Bad Moon Rising

Chapter 6

(1)

Mike stood frozen to the spot as Tow-Truck Eddie entered the shop. A panicky voice screamed in his head, Run…run…RUN! but his legs were concrete, his body stunned into an immobile mass.

He’d only seen Eddie up close twice before and that memory didn’t match this one at all. The first was maybe two years ago when his mom had made Mike drop off a lunch for Vic. Eddie had seemed big enough, but he’d worn a gentle smile and had given Mike an amiable wink. The second time was a couple of weeks ago, as they passed one another in the lobby of the hospital after Crow had been shot. He’d almost seemed ordinary then. Now the man seemed ten feet tall and five feet wide. Eddie’s police uniform was well tailored but it did nothing to hide the weightlifter’s chest and arms. He had huge sloping shoulders that tapered right up to his head, making it look like he had no neck at all. And though he had to be in his early fifties he showed no signs of age except for some crow’s feet at the corners of his piercing blue eyes. An Arnold Schwarzenegger cop, Mike thought, a Pine Deep Terminator. The name OSWALD was engraved in white on a black plastic name tag pinned to his chest, and Mike realized that he had never known the man’s last name before.

Eddie Oswald closed the door slowly, his gaze intent on Mike, and then walked slowly across the floor of the shop, big hands swinging easily, almost no expression on his face except for tiny bits of muscle at his jaw that bunched and flexed.

For just a second, though, something odd happened and Mike was aware of it on a detached, almost remote level. The air between Officer Oswald and himself seemed to shimmer as if heat vapor were rising from the floor. It gave the big man a distorted appearance, like a mirage of some giant seen across desert sands.

Mike knew he couldn’t run. The big man could catch him easily before he could fish out the key and duck through into Crow’s apartment. Mike wondered if the cop recognized him. Maybe out there on the road the big man hadn’t had a good look at him, so he played on that and turned on a bright, helpful smile that was so fake it made his cheeks hurt. “Uh…can I help you, Officer?”

The cop stood there, frowning now as he looked at Mike, all of his force and swagger diminishing second by second. He peered at Mike, eyes narrowed to slits, but there was no recognition on his face. When he spoke, though, his voice carried a different and far more accusatory weight.

“You work here, boy?” Tow-Truck Eddie’s voice was as raw as scraped knuckles.

“Yes, sir,” Mike whispered through a dry throat. “Is there anything I can do for you…Officer? Um…d’you want me to get the owner?” Crow hadn’t come in yet, but Mike hoped the promise of it might protect him from whatever this madman had planned.

“No,” said the cop quietly. “No, don’t bother him. I want to ask you a couple of questions.” He leaned on the word you.

“Me?” asked Mike, and his adolescent voice broke from tenor to soprano on that one word. “Me? Uh…About what?”

The cop removed a notebook from his pocket and consulted it. Mike watched him, and he had the strangest impression that the cop wasn’t really reading notes on the book, but was just staring at it. The officer’s lips moved slightly, not as if reading aloud with the words, but as if speaking to himself. Finally, the big man raised his eyes and stared long and hard at Mike. “There have been some reports of kids harassing drivers on A-32, playing chicken with cars and trucks put on the highway. Would you know anything about that?”

“Kids playing chicken? No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. I don’t know anything about anything like that.”

The cop stared hard in his direction, but kept squinting as if he was having a hard time focusing on him.. “Do you have a bicycle, son?”

“Sure.” The word came out before he could stop it.

“Do you ever ride it on Route A-32?”

Mike hesitated, trying to make it look like he was considering it. “No sir.”

The cop took a ballpoint pen from his pocket and made a note in his book. Or pretended to. “Are you telling me that you never ride your bicycle on Route A-32 at night?”

Mike hedged. “Not…really.”

“What does ‘not really’ mean? Do you or don’t you?”

“I guess I do sometimes, like during the summer, but not recently.”

The cop made another note, and Mike saw him peek upward as he pretended to write, as if hoping to catch a clearer look. For a moment the cop tilted his head as if listening, wincing as he did so, and again confusion clouded his face. “Now tell me, son, have you ever seen other kids riding their bicycles there at night?”

Mike hesitated. “I guess.”

“What was that, son?”

“Yes, sir.” Mike avoided direct eye contact. “Sometimes I see other kids, sure.”

