Ghost Road Blues

“Stopped?”



Terry snorted. “Yeah, supposedly Gus Bernhardt and his posse are going to try and apprehend a real criminal.”



“Be better to have the Marx Brothers try and arrest them. Gus is pretty good at parking tickets, though.”



“And not much else.” Terry rubbed his eyes.



Crow could see the pressure mounting in his friend’s face, which had gone from a haggard white to a dangerous red.



“So, basically all that the local boys were supposed to do was stop and detain and then turn the bad guys over to the Philly cops. Problem is…a good hour ago, the psychos blew past the Black Marsh checkpoint and crossed the bridge. Now here’s the fun part. The suspects never made it to the roadblock in Crestville.”



Crow said, “Oh,” in a very expressive voice. The town of Pine Deep was a comfortably wide spot in the road, a triangular wedge made up of upscale shops and lush farmland and bisected by Interstate Alternate Extension Route A-32, lying hard against the Delaware River that separated Pennsylvania from New Jersey and framed on all sides by streams and canals. A-32 wavered back and forth between the two states, across old iron bridges and up through farm country, and then plowed right through the town. Black Marsh was an even smaller burg just to the southeast, and miniscule Crestville was the next town heading north. A-32 was the only road that cut all the way through those three towns; the other roads were all small farm roads that led nowhere but to someone’s back forty or to the asymmetrical tangle of cobblestoned streets in Pine Deep’s trendy shopping and dining district. Any car heading to Crestville had to pass through Pine Deep.



“Are they sure they were on the route?”



“Yeah, a Black Marsh cycle cop spotted them. Everyone expected them to run into the roadblock in Crestville. There was a reception committee with eight or nine cars, barricades and shotguns…but they never made it.”



“Shit.”



“As you say. So, now we apparently have to stage a manhunt.”



Crow laughed. “You’re kidding, right? An actual manhunt? Like in the movies?”



“Just like in the movies. Richard Kimble and all that—though Gus Bernhardt is certainly no Lieutenant Gerard. I only hope the cops from Philly are.” Terry cocked his head and peered at Crow. “I wish you’d stop grinning. This is serious.”



But Crow just shook his head. “I doubt it, I really do. This is just Gus getting hysterical. Everyone’s going to run around like Chicken Little and then we’re going to hear that these three clowns are somewhere northwest of Scranton. Sorry, dude, but I just can’t take this seriously.”



“Well, I do,” Terry said, and there was enough asperity in his tone to dial down even Crow’s humor. “This isn’t just Gus this time. There really are detectives from Philadelphia here and they, at least, seem to be taking this seriously.”



“Jeez, Terry,” Crow said, holding his hands up. “Lighten up. Don’t get mad at me. I just know Gus a little better than you do, and until I see actual bad guys rolling down Corn Hill I’m going to find this hard to buy. That’s all.”



A nervous twitch had started at the corner of Terry’s right eye and he was starting to perspire. He mopped his face on his expensive sleeve, hesitated for a moment, and pasted on a bad attempt at an amiable smile, saying, “Okay, okay. Look, I gotta go but I need you to do a favor for me?”



“Sure, call it.”



“Go out to the hayride and let Coop know what’s coming down. Maybe even shut it down for the night. No, don’t give me that look. I think it’s the smart thing to do with all this stuff going on. The hayride’s on Old Mill, just off A-32, and with all the kids out there…well, you know what I mean.” Terry was attempting to sound offhand, but his words were coming out in nervous rapid-​fire. “Try to call Coop first, but you know he won’t answer. He never does. He just lets the tape get it. Coop is a pain in my behind.”



“He’s Sarah’s cousin.”



“Nepotism is the only thing keeping him on the payroll. The man’s an idiot.”



Crow found nothing to contest in that statement. “Okay, I’ll button up the shop and head out there. I’m supposed to go over to Val’s anyway, and that’s more or less on the way.”



Terry looked a little relieved. “Thanks for playing errand boy. Oh, and, Crow?”



“Yes, darling?”



“Be extra careful. Don’t grin at me like that, you idiot, I’m serious.”



Crow smiled regardless and dropped into a Festus drawl. “Gee, Mayor Wolfe, does that mean I can bring along my trusty six-​gun?”



With no trace of humor in his voice, Terry said, “Yes, it does.”



Crow blinked at him, waiting for the punch line. He said, “You serious?”



