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,
“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
“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
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.”
