Bad Moon Rising

Chapter 9

(1)

Five customers came into the Crow’s Nest in the two hours Mike lay under the counter. Three of them peered around, saw that no one was there, and left. The fourth—his friend Brandon from school—called Crow’s name, got no reply, and left. The fifth was a kid from Mike’s homeroom who wanted to buy some comic books. After spending ten minutes in the store, browsing through Daredevil and Thor books while surreptitiously checking for staff or security cameras, he tucked thirty dollars’ worth of Marvel comics under his sweatshirt and sauntered out as if he owned the world. On the way out, just for the hell of it, he flipped over the sign on the door so that it now read CLOSED.

The store settled into silence. Mike was not crying anymore. The convulsions had put an end to that. He wasn’t twitching anymore, either. He lay there, cold and still, eyes open and dry from not blinking. His chest barely moved, his breathing very shallow and slow, his pulse slower.

When the change started, it happened very slowly, with no great hurry. It started with a hitch in his chest as he took a single sharp, deep breath, like a dead person who was suddenly reacting to the defibrillator paddles. His body didn’t arch or jump, just that single gasp, after which his breath became deeper, more regular. Then nothing for five minutes.

The next thing that happened was a blink. His dry lids scraped over the arid surface of his eyes once, then again. The second time was easier; there was more moisture. Then a third, a fourth as the eyes moistened. There was no sign of focus, no hint of intelligence or awareness. The blink, like the breath, was a process kicking in, a link in the organic chain of system reboots.

It was just over two hours from the time that Tow-Truck Eddie had walked out that Mike Sweeney came back. One moment his eyes were open and empty and the next, bridged by another blink, Mike was there behind those blue windows. Like water filling a submerged cup, life flooded instantly in and filled his body.

As he gradually became aware of his body, Mike began the process of thinking. He thought about who he was, and that took a while before he remembered. He thought about why his body hurt, and he came up blank on that one—but he was aware that he didn’t know, which was a step toward full consciousness. He thought about where he was, and very slowly he went from small picture—he was on a floor under the counter—to a more moderate view—he was in someplace that was not his home—to a larger view—he was in Crow’s store.

Crow. The name of the store came to him more quickly than the identity of its owner, though as he lay there, becoming increasingly more aware of something sticky on his face and throat, of the way his clothing was uncomfortably twisted, of the cramps in muscles, the face of Malcolm Crow gradually formed in his mind.

“Crow…” Mike said, his voice just a whisper. Saying the name fleshed out Crow’s complete personality in his mind, and that tumbled the last pieces into place. He was in Crow’s store, it was daytime. Crow wasn’t here…no one was here.

Why was he here?

Mike took a steadying breath and then slowly, carefully, he unclenched the knotted fist that was his curled body. Pain seemed to be a humming presence within it, constantly throbbing. He was on his side and he rolled over onto his elbows and knees. Beneath him the floor seemed to buckle and ripple in a nauseating way, but as consciousness blossomed he grew to understand that this was just the effects of—

Of what? He didn’t know, wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

From his knees he straightened his torso so that he could look over the edge of the counter. The store was empty; the outside light looked like late morning. There was traffic outside, people and cars. Mike leaned his hands on the counter to steady himself, and the touch of the solid wood and Formica had a nicely steadying effect on the whole room and an equally calming effect on his stomach. Solid reality. It felt good enough to risk standing up and he gave that a shot, using both hands to pull himself up, first to one foot and then to both. The room, agreeably, did not start dancing around again.

There was a horrible taste in his mouth and he looked around for something to drink. He saw the trash can, saw that he’d thrown up in it.

“Swell,” he said and carefully walked over to the small bathroom. As before, the face in the mirror was one he didn’t recognize, but this time it was not an hallucination of his own, older face; now it was just his normal face but his skin was greenish and there was puke dried on his chin, throat, and upper shirtfront. “Swell,” he said again, and reached for the tap.