“As a heart attack.” Terry cleared his throat. “Look, Crow, all of the cops—local and otherwise—are going to be mustering at the station to coordinate this thing. If I could, I’d send one of them, not that any of them are worth the cost of a pack of Juicy-​Fruit. Besides, you used to be a cop….”



“Christ, Terry, in this town nearly everyone except my grandmother has been a cop at one time or other. And she’d have taken the job if she hadn’t had the rhuematiz.”



“Yeah, well. Consider yourself temporarily reinstated.”



“As a cop? You can do that?”



“I’m the mayor, I can do anything.”



“That’s not what Sarah says.”



“That’s where you’re wrong. My wife thinks I’m Superman.” He mopped more sweat and then looked at his friend for a moment. “Look, Crow, just do this for me quick and safe, okay?”



Crow smiled but he could see that this matter really was troubling Terry, so he didn’t make another joke. “Sure, Terry. Whatever you want. And about this whole fugitive thing—don’t get too wired about it, ’cause about the last place three wanted criminals are going to want to go is to a haunted hayride packed with every teenager from the tristate area. Y’know, they got this whole thing about witnesses and such.”



Terry walked behind the counter and retrieved his cell phone, which was only partially recharged. “Yeah, well, just be careful anyway.”



“I promise that I will be very careful. The best man for this job is a smart coward, and damn it, Terry, I’m your man.” He sketched a salute.



Terry Wolfe shook his head, but then he stepped forward and thrust out his hand. “Thanks.”



Crow picked up a rubber severed arm and extended it to shake Terry’s hand. Terry batted it lightly aside and shook his head again, sadly this time. “You are very weird,” he said with a harried grin, and then left.



For a full minute, Crow just looked out through the broad glass window at the darkness, a lopsided smile on his face. He scratched his cheek with the rubber hand.



“Well, hell,” he said aloud. Then went into the back room and fetched his gun.



3



Seconds crawled over the car like army ants. Finally Boyd found his voice and croaked, “Tony? Ruger?”



Ruger just grunted at him. He quivered as adrenaline coursed through him. He could feel the hair standing up all over his body. His fingertips shook as he probed his cheek and forehead, which were puffing up and beginning to throb. There was no pain yet, but a growing tingle that forewarned him of it. It felt wonderful. Running his tongue over his gums, he could taste the hot, salty blood, and he drank it down hungrily.



“Is Tony okay?”



Annoyed by the fact that Boyd seemed to be relatively unhurt, Ruger looked at the driver, slumped motionlessly against the steering wheel. “Who cares?” Ruger said.



“What the hell happened?”



“Tony drove us over a ditch and into this fucking cornfield, whaddya think happened?”



“Shit!” Boyd said. “That’s just…shit.”



“Uh-​huh.” Ruger was trying to recapture the image of the man in his mind, certain that he knew the man, but the harder he tried to grab at the memory, the more elusive it became until finally it was gone for good. He felt a pang at the loss.



Ruger, you are my left hand.



He jerked the passenger door handle, shoved the door open, and eased himself out of the car, listening to his body for signs of damage and finding nothing but a few blossoming bruises. He stood by the side of the car for a moment and then grabbed it as the cornfield swirled sickeningly around him. Closing his eyes, he fought for balance. It came reluctantly and slowly. He opened his eyes and looked around. The cornfield was still swaying, but now it was because of the wind. He wondered if he had a concussion. The last time he’d had one, it had felt like being buzzed on really good sour mash; a very nice feeling.



“Is the car okay?” Boyd asked as he popped open his door and crawled out.



Ruger studied it, lips pursed. “Nope.”



Boyd came unsteadily around the car and stood by Ruger. They looked down at the right front wheel, which lay almost flat under the weight of the car. The tire was intact, but the ball joint connecting the wheel to the axle had snapped and the whole wheel had just folded under the car.



“Well, shit,” Boyd said again.



“Yeah.”



“Never gonna fix that.”



“No kidding.”



“What’re we gonna do?”



Ruger barely glanced at him. “Your legs work, don’t they?”



Boyd gave him an incredulous stare and then flapped his good arm. “Oh, shit. Man, this is just the fucking top. Walk? Yeah, Ruger, that’s just great. Walk where? Back to Philly? Walk to New Hope? Maybe you want to take a country stroll to Lambertville, I hear they have a good brunch at the inn.” He shook his head. “Where the hell we gonna walk to?”



“Anywhere but here.”



“Yeah? Well, we’re in the middle of East Bumfuck, Pennsylvania. There ain’t nowhere around here to walk to!”