“Have you ever seen any kids playing chicken with cars or trucks on Route A-32 at night?”

“No…no, nothing like that.”

“Never?”

“No.”

The cop winced again. “Would you mind turning down the music so we can talk?

Mike just looked at him. He hadn’t turned on the Halloween CDs yet; the store was quiet. “Music?” he asked.

The cop blinked as if surprised either of them had said anything about music. He looked at his notepad for a moment and then shook his head like a dog being harassed by flies. “Look at me, son,” said the cop quietly, and Mike reluctantly raised his eyes. The shimmer in the air between them seemed to intensify.

Could he see it? Mike wondered. He tensed, his legs trembling with the urge to run.

The cop looked at him with blue eyes that were as hard as fists. “Tell me this, son, have you ever played chicken with a car?”

“No.”

“…or truck…”

“No, never!”

“…or any vehicle of any kind on Route A-32 at night?”

“I swear, Officer, I never did. Nothing like that.”

The cop looked skeptical, and he inflicted silence on Mike for several long seconds. “You know, son, one of these punk kids actually caused an accident on the road the other night.”

“Um…really? What happened?” Mike couldn’t believe he was asking that question.

The cop put a finger in his ear and jiggled it around like a swimmer trying to get rid of water. He realized he was doing it, cleared his throat, and consulted his notebook. “Some kid…some evil, nasty little son of a bitch of a kid…was playing chicken with a truck on the road.”

“A truck?”

“Yes,” said the cop gravely. “A tow truck.”

Mike mouthed the phrase “tow truck,” but didn’t put any sound to it.

“A brand-new tow truck. Very large and very expensive.”

“What happened?” There it was again, his fool mouth asking questions while the rest of him wanted to run and hide.

“Well, son, the tow truck was just driving along, the driver minding his own business, when this punk kid dodges right out in front of him. Dodges right out so unexpectedly that the driver had to swerve to keep from running him over. And do you know what happened then?” When Mike shook his head, Oswald continued. “Since the driver had to swerve so violently to keep from hurting the kid, he lost control of his tow truck and went off the road and into a ditch. The driver was pretty badly banged up. The tow truck itself sustained several thousand dollars worth of damage. Now, isn’t that terrible?”

“I…I guess.”

The cop bent suddenly forward, his eyes blazing. “You guess?”

Mike recoiled, but the cop came so close that he could smell the man’s breath. It was awful, like spoiled meat.

“You guess?” the cop snarled again. “Well, let me tell you something, you young piece of shit, that man could have been killed. Killed! Do you understand that? Do you think it’s just all right for punk bastards to try and kill honest citizens?”

“No! No, sir…of course not.”

“Oh, good, then you’re a good, upstanding citizen, aren’t you?” the cop said, suddenly smiling, straightening, and once more consulting his notebook. He absently pawed at his ear.

“It’s too loud,” he muttered to himself, then looked at Mike again, his smile brightening. “Do you go to church?”

The question came out of complete left field, and Mike just stared at him. He’s out of his freaking mind, he thought, but on the heels of that came the certain knowledge that the cop didn’t recognize him. It made no real sense, but there it was.

“I guess…” He caught himself. “Sure,” he lied. “Every Sunday.”

Tow-Truck Eddie reached out with one of his bandaged hands and tousled Mike’s hair. “You’re a good boy, I can tell that. If you did know something about that incident, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?” The transition to Officer Friendly was just as scary as the seething vehemence had been a moment before. Dumbfounded, Mike just nodded. “I’m sorry, son, I didn’t catch that.” Just the slightest edge there.

“Yes…yes, sir, if I knew something about it, I’d tell you.”

“Good boy.” The cop stood there and for a few seconds, consulting whatever notes he had written in his notebook and staring at the top sheet unblinkingly. He turned without comment and walked to the door, but as his big hand was touching the handle he paused and looked back at Mike. “You’re…not him,” he asked. His voice was infused with sadness, perhaps loss. “Are you?”

Mike’s throat was as hot and dry as Hell’s back door. “No,” he said. “No…I’m not him.”

“Okay then,” he said, paused, and then added, “God bless you.”

“Um,” Mike said. “You…too?”

The cop flashed him a tired grin, and then he was gone.

Mike sagged back away from the counter, took two wobbly steps, and sat down hard on the floor, numb even to the shock of the impact. Bees and termites seemed to be crawling around the inside of his stomach and there were fireworks exploding in his eyes.