When he had cleaned himself up, he felt better, stronger. He emptied the trash can and washed it, then mopped the floor behind the counter, which was stained with vomit and sweat. He removed all traces of what had happened, embarrassed by it without understanding what had happened or if there was any shame he should feel. Probably not, but guilt was a reflex for him.

It was nearly an hour before he realized that the sign on the door was hung the wrong way. A lucky break, he thought as he went over to flip it to OPEN.

Still no sign of Crow. He thought about calling him, but something inside told him not to. Not now, not yet.

He got a bottle of Yoo-hoo from Crow’s apartment fridge, pulled the stool to the end of the counter, picked up the copy of Cemetery Dance that he had started reading. The entire encounter with Tow-Truck Eddie was buried down deep, buried along with a lot of other things that were stored in the shadows in the back of his brain. Stored out of sight, but not gone.

(2)

Crow sat in the plastic visitor’s chair, sloshing around the cold dregs of hospital coffee in a cardboard cup and watching the sky outside thicken from gray to purple as another storm front pushed in from the west. Val was finally asleep, her face turned away from him so that all he could see was the lumpy mountain of bandages that covered the right half of her head. Her hands twitched as she slept. Bad dreams, he thought, knowing that right now there were no other kinds of dreams she could be having.

Boyd’s body was missing. Exhausted as she was, the news had nearly broken her. She dissolved into frustrated, horrified tears and went on and on until Crow began to fear that she was having a breakdown. How much could one person take, after all? There was nothing the nurses could do; she was pregnant, so sedatives were out of the question, and there’s only so much emotional mileage you can get from a cup of chamomile tea. So, Crow had held her while the storms of fear and hurt raged in her heart, and it was close to three o’clock before pain and exhaustion dragged her down into a rough and troubled sleep. He doubted she would find much restoration there, and he hated the thought of what shapes lumbered through her nightmares.

Just after five there was a soft tap on the door and Crow got up quietly and padded over, opening the door softly to see Sarah Wolfe standing there. She looked as smashed down and weary as Val. She started to say something, but he put a finger to his lips as he stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him.

“Sarah…how’s Terry?”

She offered him a brave smile. “The same. Stable, if that really means anything.”

“You know Val and I are praying for the big guy.”

A quick nod, then, “Crow, I need to speak to you about something and I don’t want you to hate me for it.”

“Wow, that’s a hell of an opening.”

“It’s about the Halloween Festival.” When he looked blank, she said, “The party, the movie marathons, the whole—”

“Sarah, sweetie…don’t get me wrong but…who the hell cares anymore?”

“Terry wanted you to run things if he couldn’t. He’s been telling me that over and over again these last few weeks as he’s gotten…well, sicker.”

Crow just looked at her. “Sarah, do you know what’s been happening lately? Mark and Connie are dead.”

“I know, and I heard that some creeps from the college broke in and stole the body of that horrible man—”

“Sarah…with all that’s happened to Val and her family I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about Halloween right now.”

She took his hand and held it in both of hers. “Crow, this is hard for me to ask because I know how stupid and trivial it sounds, but please hear me out. Okay? You know how bad this crop blight is for the farmers in town. They’re on the verge of losing everything—their farms, their homes. Terry loaned out some money to those that were hardest hit. He’s mortgaged our house, his businesses, and even the Hayride up to the hilt. And there have been a lot of deals made between the farmers and the businesses in town, a lot of loans swapped back and forth, and what the banks couldn’t guarantee, Terry did.”

“Christ, Sarah…why the hell did he do that?”

“Because he loves this town, Crow. He loves it so much that he feels responsible for it, that if he lets it fail, then it’ll be a personal failure. I think that’s why he’s been seeing his sister. You know he nearly died trying to save Mandy when they were attacked. I think on some damaged level Terry is trying to save her all over again by trying so hard to save the town.”

“Maybe,” Crow said cautiously. He had other thoughts on Terry and Mandy.

“If the Halloween Festival fails, then Terry won’t be able to make good on the loans. He’ll be ruined, and it will destroy the economy of Pine Deep. Completely. A few people will survive, but the town as we know it will become a wasteland of foreclosures and bankruptcies.” Her eyes were bloodshot and when she had reapplied her lipstick she’d done a shaky job of it. “Crow, we need that Festival to happen. This isn’t just a money thing, and it’s not just about Terry’s—and my—financial future. This is really about the survival of Pine Deep.”

