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
(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.
“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.
