. I’ll bet I know some shit that you don’t know.”



Vic snorted. “Don’t put too much down on that bet, sport, and don’t try and pussy out of this. Own it like a man. You screwed up.”



“If you think I’m a screwup, then cap me, Wingate,” Ruger said quietly. “Otherwise go stick it up your ass.”



Vic picked up the pistol. “You think I won’t?”



Ruger smiled and Vic could definitely see that. Rows of jagged white teeth. Crow had kicked his front teeth out, but already they were starting to grow back—though they were keeping their jagged ridges. It made Ruger look like a cannibal. “If the Man wanted me dead he could reach out and snuff me out just like that. You know it and I know it.” Now it was Vic’s turn to be silent. “So, if I’m still alive—and if he sent you and my ol’ buddy Boyd to go and hijack me from the hospital—then I’m thinking the Man doesn’t think I’m all that much of a screwup.”



“Maybe,” Vic said grudgingly, “but it sure doesn’t mean that you’re employee of the month, either. To me you’re as useful as Gertie here.” He waggled the pistol. “And I think we can get along fine without you.”



Ruger gave a short, cold bark of a laugh. “You think you’re king shit, but you’re no more on the policy level than I am. We’re all fingers on the Man’s hand, and we should bow down and kiss the ground every time we even think of his name. Instead you’re second-guessing him. I find that very interesting.”



“Smooth talk for a screwup, sport.” But Vic shifted in his seat as he said that.



“By dawn tomorrow I’ll have done more for the Man than you’ve managed in thirty years, so the next time you want to blow smoke about something, just blow it up your own ass.” He took a small step forward. “Remember—there’s a lot more of us now than there are of you.” He jerked his chin toward the pistol. “I’ll bet you don’t even take a shit without that next to you these days. Getting scary out there, isn’t it?”



“Don’t try that Bela Lugosi crap on me, sport. I was running with the Man before you figured out which hand to use to jerk off with.” He sat back against the leather cushions. “I’m still waiting to hear this grand plan of yours for Crow and that Guthrie bitch. You pretty much blew your chance to make it look like an act of vengeance from a man on the run—which was the plan as I recall—so you’d better not be planning something too crazy. We want tourists in town, not more cops, you dig?”



“I have something low key in mind for them. Y’see, I planted a seed.”



“What’s that supposed to mean?”



“At the hospital, I put a worm in Crow’s brain and I think the little bastard is going to come to us. Well…he’s going to come to the Man.” Ruger’s smile faded but there was still laughter in his red eyes. He turned away and bent to the peephole again. “And that should be a real treat.” He grinned at Vic. “Something the Man suggested. You don’t need to worry about it. The thing you got to do is figure a good way for us to introduce Val Guthrie to my ol’ buddy, Boyd.”



“Boyd? Why, you afraid to do it yourself?”



“Time’s not right for me to risk being seen around the Guthrie place, or don’t you agree? I mean, hell, you went to such great pains to get me out of the hospital—made sure Boyd was seen hauling my ass out of there. Everyone knows I’m dead, but Boyd’s in the catbird seat right now. He’s the man of the hour. I think we need to have him pay the Guthrie slut a visit, maybe give her the standard recruitment speech.”



Vic thought about it, then gave Ruger a grudging nod. “You want to fry Crow’s grits for him. Make him hurt first, am I right?”



“That’s exactly what I want. Nice to be on the same page.”



“It’s nasty and devious—much as I hate to say it, I like it. Be careful, though. Boyd going after those cops wasn’t any part of the Plan. He was supposed to get lost until those Philly cops left town, and I even drove his ass out of town, but he went off the reservation and came back to where he last saw you. Who the hell knows why. Guy’s brains are mush, so, even though the man gave him a tune-up, I think you’d better have a talk with him, too, just to be sure he follows the playbook. You want to turn Guthrie, not have Boyd scatter her pieces all over the county. That’s no good to us. That’s shock, not hurt, and if you want to hurt Crow that won’t get you the best bang for the buck.”



“I’ll handle Boyd.”



“Point is, because of Boyd’s screwup the Plan is starting to change. We have more police attention than we need, and we have the wrong kind of media buzz. We need to do everything on the sly now, especially as far as Crow goes. Now we have to be more careful about how and when we take him off the board. He’s one of the only two people who can keep all the big Halloween celebrations going at full tilt. Him and Terry Wolfe. Wolfe’s looking pretty shaky lately—and we both know what that’s about—so if he has a breakdown, or turns, then Crow will have to stay alive and in play. So…hands off him until we know what’s happening with Wolfe.”



“What about Guthrie?”



“It’s a good plan, but let it wait a couple days. Maybe save it for Little Halloween. Hurrying’s not going to help us right now. Besides, you’ve got plenty of other work to do.”



Ruger looked at the wall clock and his body shuddered as if in climax. “Sundown. Time to go out and play.”



Chapter 12



(1)



The shades were up and the curtains pulled back to allow as much morning light as possible to wash over them. Both of them were propped up on pillows with coffee cups steaming on the bedside tables. Crow had his arm around Val and she was resting the unbruised side of her face against his chest. They had learned the routines of cuddling while avoiding bruises and stitches and sore places. Across the room the TV was on with the sound muted as a petite blond read the weather on Channel 6. Sarah had brought them coffee a few minutes ago, told them Terry was still out at the hospital, and then left them to deal with the day that lay ahead of them.



“You can still back out,” Crow said softly, stroking Val’s shoulder. “Terry and Sarah would let us stay here. Or we could just shack up at my place. The cats would love to have you visit.”



“No,” she said firmly, then smiled a bit. “Thanks, honey, but…no.”



Crow let it go. Last night, as they were climbing into bed, Val had told him that she wanted to go home, but Crow had wondered what kind of ghosts would be there. Would they be able to feel Ruger’s toxicity? Certainly they would feel the utter loss of the presence of Henry Guthrie. If it was up to Crow, he would have her sell the damn place and they could buy a town house somewhere on Corn Hill, but Val wouldn’t even listen to that kind of talk. Guthries had always lived there and by God Guthries always would. “I won’t be chased out of my own house,” she said. “I won’t be chased out of my own life. Besides, Ruger’s already taken enough away from me.”