“I get that, Sarah, I really do…but what the hell can I do? No way I’m going to leave Val here and go off to play spooks and specters with the tourists.”

She shook her head. “Terry has plenty of staff to run the day-to-day operations, but you were the one who set up most of the events, you’ve been the liaison for all of the celebrities, you’re the one who has the contacts and knows how every part of this festival runs. If I had another month I might be able to train a couple of people to handle this, but we don’t. Halloween is two weeks away.”

“I get it, I get it…but—”

“If you’re going to be here at the hospital, then I can have Terry’s laptop and files brought here. You could send some e-mails, make some phone calls…basically keep things on track. The Festival this year promises to be the biggest ever, which means that money is going to pour into Pine Deep. If we can just keep everything running smoothly, then we can accomplish what Terry staked everything he has to achieve.” Her eyes searched his face, and she still held his right hand.

Crow gently disentangled his hand and walked a couple of paces away, shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. “Geez, Sarah…I don’t know. So much of this depends on what’s happening here in town. We’re going to be arranging funerals and all.”

She managed a weak smile. “Well I did start this off by asking you not to hate me.” She came over and gave him a hug. “Just think about it, okay? I’m going to have Terry’s computer and files brought in anyway…just in case.”

He grinned, too. “But no pressure.”

“Oh, heavens no. Pressure? Here in bucolic Pine Deep, where the nights are quiet and sleepy and nothing ever happens and everyone’s just happy as clams.”

“Yep, that’s us, that’s Pine Deep.” He sighed. “Whoever coined that phrase ‘America’s Haunted Holidayland’ should be stood against a wall and shot.”

She patted him on the cheek. “That was you, sweetie. Ten years ago when you were interviewed by Don Polec for Action News.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, remembering, “it sounded good at the time.”

“And now?”

“Now it just sounds too much like truth in advertising.” Down the hall he saw Saul Weinstock and Gus Bernhardt coming out of the elevator. “Okay, Sarah, let me think about it, and when Val wakes up, I’ll run it by her. No promises, though, so if you have another backup plan you should start looking into it.”

“There’s no other—” she started to say, then stopped, nodded, and said thanks.

Crow watched her head down the hall, saw Weinstock give her a reassuring smile, and then she was gone. Crow saw that the smile lingered on Weinstock’s face and that made a frown form on his own.

“Hey, Crow!” Weinstock said as they came to stop in front of him.

“Any word on—” Crow began, but Gus cut him off.

“No,” Weinstock said, “Gus thinks that it really was those jackasses from the college.”

“Little Halloween is bigger than Mischief Night around here,” Gus observed. The Pine Deep police chief was a big, sloppy fat man with a perpetually sweaty face and boiled-red complexion. “This whole morgue break-in is turning out to be a Little Halloween stunt. We were dealing with crap like this all night. Trash can fires, webcams hidden in the girl’s bathroom at the dorms, the doors to the school bus arc-welded shut.”

“But, Boyd…” Crow began.

“We’ll find him eventually.” Gus shook his head. “These college jocks love their friggin’ jokes.”

“Glad they think it’s funny. Personally I’d like to kick their asses. Better yet, wait until Val’s on her feet and then lock them in a room with her. That’d teach them.”

“Speaking of which,” Gus said awkwardly, “tell her that I’m, you know, sorry for her loss and all. Mark was pretty okay. Connie, too.”

“Sure, Gus, I’ll tell her. Your guys learn anything more from the crime scene? Like…how they got in?”

“Yeah, well we’re working on that. Got a few things locked down, though, like the security camera. Someone poured a cup of coffee into the switching box that runs all the cameras on the basement level. That doesn’t require any kind of special access except getting into the electrical room, and since Ruger broke in a couple of weeks ago and shut all the power down, that door’s been left open more often than not because of all the work they’re doing to reinforce the locks and frame.”

