Dead Man's Song

Chapter 15

(1)

LaMastra burst into the conference room with a walkie-talkie in one hand. “Frank! Boyd’s been spotted.” He hurried over to hand off the unit. “It’s Jim Polk”

Ferro grabbed the walkie-talkie. “Polk, Ferro here. Tell me.”

“Sir,” Polk’s voice said with a crackle, “We got a call from Gaither Carby, he’s a local farmer who was driving back to Pine Deep across the Black Marsh Bridge when a guy cuts across his path. Carby damn near runs him down ’cause the guy was limping pretty bad. Carby slows down to see if maybe the guy’s hurt and the guy takes a couple of shots at him. Carby floors it and gets out of there. He called it in and from his description it seems pretty likely that it was your boy.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Fifteen minutes. Carby doesn’t have a cell phone, so he had to drive to a neighbor’s house and use their phone. I took the call here and rolled some units.”

“Good work,” Ferro snapped. “I’ll head out there right now.”

Ferro tossed the walkie-talkie to LaMastra as they raced to the door. “’bout goddamn time we caught a break,” he growled.

Jim Polk switched off the walkie-talkie and motioned for Ginny to cover the phones while he went out back for a smoke. As soon as he shut the alley door he pulled out his cell and punched in a number that was answered on the first ring.

“How’d it go?” Vic asked.

“Like you said. Carby has his story straight. The jerkoffs from Philly are heading out to the bridge now. How is it at your end?”

“Neat and tidy. Boyd tramped footprints all over the bridge and they should be able to find his shell-casings, too.”

“That’s great. Is he really gone this time?”

“He’s as gone as I need him to be,” Vic said. “He’ll be seen at least three times over the next week, and each time he’ll be farther from here. By the time they lose his trail completely he’ll have been spotted up in Trenton. After that, nobody’s going to see him again until trick or treat night. At that point—well, it won’t matter who sees him.” Vic was laughing as he disconnected.

Polk leaned back against the door. “God save my soul…” he breathed, but his Catholic rituals were thirty years out of practice and as dry as his mouth.

(2)

“Excuse me…are you Malcolm Crow?”

Crow’s hand was just getting ready to fit his key into the door lock of his store when he heard the voice and it startled him enough to make him drop his keyring. Crow turned and saw a dumpy little man with a diffident smile standing by the open door of a battered old Honda Civic, a folded leather notebook in one hand.

“Who’s asking?” Crow asked as he carefully squatted down to retrieve his keys, though he thought he already knew who this guy was. His face had been all over the TV.

“Willard Fowler Newton, Black Marsh Sentinel.”

“Nice to meet you,” Crow said. “Now get lost.”

“What?”

“No interview, no questions, no answers, no nothing. Go before I set the hounds on you.”

“I haven’t even asked yet.”

Crow unlocked the door but didn’t pull it open. “No, but you were gonna, and the answer would have been no.” He jangled the keys in his hand and instead of making eye contact with the stranger he looked up and down the street for some sign of Mike.

“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.”

For the next two hours Crow took Mike through the steps of checking the shelves against what was stored in the tiny stockroom and then filling out order sheets. Crow let Mike make the next ten calls while Crow tried not to backseat drive; by the fifth call it was easier to block the urge. They worked together to stock the shelves—a job Crow had left half finished when Terry Wolfe had talked him into going out to shut down the Haunted Hayride a few days ago, though it seemed like months to Crow. As they worked, Crow saw the boy try to disguise his many winces as he bent and stretched to fill the bins of costumes, baskets of rubber severed hands and other body parts, trays of goggly eyeballs, racks of Gummi centipedes and faux Cockroach Clusters, and tables filled with everything from smoking cauldrons to marked-down Freddy Krueger gloves (because, as Crow explained it Mike, Nightmare on Elm Street was soooo five minutes ago). At one point Mike was stretching his arm up to hang a half dozen Aslan the Lion costumes on a high peg when he gave a small sudden cry and dropped them. He pressed a hand to his ribs for a moment and stood there, wincing and making hissing-pipe noises.

“How’s that rib treatin’ you?” Crow asked with fake disaffection.

“Hurts,” Mike said tightly, then added, “like a sumbitch.”

“All of this happened when you fell off your bike, right? That your story?”

