“Sounds bad,” Tom said. “Just keep driving.”
Another semi roared by, horn blaring. Wade swerved.
“I’m serious, buddy,” Tom complained. “Be careful around these bends. If you got killed, I’d be neck deep in the Supremate’s shit.”
“I’m impressed by your concern for my well being.”
“Just be careful around these bends.”
Wade tried to concentrate on his driving. Once they got to the agro site, he presumed Tom, in his delusions, would kill him. He’d mentioned a graveyard, hadn’t he? Wade needed a plan, and fast. His only chance seemed to be wrecking the car—drive into a ravine or spin out, and hope to escape in the confusion.
But one second later, fate provided its own plan.
What seemed to transpire over minutes actually took place in a few heartbeats. Wade pulled through the next bend. Tom shouted: “Careful around these—look out!” An oncoming car was suddenly in their lane, a black Fiero with two obviously shit faced occupants. “We’re gonna wreck!” Tom shouted. Wade swerved, lost control as he jerked the wheel. The Camaro shuddered off the road and plowed into a good sized tree. Wade, on impact, shot forward and snapped back. He was wearing his seat belt. Tom, however, was not.
Tom’s head burst through the windshield; inertia pulled his body down, and Wade saw something bounce across the road.
Tom’s body fell back in the seat, headless.
Holy holy holy shit. Wade hauled himself out, jarred, dizzy. The Camaro was totaled, and so was Tom.
The Fiero had skidded to a halt, its driver looking back.
“You fuckhead drunk motherfucker!” Wade bellowed.
“Tough luck,” the driver muttered. The Fiero sped away.
Jesus Jesus Jesus, Wade thought, and blundered across the road. I just got Tom killed. Jesus Jesus Jesus.
He looked forlornly down at Tom’s head, which lay face-up in weeds. If Wade had been more careful, none of this would’ve happened. He might’ve talked Tom out of his madness, gotten him to a shrink, gotten him fixed up. Instead, he’d gotten him killed.
Jesus Jesus Jesus. Look what I’ve done.
Wade glanced up. He thought he’d heard a sound. A car door?
He peered across to the smashed Camaro. Tom’s body was getting out of the car—without the benefit of a head.
Wade stood limp, staring.
The headless corpse stood upright, even closed the door behind it. One of its hands still gripped a Spaten Oktoberfest. It faced Wade, or would be if it had a face. Wade’s bladder voided then, as the headless corpse of Tom McGuire began to confidently cross the road.
A horn shrieked, along with tremors and a roar like thunder. Instantly a log loaded eighteen wheeled Peterbilt barreled through the bend with no chance of stopping for the perplexed thing that stood in the middle of the road. The massive front grille mowed Tom’s body down with an ear splitting whap!, then fed the crumpled corpse into its axles. The body tumbled like a doll in a dryer and eventually became lodged by its legs in the truck’s spare tire rack, trapped. Wade noticed Vermont plates on the rig’s loaded trailer. Tom’s body was going for a long ride. As quickly as the truck had appeared, it was gone.
Wade remained limp at the shoulder, half in shock and easily doubting his own sanity.
He looked down again at Tom’s head.
Its eyes flew open, and its lips spoke: “Goddamn it, Wade! I told you to be careful around those bends!”
Wade screamed, kicked the head into the woods, and ran.
—
CHAPTER 21
White’s office was locked, which worked out for the best. Lydia was determined to tell him nothing until she’d acquired enough evidence on her own to make a case, and not just this business with the hewer, but the break in at the clinic and the Erblings’ dorm. Something was seriously wrong around here. Lydia didn’t trust White. She didn’t trust anyone.
She’d passed the exhibits many times, never taking any notice. Colonial relics weren’t exactly a turn on for her. But it was a large, impressive display, she saw now. She remembered glancing at it yesterday. Now she roved the glass cases. Of course, she hardly expected to find a hewer’s display space vacant. No one was that lucky. Musket barrels, bent bayonets, and squashed powder horns—here they all were, as Fredrick had promised. Tools and edged weapons occupied the latter cases. Lots of trade axes, froes, and scythes. There were bog scoops from Massachusetts Bay and glass pincers from Williamsburg. Big deal, Lydia thought. Lots of swords too, and an entire case of Conoy arrowheads and tomahawks. The last cast displayed some hewers, but none looked as large as the kind she sought.
One label read: “Hand hewer, Roanoke Island, circa 1587.” But it was puny, like a Cub Scout hatchet.
Next: “Pole hewer, Jamestown, circa 1610.” Much bigger, but the plane of the blade was concaved, not straight.
Here it is, she thought. “Beam hewer, St. Clement’s Island, circa 1635.” But the hewer’s display space was… vacant.
Lydia’s expression drooped. No one was this lucky?
In seconds, she was in White’s office, dialing the phone. Her excitement rushed her words. “Professor Fredrick, this is Lydia Prentiss again. Who has access to the archaeology exhibits?”
“What?” Fredrick asked. “Access? You mean keys?”
“Yes, sir, I mean keys. Who has the keys?”
“Well, I do, of course. It’s my department.”
“Who else has keys to the display cases? Janitors? Security?”
“No,” Fredrick said. “I’m afraid the only other person on campus with keys is the college public relations executive.”
“Who’s that?”
“Winnifred Saltenstall.”
Lydia gripped the phone so hard her knuckles whitened. “What legitimate reason would she have for taking an artifact?”
“Well, I don’t know. If she’d donated it to a museum, she certainly would’ve notified me first. She may have loaned it to a historical society, or perhaps to an archaeology journal. Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
Good idea. “Thank you, Professor.”
Lydia hurried out to the cruiser. She blew down Campus Drive and screeched around the Circle. Besser’s Cadillac De Ville was parked in the lot at the sciences center, and so was Winnie’s Maserati 425. Lydia took the staircase up, thinking, She’s probably not here, but when she knocked, a voice invited her in.
Mrs. Saltenstall sat behind an expensive but jumbled desk, a double window at her back. No one else was with her. One hand came from her lap to the blotter, sporting a black ring, like onyx, while an unbecoming black amulet hung about her neck. The amulet reminded Lydia of an inverted crucifix.
“Pardon the interruption, ma’am. I’d like to ask you…”
Was the woman stoned? Her eyes looked funny. The ringed hand remained on the blotter, while the other she kept below the desk. “Oh,” Winnie said in a sleepy drone. Was she hiding her right hand deliberately? “You must be the new police officer.”
“Yes, ma’am. Lydia Prentiss.”
She smiled blearily. “How can I help you, Lydia Prentiss?”
See what twenty years of pot smoking will do to you? Lydia thought. Adult retardation. “I have evidence that a serious crime was committed with an implement on display in the college archaeology exhibit.”