“Good, good,” Terry said in a vague way that made Crow think he hadn’t even registered the answer. “Look, I just got off the phone with Harry and he more or less brought me up to speed.” He cleared his throat and when he spoke again his voice was a bit more human. “Jesus, I can’t believe that Ruger actually attacked you at the hospital. I’m glad you killed the bastard.” It took Crow a second to register what Terry had just said. Jesus? Bastard?
“I doubt anyone’ll shed tears at his funeral,” Crow muttered.
“And…I heard about Nels Cowan and Jimmy Castle. It’s horrible but…I’m off-balance with the timetable here. Are they sure Ruger didn’t do that?’
“Ruger was DOA when that went down. Apparently his buddy Boyd did it.”
“Boyd? That doesn’t make any sense. Those Philly cops told me he was harmless.”
“I guess they were wrong.”
“God
“Have you been watching the news?”
“I’m watching it now. Place is going to hell, and I’ve got to get back on top of this situation. I’m heading over to Gus’s. Talk to you later.”
“Hey, wait a min—” But Terry had hung up. Crow slowly closed his phone and turned to Val.
“What was that all about?” she asked. He told her, emphasizing the startling changes in Terry’s vocabulary. She arched an eyebrow. “Terry? Cursing? Oh, come on….”
“Hand to God, sweetie.”
“Must be strain,” she said.
“Must be something.”
(3)
Vic spun around, whipping a pistol out of his belt and dropping into a shooter’s crouch as Kenneth Boyd stepped heavily out from between two maples. Vic’s scowl melted away and he smiled as he straightened, easing the hammer down and shoving the gun back into the shoulder rig he wore under his windbreaker. He’d been waiting for over an hour, seated cross-legged on the tailgate of his pickup, chain-smoking and working things through in his head, waiting for Boyd, who took his sweet time getting there.
Boyd stood in the darkness under an elm, staring hungrily at him. The forest and the field were both cast in shadows thrown by the mountains, but Boyd stood in the heart of the darkness, shying away from even the wan daylight.
Vic stretched his legs and stood, affecting a yawn, then he turned and as he started walking toward the forest he slapped his thigh and whistled. “Here, boy!”
With red hatred in his eyes, Boyd followed, his lips curling back to reveal a row of jagged teeth that looked more like they should belong in the mouth of a barracuda rather than a man. Together they went deep into the woods.
Vic always kept a small canvas folding chair in a zippered vinyl bag stowed behind one of the rhododendrons by the edge of the swamp. He unzipped it casually, pointedly not looking at Boyd, showing both his lack of fear and total disregard for the creature, especially here in the presence of the Man. He took his time setting up the chair, pushing the legs down into the mossy earth until they held firm against roots or stones, and then he sat down, facing the muddy pool. Bubbles were constantly rising to the surface of the pool, popping with a mingled smell of sulfur, methane, and rotting meat. Vic had long since grown used to the smell, but he took a lucifer match from his shirt pocket, popped it alight with a thumbnail, and held the flame to a fresh cigarette, then flicked the still burning match at Boyd. It bounced off the creature’s cheek and save for a tiny flaring of eyes and nostrils Boyd did not react. Those eyes never left Vic’s throat, however, and after a few minutes, as Vic sat there and smoked—his own eyes fixed on the black pool—cold spittle gathered in Boyd’s mouth and dripped in fat drops to his chest.
