“Cheer up, it gets worse. Come on.” The first thing Crow did was to tie one end of each of the two lengths of rope to sturdy trees. He tied a complex series of knots and then jerked on them with great force to make sure they weren’t going to slip
“Don’t tell me we’re rappelling? I failed the rope climb in gym class every year.”
“Not really, but that pitch is too steep for you, and I’m not as spry as I used to be, so I’d rather we had a line to steady us down and then help us get back up again. Use these,” he said, indicating the heavy canvas gloves that were old and stained with grease. He slipped his own hands into the weightlifting gloves and flexed them, adjusting the Velcro straps. He picked up the two coils of rope and hurled them out over the pitch, then took one rope, tested the tension again, and stepped to the edge of the pitch. Until now everything Crow did had cool efficiency about it, but now, poised—literally—on the brink of commission he finally paused and Newton could see strain showing in his face. His eyes were slightly squinted and he would look up at the blue sky and then down into the shadows of the Hollow and back up again, repeating the cycle every few seconds while balancing his weight against the pull of the rope. His mouth was tight, lips pinched, and he was breathing through flared nostrils.
Newton picked up the end of the second rope and came to stand by Crow, and for a moment they both looked down into the Hollow, then Newton glanced at Crow. “You okay?”
“Nope,” Crow said with a tight smile. “I’m scared out of my mind.”
“We can still bag it and go catch lunch at the Harvestman.”
“Can’t,” Crow said.
“Can’t—why? No one’s making us do this, man.”
Instead of answering, Crow started singing under his breath. Words that didn’t mean anything to Newton. “I got an ax-handled pistol on a graveyard frame that shoots tombstone bullets, wearin’ balls and chain. I’m drinking TNT, I’m smoking dynamite…I hope some screwball start a fight.”
“What’s that?”
Crow turned to him. “Old Muddy Waters song, ‘I’m Ready.’ Great song.”
“Okay. And—tell me again, why are we singing blues songs?” He grinned. “Hoping to channel the spirit of the Bone Man?”
“Keep it up, Newt, and I’ll use you like a snowboard and surf down the mountain.”
Newton was fishing for a snappy comeback when he paused, head cocked in an attitude of listening. For just a moment he thought he actually heard the chords of an actual blues guitar, impossible as that was, and he jerked his head around and looked over to the Passion Pit. The sound—just a couple of notes—was so clear, so strong, that he half-expected to see someone standing there with a guitar; but the clearing was empty except for Missy and the only sound was the murmur as the trees whispered secrets to one another and the crows chattered in the forests. When Newton turned back he saw that Crow was looking at him with dark eyes that glittered with amusement. A jumpy, corner-of-the-lip twitching amusement.
“You heard it,” Crow said, “didn’t you?”
“I heard…something.”
Crow tugged on the rope that held him, but his eyes were steady and intent. “Tell me what you heard.”
Newton just shook his head. “It was stupid. It was nothing.”
“Come on, Newt—tell me.”
Taking a breath and then huffing it out through his nose, Newton said all in a rush, “I thought I heard a guitar but it was nothing. Wind in the trees. Silly.”
The wind had time to rustle ten thousand leaves before Crow said, “I heard it, too.”
When Newton opened his mouth to say something else, Crow just shook his head and started down the hill. After a long stunned moment, Newton followed.
(4)
Jim Polk slowed his unit and pulled onto the verge, waiting until a few cars and a farm truck passed, and then put it in reverse and crunched along the gravel back to the crossroads. He stopped with his rear bumper just this side of the dirt side road, put it in park, and got out, walking quickly to the edge of a screen of bushes and then peering cautiously around. He could just make out the dust plume left behind by Crow’s car.
While the dust drifted on the breeze, Polk pulled his cell out of his uniform pants pocket, flipped it open, and speed dialed Vic Wingate.
“What?” Vic answered.
“It’s me. I’m out on A-32 where it crosses Dark Hollow Road. Guess who I just saw driving down there toward the Passion Pit?”
Vic Wingate put his cell phone back in his pocket and leaned against the wall of the grease pit. The wheel of the big Ford Explorer was inches away from his head and he caught the tread and idly turned the tire, his eyes distant and thoughtful. At least three full minutes passed while he thought about what Polk had just told him, and about what it might mean. Pursing his lips, Vic pulled the cell phone back out of his pocket and called his own private office number. He let it ring once, disconnected, and then dialed again. It was picked up on the third ring.
“Yeah?”
“I just had an interesting phone call about your dancing partner.”
“Crow…” it came out as a hiss.
