Guthrie ate a cracker, dry, munching thoughtfully. “Are you afraid he’s going to go back on the cops? Is that it?”
“Oh no…no, he would never do that.”
“Well then, don’t let it worry you. Terry has always had an annoying way of putting people on the spot, getting them to do things they don’t really want to do.”
“I know.”
“He and Crow have always been pretty tight, and you know how persuasive our dear mayor can be.”
“Mm.” Terry and Crow had been best friends since preschool, which meant that they’d known each other even longer than Val had known Crow. The boys had met Val in second grade, when they were all eight, and by the time of the Black Harvest two years later they were thick as thieves. Five of them — Val, Crow and his older brother, Billy, and Terry and his little sister, Mandy. By the end of that autumn two of them were dead — Billy and Mandy — victims of the Reaper, Terry was in a coma, and Crow and Val were clinging to each other, their worlds shattered.
The memory of that time flickered in Val’s eyes, and Guthrie could see it. He smoothly but quickly changed the subject. “Besides, you know Terry,” he said. “He likes to make everything seem dramatic. I think he imagines that being the mayor of a town this size actually means something.”
“Yeah, him and Rudy Giuliani.”
“Like that. He builds things up to be something they ain’t. Hell, he’s the kind that calls going over to Crestville for pizza and a movie a Regional Fine Dining and Cultural Arts Junket.”
Val smiled. “Yeah, I guess.”
“If there really is something going on around here, Terry’s not going to be doing much about it. You said that Crow told you there were some Philly cops coming in?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So Terry is going to be standing around looking important but not actually doing anything, and he’ll have Gus Bernhardt hustling around getting them coffee and asking to polish their badges. Terry’s one of those guys who needs to be in charge in some visible way, and he loves to give orders — and Crow happened to be there, and your boy can’t hardly say no to anybody.”
“Except me.”
Guthrie gave a comical snort. “Not so’s I noticed. He’ll be by here, you watch.”
“I shouldn’t have let him go at all.”
“Not yours to say, pumpkin. No more than it’s his to speak for you. This is the twenty-first century, my lass.” Guthrie took another mouthful of soup, winking at her as he did so. “Soup’s really good.”
“Don’t say it like you’re shocked.” Val crossed her arms. “Well, I just wish he wouldn’t jump whenever Terry says to.”
“You think it’s really that bad?”
She shook her head. “It’s just that he spends so much time with Terry, and Terry is such a pain in the ass.”
“You think he should stop hanging around with our fair mayor?”
“Mm.”
“Why is it you don’t like Terry? You never really have. Even as kids you two were always at each other’s throats.”
“I don’t know. Bad chemistry, I guess. There was just always something…off about him. I don’t know how to describe it. I just wish Crow wouldn’t hang out with him so much, that’s all.”
“Now, now, darlin’, don’t be trying to tell your young man who his friends should be.”
“Mm.”
“Just like your mom. One grunt is worth a thousand words.”
“Mm,” she said again, but smiled.
“Crow can take care of himself. Hell, we’ve all seen that.”
“I know, Daddy, but you know what it did to him. He probably wouldn’t have even started drinking if it hadn’t been for that job.”
“Yep, and I also know that he pulled himself up by his own bootstraps and put his life back together—while he was still in that job. Not a lot of men could do that. He fixed himself, as my pappy would say. He saw that his life was broken, and he fixed himself.”
“Mm.”
“Will you stop that?”
“Mm-hm.”
He threw a cracker at her, which she surprised herself by catching. She ate the cracker and stuck a crumb-covered tongue at him.
Connie Guthrie whisked into the room, all fresh and cute in her floral-print dress, sensible pumps, bouncing blond curls, and brilliant smile. She favored them with an airy wave of her hand and then made a beeline for the stove.
“Ooo! We have soup!”
“It’s for Crow,” Guthrie said quickly as if he didn’t have a spoon halfway to his mouth.
“Well, you have some. Maybe I’ll just try a little.” She looked quickly at Val, as if for approval, but neither wanting nor expecting any. Without another word she took a bowl from the cupboard and began ladling soup into it. Guthrie gave Val an apologetic look, but she waved it off. “I didn’t even know you could cook.”
Connie had just finished arranging her side of the table with a frilly place mat, precisely folded napkin, soupspoon set just so, the soup bowl positioned perfectly in the center of the plate with five crackers laid out overlapping each other around the rim, when the doorbell rang.
“Ooo, there’s the door!” Connie said, as if that were a hilarious joke. “Just when I was sitting down.” Then she actually sat down. Val exchanged an amazed and exasperated look with her father.
“Shall I get that, then?” she asked dryly.
“Oh, would you, dear?” cooed Connie. “I wouldn’t want this fabulous soup of yours to get all cold and nasty.”
“Heaven forbid.” Val stood up, waving to her father to remain seated just as he began to rise. “I’m up, I’ll get it.”
She moved toward the door, crossing behind Connie, who was delicately blowing across the surface of her first spoonful. Val paused and mimed strangling Connie. Connie saw none of it, and Guthrie had to pretend to cough to hide his laughter. Sighing audibly, Val walked out of the kitchen, down the long hall, and into the living room. The visitor knocked again. A hard, insistent rap.
“I’m coming!” Val called as she reached for the knob, turned it, and opened the door.
A man stood there, tall and thin and pale of face. He had dark hair greased back from a widow’s peak, black eyes, and a wide, friendly smile. In his right hand he held a small, almost delicate-looking pistol. The barrel was pointed at Val’s stomach.
“Trick-or-treat,” whispered Karl Ruger, and pushed his way into the house.
Part II
Mr. Devil Blues
Gypsy woman told me I’ve got to walk the night Like a fallen angel, I’m blinded by the light.
There’s a darkness deep In my soul I still got a purpose to serve.
Well, I ain’t superstitious, black cat just cross my trail Well, I ain’t superstitious, oh the black cat just cross my trail.
Chapter 9
Tow-Truck Eddie made no move to get out of the cab. For fifteen minutes he just sat there, looking at the blood on his hands, amazed. Doubt had plagued him for most of the drive home, but as he sat there and stared at the blood, he could feel his fears fragment and fall away, leaving only a clean, shining belief.
“Thank you, God,” he whispered. The gratitude welled up so suddenly and fiercely in his breast that tears sprang from his eyes. “Thank you, my sweet Lord God!”
Finding that man back there by the wrecked car, deep in the corn…how wonderful it had been. He marveled at the subtlety of God’s intricate design, and how he — humble Eddie, the Sword of God — was guided in such sure but secret ways so that hints and clues of the great plan opened up to him bit by bit.