The pain gradually left his face, and Mike took in a breath and slowly exhaled. He did not face Crow but instead appeared to be looking for an answer in the foamy packing materials of a box of plastic cockroaches. “Yeah. Bike.”

“If I keep asking, am I always going to get the same story?”

“Probably,” Mike said, fiddling with the label on the carton, peeling it with a thumbnail.

“Mike?” The boy did not look up.

“Mike,” Crow said more firmly, “look at me for a sec.” After a moment’s hesitation, Mike did. His eyes rose to meet Crow’s, fell away self-consciously, and then rose again. “Mike,” Crow said softly, “I won’t ask again. It’s up to you to decide if you want to talk about it.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I fell off my bike.”

“Uh huh. Well, do me this favor, will you? Instead of feeding me a line of bullshit, just tell me to mind my own business. I’d rather you trusted me enough to just tell me to shut up than feel you have to lie to me.” It took Mike quite a while to think that through, but eventually he nodded. Crow smiled. “Good,” he said, then decided to step a little further out onto the limb. “Besides…you’re not the only one who’s ever been knocked around by an asshole of a parent. Not even the only one in this room.”

This time Mike did look at him, and though his eyes glistened wetly and his face burned a furious red, he kept that eye contact for a long thirty seconds in which volumes were spoken. Crow broke the silence by saying, “Let’s finish up this stuff and then I’m heading back to the farm. For the rest of the day you’ll be on your own. Think you can handle it without pieces of rib puncturing your lung? ’Cause you’re not on the health plan yet and the paperwork would be a bitch.”

“I guess.”

Crow started to turn away, stopped. “Listen, kiddo, whether you want to talk about it or not, I pretty much know the score. I know about Vic and how he treats you. Maybe not the specifics, but in general because it’s probably pretty damn close to what I went through when I was a kid. My dad was a hitter and I was always getting my ass kicked and spent half my life making excuses for why I limped or why I had a black eye. Vic’s not all that different from my dad—both of them are world-class assholes.” He paused. “Am I right?” The kid shrugged. “So, starting today we’re going to have a set of rules that we’re both going to work with. Call ’em Crow’s Rules for a Better Life, and Rule Number One is we don’t let the assholes win.”

Mike said nothing, but he was clearly listening.

“The assholes might score some hard points, but the rule is that we don’t let the assholes win. You want to repeat that?”

Nothing.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that.”

Mike mumbled something.

“Kid, you’re pissing me off. What is the number-one rule?”

“We don’t let the assholes win, okay?” Mike snapped angrily, his fists balled at his sides.

Crow grinned at him. “Spoken like a champ. Which reminds me—aside from the low pay and nonexistent benefits package, there’s another incentive to work here. I’m going to teach you to fight.”

“You already showed me some stuff last spring. Me and Tyler Carby.”

“That was just horsing-around stuff, I wasn’t being serious and neither were you. You guys ever practice the stuff?”

“We goofed around in the schoolyard. Tyler wasn’t interested, and it’s no fun practicing alone.” What he didn’t tell Crow was that everyone in school thought Mike was still practicing martial arts, a lie he encouraged because it always gave him a reason to explain away the bruises. “What’s it matter anyway? A few jujutsu moves ain’t going to change things.”

“That depends on the moves, and how you use them.” He folded his arms. “When I offered you this job it was more than just because I needed an Igor to do the heavy lifting. I wasn’t going to tell you this because I was going to be real subtle like and kind of sneak it on you from left field—but here’s the bottom line, Mike. I respect you too much to blindside you, even if it’s something that’s for your own good.”

“What are you talking about?”

Crow pulled a stool over and sat down so that Mike, still standing, was taller. He wanted to give the kid at least the subjective advantage of the dominant physical position. “I’m talking about getting tough.”

“Tough enough to do what?”

“Tough enough so that you don’t spend your whole life as somebody’s punching bag.”

“Look…I appreciate what you’re trying to do, man, but I—”

Crow cut him off. “Don’t, okay? I’m not trying to get all Mr. Miyagi on you, but I want to make a difference here.”

“Who asked you to?” Mike shoved away the box he’d been playing with and it slid to the edge of a display case, tottered and fell, spilling white foam popcorn and six dozen plastic cockroaches all across the floor. “Ahhh…shit!” He made to bend down, but Crow touched his shoulder. Just a touch and then withdrew his hand.

“Leave it. Look, kid, I’m trying to say something here and you’re not making it easy.”