Crow smiled. “Let me get this straight…while working on improving security to a sensitive area of the hospital physical plant they left the door open…for convenience?”

Weinstock’s face went red. “Yes,” he said slowly, “and when I say heads will roll, I mean actual heads will be on the floor.”

“Christ on a stick.” Crow shook his head.

“The hospital morgue is still a crime scene,” Gus said. “I posted a guard, and the doc here has authorized installation of a new video security system. There’s a guy coming up from Lower Makefield to install it today.”

“Screw the budget committee,” Weinstock growled. “I’m tired of this place being a laughingstock.”

“A little late for that. Well, see you guys. I’ll keep you posted.” Gus gave them a cheery wave and headed off.

“Jackass,” Weinstock muttered under his breath. He and Crow headed down the hall to the solarium and bought Cokes from the machine. The room was empty, and Weinstock closed the door.

“Before you even ask,” he began, “I examined Mark and Connie as completely as I could—ostensibly to check for damage as a result of the prank—and as far as I can tell they’re actually dead.”

Crow looked skeptical. “You’re telling me you know how to check to see if someone’s a vampire?”

Weinstock sipped his soda. “Not as such, no. It’s just that they are both in phases of the rigor process consistent with normal corpses who’ve been dead as long as each of them has been.”

“Which tells us what?”

“Hell if I know. It might surprise you to know that they don’t cover vampirism in medical school, not even in Pine Deep. But…I thought you’re the expert, you’re Mr. Halloween. You tell me how I’m supposed to tell.”

“I’ve been thinking about that all night, but the folklore and the fiction just contradict each other. I don’t know what to believe.”

“Give me something I can try, damn it.”

“Well…vampires aren’t supposed to have reflections, so we could try a mirror.”

“Good…that’s easy enough.”

“After that, most of the rest of the stuff are things we can try if we’re face-to-face with one. I mean, crosses, garlic, holy water…that sort of stuff.”

That didn’t sit well with Weinstock. “If it gets to the point where we are actually face-to-face with a vampire who is awake and smiling all toothy at us, I think I might want something a little more substantial than a piece of garlic. And, news flash, Einstein, I’m Jewish. We’re notoriously short on crosses and holy water.”

“There’s that.” Crow thought about it. “There’s always, um, the whole ‘stake’ thing.”

“I was waiting for you to get to that, and I would love to hear how you’re going to explain to Val that you want to drive a stake through her dead brother’s heart.”

“She knows what’s going on.”

“Go on, tell her you want to stake Mark. I’ll watch.”

“Isn’t there something you can do during the autopsies to kind of ensure that they’re dead?”

“Considering the fact that I autopsied both Cowan and Castle and determined with all medical certainty that they were dead, and then caught them on morgue video walking around, I’d say no.”

“Val’s going to want to cremate him anyway. Connie, too, since Val was her only family. Maybe we should just convince her to expedite that process. She might go for that a lot more than…other methods.” Crow rubbed his eyes. “Or is any of this necessary?”

“Meaning?”

“Like I said earlier…is this over? Did the problem start with Ruger and Boyd? If so, now that they’re dead is the situation over?”

“Maybe they started it, I don’t know. With Cowan and Castle we know that there were at least two more of them. That’s why I’m so concerned about Mark…he was killed by Boyd, who also killed those two cops.”

“Yeah, on that subject—Cowan and Castle were buried. Have you checked their graves?”

“Have I dug them up? No. Have I checked to see if their graves look like someone crawled out…then, yes, actually,” Weinstock said, surprising him. “Every morning I check Castle’s grave in Crestville, every afternoon I swing by Rosewood Memorial here in town to look at Cowan’s. The graves look undisturbed, but we’re talking recent burials—bare earth, nothing growing there yet—so they could have been dug up and reburied, and as long as the job was done neatly, then who would know?”

“Damn.”

“Which means that we’re going to have to check.”

“Check how? Dig them up?”

Weinstock gave him a silent, steady look.

“Oh, crap,” Crow said.