The surface of the swamp remained unmoved, the body untouched. No matter, Vic thought, when he’s hungry, he’ll eat. He sat back in his canvas chair and waited. Vic was very good at waiting.
(3)
“Mr. Crow,” said the nurse, “Dr. Weinstock approved you for a fifteen-minute visit with Ms. Guthrie and you’ve been in here three hours. Time to go back to your room!” The nurse was barely five feet tall, with curly blond hair and a sweet face and in any other circumstances Crow might have labeled her as “cute,” but Weinstock had warned him about Nurse Williams. Around the hospital she was known as the Half-Pint Horror and everyone went in fear of her. “Don’t believe that charming little smile, brother,” Weinstock had warned. “She’s about as cuddly as a scorpion and far less agreeable.”
Crow wasn’t up to another battle, so he kissed Val and hobbled back to his room with Polk in tow, and when he climbed weakly into bed Polk made no offer of assistance. They had never been friends, even when Crow had been a Pine Deep police officer. He had always taken Polk for a weasel and a suck-up, mostly to town lowlifes like Vic Wingate. He wasn’t sure why Polk disliked him, but had never felt interested enough to find out. Polk picked up Jerry Head’s copy of Maxim and tuned Crow out completely. Fine with him. Crow reached for the TV remote and surfed through the channels until he found the news. None of the towns in that part of Bucks County were big enough to have their own TV station, so he settled for CNN. The multiple murders in Pine Deep were still getting serious play, especially now that two police officers had been killed, but so far no one had made the connection to Cape May. Crow thought that was strange.
A couple of years ago a group of senior citizens who were visiting the famous lighthouse in Cape May, New Jersey, were attacked and slaughtered by person or persons unknown. The attack had been incredibly savage and the killers had literally torn the tourists to pieces. A total of eighteen dead, two of them the grandparents of the head of the Philadelphia mob. The murders at the Cape May Lighthouse had made the papers across the country and throughout much of the world. Books had been written about it, there had been documentaries on the History Channel and Court TV, and Jonathan Demme was already making a movie about it with Don Cheadle and Colin Farrell, but no one had ever been arrested for the crimes or even named in the press.
As of the other night—when everything was going to hell and Ruger was still on the loose—Crow knew only the local cops, the mayor, and Crow were privy to the truth that Ruger was the Cape May Killer. Now that Ruger was dead he didn’t understand why the story hadn’t broken. He turned to Polk and was on the verge of asking him about it, and decided against it. Instead he reached for his cell phone on the bedside table and speed-dialed Terry Wolfe’s cell number, but it went straight to voice mail. He clicked off and dialed Terry’s home number. Same thing. He tried Sarah Wolfe’s number, but her phone was apparently turned off. “Damn it,” he muttered.
Polk looked up. “You say something?” When Crow didn’t answer Polk gave a sour grunt and went back to his magazine.
(4)
Saul Weinstock was not performing the autopsy on Karl Ruger, or on either of the two murdered officers. Instead he was sitting in his office, wringing cold water out of his socks and seething with fury. He had scrubbed and dressed for the postmortems and had come breezing into the morgue only to slosh to a halt ankles-deep in icy water. Water geysered up from a broken pipe by the big stainless-steel autopsy table and the whole morgue was awash.
“Son of a bitch!” Weinstock yelled and then splashed over to the valve, but by the time he shut the water off he was completely drenched. Cursing sulfurously, he examined the pipe and saw that it was completely separated from the spigot set, not actually broken but clearly dislodged. How in blue hell had that happened? Could water pressure have done it? He doubted it, but there were no obvious signs of tampering. And who would do that anyway? Then he thought of some of the outrageous-verging-on-criminal “jokes” the first-year med students had pulled over the years. For one stunt they had broken in and dressed four corpses as the Beatles, complete with Sergeant Pepper costumes. Another time they had removed the heads from three anatomy cadavers and mounted them like hunting trophies over Weinstock’s desk. No one had ever been caught, and it was Gus’s disillusioned opinion that the first thing med students at Pinelands learned was how to bypass the hospital’s years-out-of-date surveillance equipment.
Weinstock slogged to the office, tore off his clothes, and climbed into a clean set of scrubs, but his socks and shoes were soaked and the paper booties wouldn’t do him any good. His feet were freezing. He snatched the phone off the hook and called maintenance and read some poor sap the complete riot act, slammed the phone down, waded barefoot through the pool—which was draining through the floor grille now that there was no torrent to feed the flood—and left a set of wet bare footprints all the way to the elevator, snarling at everyone he met along the way.