“I’m not trying to make it easy,” Mike snapped.

“Will you listen?” Crow snapped back. “Okay? Just for a second?” Mike flinched back from that, but then held his ground. Crow took that as a good sign and plowed ahead, his voice softer. “Okay, I offered you this job partly because, as I said, I needed an Igor while I was healing from the ass-kicking I took, but the main reason is that I see a lot of myself in you. No, don’t give me that look. You’re smart, you’re a comic book geek, you’re mostly a loner, and you’re getting your ass handed to you every time you come home. I know that territory too well to stand back and do nothing.”

“This is not your business, Crow.”

“No? Well tough, I’m making it my business. I gave you a job so I could keep an eye on you, and so I could teach you some back-alley moves, just like I learned when I was about your age. And, no, it’s not going to be like a movie where we do a training montage while the soundtrack plays some motivational power chords. It’ll take you months to get adequate and years to get really good, but if you don’t start now you’ll never get tough enough to finally stand on your own.”

“Against Vic?” The kid’s face was a study in disbelief.

“Eventually.”

Mike snorted. “Eventually? That’s just great. Does me a lot of good right now. You don’t even know what you’re talking about. You don’t know Vic. You don’t know what it’s like living with him.”

“I’ve known Vic a lot longer than you have, Mike, and though I don’t know what goes on inside your house I know enough and can guess the rest. Am I saying this is going to be easy? No. Am I saying that you won’t get your ass kicked some more? No—you will until the point where you’re tough enough and then you won’t. That could be months, it could be years, but it will happen, and all along the way, even while he’s still the big dog around the house, you’ll know that you’re getting stronger, bigger, and tougher every day. Every day, Mike. You’ll outlast the son of a bitch and eventually you really will be tough enough to kick his ass.”

“Bullshit,” Mike said under his breath, but there was a look in his eye and Crow knew that something in what he had just said had scored a point. Or touched on something Mike was already thinking.

Crow said, “I used to think that my dad would just beat me to death one day. I used to piss blood, I used to have double vision from getting stomped, and I had a thousand and one excuses I used on people to explain why my eye was black or why there were punch bruises on my back. At the time, when it was at its worst, I guess I never thought that it would end, that it would just go on and on and then I’d die. But I didn’t. I outlasted my dad, and jujutsu helped. Understand, I wasn’t one of those kids who took to martial arts like it was a religion or something. It was an out, you know? A way to outlast my dad. That’s all it was, but, Mike…it was enough, you dig?”

Mike said nothing but there were gears turning in his head, Crow could see that much from the way his pale blue eyes were not fixed on him but locked on something unseeable in the middle distance. Very quietly he pressed his point. “I’m telling you that I’m going to teach you some self-defense, whether you like it or not.” Crow put his hand on Mike’s shoulder and this time left it there.

“You can’t make me learn anything,” Mike said, but still his eyes were staring at the screen displays in his head; even his voice was a little dreamy.

“You’re right, I can’t. You have a choice. Either you agree to let me teach you some moves, or you go back to delivering newspapers and we’ll just call it a day.”

That jolted the focus right back into Mike’s eyes and he stared hard at Crow, shocked disbelief crackling there. “You’d really fire me…?”

Crow held his face hard for a few seconds, and then he laughed. “Oh, hell no, you lunkhead. I’m talking outta my ass here, Mike. Truth is, I don’t really know how to do what I’m trying to do. I want to do for you what someone once did for me, and I’m making a piss-poor job of it.” He shook his head. “Help me out here, kid.”

The moment stretched, and just about the time Crow was thinking I lost him, Mike said, “Let’s just say I did stick around…how would it go? I mean, do I have to wear some kind of uniform and bow and stuff?”

Crow shook his head. “Nope. No uniforms, no bowing, none of that shit. Mind you, I’d really like to teach you jujutsu the old-fashioned way, be kind of an Obi-wan Kenobi sort of role model, but we don’t have that kind of time. Jujutsu takes years, and we don’t have years. So, instead I’m going to teach you how to fight. Quick and dirty, no pretty moves—just old-fashioned bust-up-the-bad-guys stuff. You with me?”

