Val looked expectantly at Ruger. “You father’s on the ball, and he’s right, too. I didn’t come here to waste your sorry hillbilly asses. If I wanted to do that, I’d have done it already. So, maybe I’m not as much a bad guy as I seem, huh?”
Val almost let loose a derisive snort, but caught herself.
“I can’t have you running around loose, either. So, it’s hog-tying time on the old farmstead.”
“What if we have to go to the ladies’ room?” asked Connie, in what appeared to be a reasonable voice. It was such a reasonable and conversational voice that it chilled Val.
“Uh-oh,” said Ruger, showing mock horror, “I think Donna Reed is no longer with us. Wonder if I could wake her up some.”
“Leave her alone.”
Ruger wheeled on Val, his hand raised, but she quickly added, “Please.”
He considered her for a moment and then lowered his hand. “Yeah, whatever. Too much shit to do anyway.”
Guthrie said, “Is someone hurt?” When Ruger just looked at him, he added, “You wanted a stretcher. Is someone hurt?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. My — how should I put it? — my…‘associate’ is a trifle banged up. He’s out in the cornfield and I think he’d like to come in now.”
Val stared at him. “You left an injured man out in the field?”
“Yes, isn’t it shocking? On the other hand, what the fuck do you care?”
“He’s hurt….”
“So what? If I was hurt, would you give a shit?”
“Of course I would.”
Ruger laughed. “Oh, I’m sure!”
Val’s dark eyes glittered. “I’d help any animal that was hurt. Even a skunk or a rabid dog.”
Ruger shook his head ruefully. “Man oh man, you are something!” For a moment, it seemed as if he were about to say something more, but then the front door opened.
Nobody had even heard the car drive up, which was not surprising with the wind and the soft moist dirt of the road, but they all heard the click as the knob turned and the lock sprang open.
Val turned and screamed: “Crow! No! Run!”
Anything else she might have said was drowned out by the ear-shattering blast of the pistol as Ruger spun around and fired two shots through the door.
Chapter 12
The man in the road had a huge butcher’s knife driven into his chest and his white T-shirt was a mass of blood that bloomed a bright crimson in the glare of the headlights. Crow slowed to a halt and leaned out of the window.
“How’s tricks, Barney?”
Grinning through bloody teeth, the impaled man leaned his forearms on the open window frame of the Chevy and peered inside. “There’s a game tonight at the college, so it’s been kinda slow. How’s with you? Hey, is that Mike?”
“What’s up, Barney?”
“How’s it hanging, Mike?”
“I’m cool.”
Barney Murphy scratched his chest where the adhesive bound the fake knife to his skin. The handle wobbled. “Whatcha doing out here, man?” he asked Crow.
“Look, Barney, there’s some stuff going on in town, and we have to shut the place down.”
“Shut it down? You mean…for good?”
“No, just for the night. Where’s Coop?”
“He’s out with a bunch of customers in number four.” The hayride had four tractors that pulled stake-bed trailers full of tourists. Number two was at Shanahan’s for a cracked axle. The other three rotated, each pulling out with a load of kids about every twenty minutes.
“How many and how long?”
Barney considered. “Maybe thirty people. Been gone ’bout twenty minutes.”
“Shit…er, I mean shoot.” He cocked an eye at Mike, who was grinning. “You didn’t hear that, right?”
“Shit no.”
“Good,” Crow said, and in a mock under-his-voice tone he added, “Juvenile delinquent.”
“He’ll be done in another twenty, twenty-five,” said Barney. “Number one just came in five, ten minutes ago. Three’ll be out another ten.”
“I’m gonna take one of the ATVs and go fetch Coop. Anyone else shows up, turn ’em away. Except for Mike’s folks, they’re going to pick him up. His bike’s in my trunk.” Barney looked confused, and Crow elaborated. “He got run off the road by some dumb-ass trucker. Got banged up a bit.”
“I’m okay,” Mike said bravely.
Crow said, “Busted a rib or two and cracked his head on a rock. No, don’t look like that, he’s not going to die on you. His folks are going to take him over to the hospital for some X-rays.”
“That sucks,” he said, but Mike just shrugged. Carefully.
Crow said, “Look, Barney, there’s something serious going on. There are three assholes from Philly, bank robbers or something, who may be hiding out somewhere around here. The mayor wants everybody who belongs in town back in town, and all the kids at home.”
“What? That’s it?”
“That’s it, as far as I know.”
“Well, that’s not so much.”
“Yeah, but you know how Terry Wolfe is.”
“Yeah. He’s scared of his own shadow. I mean he never even comes out here, not even during the day.”
“Mr. Wolfe’s okay, Barney. He’s just a busy guy. He owns a lot of things. He’s always busy. That’s why he pays me to manage this joint.” There was just the faintest edge to Crow’s voice, and Barney caught it.
“Cool, man.”
“Anyway, if you see anyone you don’t know — any adults I mean — or if anything weird happens, call me on my cell.”
“Weird? Dude…this is a haunted hayride, you know.”
Crow smiled and winked at him and put the car into gear. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, nodding to the knife handle, “you ought to have that looked at.”
“Yeah,” said Barney, “this thing is killing me.”
The night was stretching forward into darkness, racing toward the dead hours that are forgotten by the light. All across Pine Deep, hearts were beginning to beat just a bit faster, minute-by-minute; lungs were gulping in air and gasping it out. In just a few hours the pitch and pulse of the night had changed, accelerated, jumped toward haste and action and frenzy.
There was the scent of blood on the dark winds, and the promise of much, much more; a perfume of destruction and pain carried to every part of the town, even to the darkest and most remote of places. The scent seemed to sink into the rich earth of the town, seeking out those who craved that aroma.
Deep in the darkness, someone became aware of that perfume; someone laid bare his senses and absorbed the scent of death, the energy of fear, the electricity of hate. He filled himself with the essence of hurt and dread, and he smiled. Teeth long caked with wormy soil, and lips withered to dry tautness peeled into a grin that betrayed the pernicious delight of the smiler. Above and around him the black tons of earth trembled as he laughed.
Ruger’s tiny automatic made lightning flashes and thunderstorm booms that crashed off the living room walls. Two black holes appeared high on the top panel of the door and cordite burned the air. Val screamed and lunged frantically for the doorknob, but Ruger sprang to his feet, knocking the rocking chair over, and with a ferocious sweep of his arm he sent her reeling back into her father’s arms. Guthrie fell back onto the couch with Val sitting down hard on top of him; he grunted in pain and the breath whooshed out of him for the second time. Connie screamed, too, but she made no move at Ruger: she just sat there on the couch covering her face with both hands and screaming shrilly through her fingers.
Ruger grabbed the knob and with a violent jerk whipped the door open, bringing his gun up high and steady as he did so. Outside, on the wide plank porch, Mark Guthrie stood in a frozen posture of absolute and uncomprehending shock: half crouched, stock-still, wide-eyed, and staring with dinner-plate eyes at the gun in the hand of a man he didn’t know. The bullets must have missed his face by inches and there were tiny splinters on his cheek, standing up like needles in a pincushion.