Ghost Road Blues

In truth Terry did have doubts about reinstating Crow and halfway regretted having done it on the spur of the moment. Had he been less overwhelmingly exhausted and less off-​kilter he might not have done so. Crow had been a very good cop, and had been sober and going to AA meetings without a break for years, but it had also been a long time since he’d worn a badge and—as much as Terry hated to admit it to himself—Crow was so much of a goofball that it was hard to imagine him even taking what was happening right now with the proper seriousness. But he didn’t see what good admitting it would do now. Especially not in front of Gus and these other officers.



Turning back to Ferro, he went on, “I reinstated him just temporarily so that he could go shut down our Haunted Hayride. It gives him double authority as a contract employee for the hayride and a law officer. That way he’ll have the clout to handle any arguments or protests that result. Tourists can get touchy, you know.”



“Mm. We saw the signs on the way into town. Chief Bernhardt tells me that you own it.”



“Yes, and I’m proud to say that it’s the biggest in the East Coast,” Terry said with one of his few genuine smiles of the day, “but it’s full of kids, and I felt it was best to shut it up for the night and send the kids home.”



“Very smart thinking, sir,” said Ferro. “Is this Mr. Crow the man for the job?”



“Crow,” said Terry firmly, “is the man for any job. Believe me.”



Gus, it was clear, did not, but Ferro and LaMastra saw the look in Terry’s eyes, and they both nodded. “Fine,” Ferro said, “can we keep him on after he’s done that job? Help us out until this thing is over?”



“I think he can be persuaded.”



“Good, good, anyone else?”



Gus cleared his throat. “I suppose we could make some calls. I don’t think we have enough uniforms and sidearms to go around, but we could issue badges and shotguns. Or have the replacements borrow the sidearms of the team going off-​duty.”



“Well, sir,” said Ferro, “I’ll leave you to work that part of it out for yourself. For my own part, if we don’t get some action in the next few hours, I’m going to call in a request for additional officers from Philly, and we may be hearing from the FBI soon.”



“Why would the FBI bother with this?” asked Terry.



“Well, sir, according to your map there, A-32 cuts back and forth over the Delaware River just here, and again here.”



“Yeah? So?”



“Well, that side of the river is New Jersey, this side is Pennsylvania.”



“Again…so?”



“Ah,” said Gus. “Something about interstate flight?”



“Uh-​huh,” said LaMastra. “Interstate flight is a federal rap, and that means the FBI can be asked to step in. But we probably won’t ask.” He directed this last comment to Ferro, who nodded.



“Federal involvement is seldom a good thing. But that doesn’t matter right now. My captain has promised us at least a dozen officers.”



“Get all the help you need,” Terry said. “I said it twice already, and I’m not joking, call in the National Guard if it’ll help. Let me be clear, Sergeant, I surely do not need Jack the Ripper slicing people up in Pine Deep. It’s bad for business, and it’s bad for me personally because I am friends with darn near everybody who lives around here. Please, do whatever—and I mean whatever—it takes to nail these three guys and get them the heck out of my backyard.”



Ferro smiled a tiny smile, and gave Terry a curt nod. “We will do our very best, Mr. Mayor.”



Terry nodded. Turning to Gus, he said, “C’mon, let’s get on the phone and see if we can’t raise some kind of posse.”



“Hi-​yo, Silver,” Gus muttered sourly and followed his boss over to the desks.



Ferro and LaMastra stood looking at them, and then turned to stare up at the map, at the immensity of area that had to be covered in order to run Karl Ruger to ground. It was staggering.



“What d’you think, Sarge?”



Ferro shrugged. “Honestly?”



“Uh-​huh.”



“I think this town is hip deep in shit.”



“Yep. Pretty much how I would have put it.”



2



“Christ, you three look like a hockey team in the penalty box.”



It was true enough. Val sat with a dish towel full of ice cubes pressed to her forehead; her father sat next to her with a similar compress on his torn eyebrow, still flushed and slightly goggle-​eyed from the blow to his solar plexus; and Connie was dabbing at her face with an antimacassar from the couch, sopping up the water Ruger had dashed in her face to wake her up.



Across from them, Ruger sipped a tall glass of Early Times.