It took Mike a while and Crow gave him the time. Mike got up and went into the storeroom to fetch a dustpan and brush to clean up the mess, his blue eyes thoughtful, his freckled cheeks flushed with the aftereffects of their conversation. It wasn’t until all of the popcorn had been swept up and tossed back into the box, and all of the plastic roaches tagged and set on a shelf that he stopped, turning around to face Crow. Mike was fourteen years old—fifteen on December 28—but when he looked at Crow his face was ten years older. Crow could see the man that Mike would become. In a weird aside inside his own head, Crow tried to superimpose Mike’s face over that of Big John Sweeney, but it didn’t fit. Not at all. The mouth and the nose were Lois’s, yet those cold eyes, the red hair, the square jaw all made him look, strangely, like a young Terry Wolfe. But that was stupid. Crow shook the thought away so he could focus on what he was seeing in those eyes. Mike Sweeney, at that moment, had a look in his eyes as old as all of the pain in the world. Crow had been hoping to see a spark, a flicker of damn-the-torpedoes there, but all he saw was a young man with ancient eyes staring at him with no trace of hope, no fear of death. They were dead eyes.

“Sure,” Mike said, “what have I got to lose?’

(5)

Vic chain-lit another cigarette and tossed the old butt out the window. The inside of the pickup’s cab was nearly opaque with smoke but Vic didn’t care. His truck was parked on a side street near Corn Hill, engine off, all of the windows except one rolled up, and the driver’s window was only cracked three inches. His cell phone lay on the dash where he’d placed it after he’d hung up on Lois, his brain churning over the conversation he’d just had. “Vic,” she had said with placating brightness in her voice, “you’ll be happy to know that Michael has gotten a new job. It pays better and he’ll have regular hours so he’ll always be home on time.” She said that as if it was what Vic wanted to hear. “In a store. He’s going to be a sales assistant in a store on Corn Hill.”

“What store?”

“Why, the craft store owned by Malcolm Crow. You remember him? He’s been in the papers…”

If she had said anything else of importance, Vic had not paid attention to it. He’d mumbled something about it being a good thing and had hung up, tossed the cell phone on the dash, and started smoking his way through a pack of Camels.

The fact that Mike was no longer delivering papers was a problem, that much at least was clear. Vic had pressured him into taking that job in the first place because it was the best way to steer him into the path of Tow-Truck Eddie. Now that was going to be harder—and it was hard enough because apparently Eddie couldn’t find his own dick with both hands and a road map. He knew the Man needed Eddie to do the kid, but as far as Vic was concerned that whole scheme was a waste of effort. Mike should have been dead meat days ago, weeks ago, and instead he’d had one near miss and caught some bruises and since then all Eddie had managed was the occasional glimpse. It was already the sixth and Halloween was just twenty-five days away. Mike needed to be dead long before then, and certainly he needed to be dead by then.

It doesn’t matter.

The voice echoed in his head, not his own thoughts but as familiar as his own.

“Your boy Eddie should have killed that little faggot by now, boss. What’s the problem?”

It isn’t Eddie Oswald’s failure. It’s mine. I cannot touch the boy…sometimes I cannot see him. Much of the time I am blind to him.

“Oh,” Vic said, surprised, and for a long time he processed that. It was the first time the Man had ever admitted a weakness—ever—and Vic didn’t like the feel of it. He said, “And that’s why Eddie hasn’t been able to find him? You can’t—what—steer him in the right direction?” There was a profound silence and Vic knew that the Man would never respond to a question like that. He cleared his throat and said, “Boss, you should have told me you were having troubles seeing him. I’d have cooked up something, found some way to get the word out to Eddie. I know where the kid’s going to be every day in the afternoons. You can steer Eddie there.”

There was no answer, but Vic could sense a shift, as if the Man was somehow making himself more comfortable after sitting tensely for a while. It was an illusion, but the image worked for Vic. “Besides, Boss, we always have a fallback plan for the kid if it gets down to the wire and he’s still alive. If he’s still walking by Halloween morning then I’ll take a baseball bat to his knees. He can’t do us any harm with his legs broken in a dozen places.” Vic grinned. “And boy would that be fun.”

Yessss, the voice hissed in his head.

“It’ll keep you safe, too, because as long as I don’t kill him myself then what he is won’t spread to the whole town. I know the risks, Boss. Stop fussing with Eddie Oswald—leave it me and I’ll see that it gets done right.”

Not yet, whispered the voice in his mind. Eddie is still a useful tool.

“Okay,” Vic said, but a cloud of uncertainty was beginning to darken his heart.