“God!” he gasped, and then tumbled over onto his hands and knees and vomited into a small plastic trash can. His guts clenched and spasmed and his whole body bucked with the effort as the fireworks turned to blooming black flowers and his blood roared in his ears. When his stomach was empty he crawled under the counter, curled into a ball with arms wrapped around his bowed head, and began shivering uncontrollably.

The convulsions didn’t start for at least another ten minutes.

In the middle of the store, halfway between the counter and the front door, the air shimmered again and again, and if Mike had been in any condition to pay attention he might have caught just the faintest ghostly echo of the fading notes of a wailing blues riff and an even fainter sound of bitter laughter.

The shimmer wafted like heat vapor toward the door and in the harsh intensity of the morning sunlight it melted away into nothingness.

(2)

A long time ago, back when Vic had started schooling him on his role in the Red Wave, Polk had managed to steal a set of passkeys for the hospital, copy them, and return the originals before anyone noticed they were gone. There was no part of the hospital, not even the private offices of the senior staff, that he couldn’t enter. When he saw Saul Weinstock and Crow enter the elevator, he took that moment to use his master key and slip into Weinstock’s office, slipped on a pair of latex gloves, and in three quick minutes made a fast and thorough search of desk, cabinets, and files. Whatever else he might be, Polk was efficient.

In the bottom left drawer of the doctor’s desk he found an accordion folder marked Ruger et al. that was crammed with notes, lab reports on Cowan and Castle, photos, and medical records. It was exactly what Vic had told him to find. There were computer disks and several security camera digital tapes in there as well. The whole shebang.

“Sweet,” he said, but the second he said it the word turned sour on his tongue and doubt took a giant step into his heart. This was he stuff Vic had told him—ordered him—to get and destroy. On the other hand there was no way to make this stuff vanish without making things worse. No way in the world. If he took it, then somehow the shit was going to land on him. Polk knew that as sure as he knew dogs didn’t fart gold coins. It wouldn’t be Vic’s ass on the line…it would be his.

He chewed his lip, glancing from folder to desk clock to closed door and back to folder, but he knew the decision had already been made. Maybe even before he broke in here. The bottom line, as he saw it, was that Vic wasn’t paying him enough to take a fall for this. Taking one for the team was not part of Polk’s game plan, no way José. Plus, doubt had been growing in him like a brushfire, fueled by the fact that Vic never quite detailed what Polk’s role would be once the Red Wave had swept through Pine Deep. Too often when he probed Vic on that subject, the coldhearted bastard just gave him a crocodile smile and a wink, saying some shit like, “We always take care of our friends, Jimmy Boy.”

“You know what, Vic?” he murmured, “You can kiss my ass.” He put the folder back as neatly as he’d found it, closed and locked the desk. Maybe it was good enough to know where it was in case he needed the leverage. He slipped out of the office, stripped off the gloves, and shoved them into a pocket, then ducked into the fire stairs.

Two flights down he stopped, checked the stairs, and punched Vic’s number on speed dial. “Vic? It’s me,” Polk whispered.

“Yeah? And?”

“Nothing. I checked Weinstock’s office from top to bottom. No files, no evidence. Nothing.”

There was a pause and Polk felt little jabs of stress pain under his heart.

“Okay,” Vic said. “You’re sure? You checked everywhere?”

“Maybe it’s at his house. Or…um, in a safety deposit box. Maybe he gave it to someone. Maybe he gave it to Crow.”

Another pause. “Shit,” Vic said at last, “that sounds about right. Damn it.”

“What do you want me to do?” He took a risk, guessing what Vic would say. “You want me to creep his place?”

“No. Not at the moment. Just go back to watching the hospital and I’ll get back to you.”

Vic hung up and Polk sagged against the wall. His armpits were soaked and he felt sick to his stomach. With Vic it was never easy to tell whether he believed something or not. Not until Vic brought it up face-to-face. Polk fumbled a bottle of aspirin out of his pocket and dry-swallowed three of them before pulling the door open.

(3)

“That’s funny,” Weinstock said as he reached for the doorknob, “this should be locked.”

The door was open just a crack, showing a vertical line of shadows inside the morgue. Crow saw it and immediately pushed Weinstock’s hand away. “No! Don’t.”