(5)
The Bone Man stood in the shadows of Dark Hollow, at the base of the slope that climbed up through darkness into the wan sunlight hundreds of yards above. Up there was the Passion Pit, where young lovers came to sweat and grunt, and it was where the police had paused in their search for Boyd. He sighed. It was also the place where, thirty years ago, a gang of local men had beaten him to death.
The Bone Man turned and looked back down the murky vine-choked path that lead through twists and turns to the bog where he had fought Ubel Griswold. He stroked the strap of his guitar, remembering how he had used the instrument to smash the man down, and then had stabbed him with the splintered spike of the wooden neck. Panicked, insane with terror, he had dragged the body deeper into the swampy bottom of the hills and shoved him down into the mud, burying him where—in the words of his Uncle Lester—“God can’t even find ’im.”
Yeah, he’d done that, and all things considered it was safe to say that God never did find him down there in Dark Hollow. But the devil did, sure as hell, and now Griswold was back.
But so was he, and how, why, and what for were questions he couldn’t begin to answer. His very existence seemed like the punchline to some kind of cruel cosmic joke. If he had been brought back to try and save the town as he did once before, then someone up there forgot to tell him how to do it. He was barely more than a shadow, more invisible and disregarded now than when he’d been a living black man in the white man’s world of the sixties and seventies. A ghost who can’t make himself be seen most the time, one who gets weaker every time he tries. A ghost who can’t even touch the people he wanted to help. A ghost who didn’t know how to be a ghost.
Yeah, he thought, that was smart. Tear me out of the damn grave and then leave me to figure this shit out on my own.
“You want me to save these folks,” he yelled, glaring up at heaven, “then you got to give me just a little help.” But his voice was empty. Even the chirping birds failed to hear him. He closed his eyes and shook his head, cursing God and all his white-bread dumbass angels. “You can’t be so damn cruel that you’d bring me back just to watch everyone I saved die, one by one.” He shook his head. “Not even you’re that cruel, Lord.”
The silence all around him seemed to mock that claim.
(6)
Val sat on the side of the bed and brushed a blond curl from her brow, but Connie did not even look at her. She just lay there, silent, lost inside of herself. “Sweetie? You okay?” Val said softly.
Connie said nothing. Did nothing. Val shifted her position carefully, hiding her own grimace of pain, trying to force some eye contact. Gently, but insistently, leaning over her, searching her sister-in-law’s eyes for any kind of reaction, for even the slightest connection, but it was like looking at the glass eyes of a doll. “Come on, honey, you can talk to me.” Nothing.
The nurse—Half-Pint Horror Williams—came in to do her routine with thermometer and blood-pressure cuff, and Val stood up and moved over to the guest chair, lowering herself carefully into it, favoring her bruised left shoulder. She watched as the nurse worked, saw that Connie allowed herself to be touched and moved and manipulated, that she never protested, never resisted, and never truly reacted. She just was.
Val knew that it was not catatonia, because Saul had related conversations he had had with Connie, as had the staff psychiatrist Dee Simonson, but this was the second time today Val had come into her room to speak with her, and both times Connie had shut down as soon as Val had walked through the door. The first time Val hadn’t seen the change happen, but this second time she had. Connie had been reading Ladies’ Home Journal and when Val had opened the door, Connie had just let the magazine spill out of her hand and slide to the floor. Then she turned her face away and when Val had walked around to look at her all she saw were empty doll’s eyes. It was definitely deliberate. Inexplicable and weird, but deliberate. Still, Val did not give up on it, and she sat with Connie for ten more minutes, speaking softly to her for a while, and then just holding her hand. It was like sitting with the dead.
When Val had finally given her a final good-night kiss and had scuffed her way slowly out of the room, Connie closed her eyes for a full minute, feeling the tears that wanted to rise to her eyes, feeling the stitch in her chest that wanted to break free as a sob, feeling the deep and utter contempt—the burning, fiery red furnace of contempt that burned in her heart. For herself. When the nurse came in to give her a pill, Connie was curled into a fetal position, a pillow held tightly over her head, her body spasming and jerking as she wept.
(7)
Terry Wolfe was only missing because he wanted to be. His cell phone was turned off, his house phones unplugged, and his wife Sarah was manning the fortress walls to make sure no one bothered him. He had not told Sarah everything that was going on, but she’d been there for enough. When he had come shambling in last night, she had held out her arms to him and he had clung to her, sinking to his knees, weeping against her breasts.