“You do realize,” he said in his cold whisper, “that all of this was unnecessary. If you would just follow the rules of my little Q and A, we’d all get along. Can’t we all just get along?” he said, and laughed. The joke was lost on them, but he gave a fatalistic shrug and kept his own good humor. “So, I think by now the rules should be clear. I will ask each one of you a question, or perhaps questions, and that person will answer. No committees, no debating societies. Just questions and answers. That’s pretty simple, isn’t it?”



They stared at him, hating him, willing him death.



He said, “Isn’t it?” leaning into the words.



“Yes,” they each said.



“Nice.” He sipped the sour mash and hissed with pleasure at the burn. “Okay. Now, Miss Val, I believe you were about to tell me about your various boyfriends.”



Val swallowed what felt like a cantaloupe in her throat. “I…don’t have any boyfriends.”



“What? None at all? What about the one that lives in town?”



“No. That’s been over for weeks. There’s no one.”



Ruger smiled a slithery smile. “I find that kinda hard to believe, nice-​looking piece like you. What’s the deal? Didn’t you give him enough?”



Val just looked at him.



“C’mon, I’m interested. Why’d you break up?”



She managed what she hoped was a casual and dismissive shrug. “Just didn’t work out.”



“Uh-​huh.” Ruger’s dark eyes glittered like the glass eyes of a stuffed shark. “So nobody new, huh?”



“No.”



Val tensed, almost as afraid of more questions as she was of Connie blurting out the truth and screwing them all. She wasn’t entirely sure why she denied Crow’s existence, but some instinct had triggered her words when she had spoken. No boyfriend, no husband, no attachments that could somehow be used against her, or who could be hurt if she were to be used against them. Keep the man’s thoughts away from that kind of thinking. It was bad enough that Connie had mentioned Mark, Val’s brother, who was due home sometime soon.



“Okay, you get two points for answering all your questions.” He winked at her. “Okay, Pop. Your turn. What kind of car do you have?”



“A Bronco.”



“Oh yeah? What year?”



“Ninety-​six.”



“Any good?”



For some reason, Guthrie felt a brief flash of cockiness. He said, “It gets lousy gas mileage in the city, the clutch sticks, and it has a shimmy when you get it above sixty.”



Ruger blinked, and then he laughed. “Well, well.” He raised his glass to toast Guthrie and took a heavy knock of the whiskey. “Where are the keys?”



“On a hook by the back door.”



“Where is it parked?”



“Right out back. Just outside the door.”



“What color?”



“Dark green.”



“Any vanity plates?”



Guthrie looked at him for a moment, uncomprehending.



“I mean do you have one of those stupid plates that say 2-FAST or BIG BUX or any of that shit?”



“No…no, just regular tags.”



“Registration and inspection up to date?”



“Of course.”



“‘Of course,’” Ruger repeated, shaking his head. “I break into your house, kick your ass, and am planning to steal your car, and you sound offended when I ask if your inspection is up to date.”



“The car’s fine. Why don’t you take it and go?”



“I will, I will, but not yet. There’s just a few things I got to do yet.”



The phone rang, but Ruger made no move to answer it. He merely let it ring itself out. He finished the drink and set the glass down primly on the side table. Val was amazed: he must have poured five fingers’ worth into the tall milk glass and he’d downed it all in six or eight gulps. How much whiskey was that? A quarter pint? What would he be like when the whiskey hit his system?



“Okay, next question, Mr. Guthrie,” Ruger said with no trace of a slur in his voice. “Do you have a stretcher?”



“A stretcher?”



“Yeah.”



“No. A stretcher? Why would I have a stretcher?”



“You got anything I could use as one?”



Guthrie frowned. “I guess you could take a door off its hinges and use that. Who’s hurt?”



“Hey, hey, now, I didn’t say you could ask any questions.”



“Okay,” Guthrie said in a soft, placating voice. “Sorry.”



“Okay then. How ’bout a wheelbarrow?”



“Sure. We have a couple of those.”



“Where?”



“In the shed. Small yellow building next to the barn.”



“Is it locked?”



“No.”



“No?” Ruger chuckled. “Aren’t you afraid of thieves?”



Guthrie looked at him coldly. “Not usually much of an issue way out here.”



Ruger just shook his head. “Okay, and how about rope? Or that gray tape, whaddya call it?”