“You don’t think—”

“I don’t like this one bit, Saul. So let’s just back away,” Crow said softly as he pulled his friend away from the door. Together they moved to the far side of the hallway and Crow looked up and down the corridor, seeing things he hadn’t seen when they’d first come off the elevator. The concrete was scuffed with dirt and mud that had been tracked in from the access door to the outside. There was a beer can on the ground and a couple of cigarette butts. He squatted down to examine them. No, not cigarette butts—they were the roach ends of a couple of joints. “What the hell?” He glanced at the door as he straightened. “Saul, call security. Get some guards down here.”

Weinstock gave a curt nod and hurried back up the corridor to where a white plastic phone was inset into the cinderblock wall. He lifted the handset and punched in a three-digit code.

“Security,” a crisp female voice answered. “Molly Sims.”

“Molly, this is Dr. Weinstock. I’m outside the morgue. It looks like there’s been a break-in.”

“Another one?” Her voice rose three octaves.

“Get somebody down here right now!” He slammed down the phone and crept back to join Crow, who was peering at the mud. Mixed in with ordinary dirt there was a darker, more viscous substance that was a dark red fading to chocolate brown.

“I think some of this is blood,” Crow said softly. “Christ, are we looking at just another break-in, or is did something break out?”

Weinstock paled. “I really wish you wouldn’t say things like that.” He shifted to try and peer through the narrow crack, but the room beyond was completely dark. “You thinking Boyd?”

“Yeah,” Crow said. Or Mark, he thought, but didn’t say it. “Wait here.” He hurried back to the elevator-end of the hall to where a heavy fire ax was mounted on clips behind a glass door. He smashed the glass and took the ax.

Weinstock nodded approval. “Should do the trick if anything comes out of there, but I sure hope you’re not thinking of going in.”

Crow smiled faintly. “Dude, in the movies the hero always walks into some dark place all alone, and you know something fangy and hairy is going to jump out. Doesn’t work for me—I’m not a total idiot and I’m comfortably chicken shit, so I’ll wait for the cavalry to arrive. This,” he hefted the ax again, “is to make me feel better while we wait.”

They waited. Every other second one of them would shoot a look over at the elevator, waiting for the little white light above the door to go bing! Long seconds passed.

“Your security team kinda blows with the whole rapid-response thing.”

Weinstock was scowling at the elevator. “Ever since we got down here my balls have been slowly climbing up into my pelvis. If my nuts make it all the way to my chest cavity by the time those guards get here, heads will roll.” He nodded at the ax. “And I don’t mean layoffs.”

The elevator pinged and the doors slid open as five people burst out into the hall—three hospital security officers and two cops. Polk was one of the cops. Everyone had their guns drawn and they raced down the hall, pistol barrels pointed up to the ceiling, eyes shifting back and forth, moving just like each of them had seen real cops do on TV.

“We’re saved,” Crow said dryly.

Weinstock sighed. “Whoopee.”

Though Crow didn’t like Polk, he had to admire the smooth efficiency with which the officer led his men into the room, fanned out and covering every corner. It was very workmanlike.

“Clear!” Polk called. As he holstered his pistol he gestured for Weinstock and Crow to come in. “Nobody’s home, but it looks like there was one hell of a party.”

The place had been trashed. Tables overturned, class shattered, closets torn off the walls and contents dumped. The walls were covered with crude graffiti—naked women with huge breasts, men with gigantic penises, and slogans like “Pine Deep Scarecrows Rule!” and “Blow Me!” On the floor someone had used a pint of whole blood to create splash art, and there were footprints patterned all the way through it.

“That explains the blood in the hallway,” Weinstock said, but he sounded more hopeful than certain. Crow merely grunted.

“I’ll call for a crime scene team down here,” Polk said and went out into the hall.

Crow and Weinstock barely registered the comment. They were both staring at the rows of stainless-steel doors behind which bodies were stored on sliding metal trays. All the doors stood open. Mark Guthrie lay on one of them; Connie was two drawers down. Tyrone Gibbs was in the one at the far end, and an old lady who had died of a coronary was in the drawer next to him.

“Saul…tell me, please, that Boyd’s body was stored somewhere else.”

Weinstock scrambled around, kicking through the debris until he found a clipboard. He rifled through the pages and then just stood there, his face going dead.

Crow closed his eyes. “Oh…shit.”

Boyd’s body was gone.