Bad Moon Rising. Джонатан Мэйберри

blubbered, hanging his head. “I’m so sorry.”

      The Bone Man lingered in the shadows of the destroyed living room. He’d enjoyed Eddie’s frustrated rage. Such a damn shame it stopped short of the big man just plain killing himself. He pretended to sigh.

      “That’s one round to us,” he said, though his voice was as soundless as he was invisible.

      Even so, Tow-Truck Eddie’s head jerked up as if he had heard those words. The Bone Man froze, afraid to even move as Eddie looked around in confusion, pawing tears from his eyes, brow knitted. It was a long minute before Eddie’s scowl faltered and his eyes lost their hawklike intensity. He bent again to his prayers and his pleas, and the Bone Man backed carefully out through the wall.

      (5)

      Crow slipped away when Sarah’s sister Rose arrived from Brooklyn. He drifted to the nurse’s station and begged for information, but instead of a doctor Jim Polk came smirking out of the ER.

      Polk said, “You’re going to have to stop harassing the nurses, pal.”

      Startled, Crow said, “What the hell are you talking about? Val’s my—”

      “Val’s a material witness is a murder case. Once the doctors are done with her we have to take her statement. Until we do no one gets to see her.”

      Polk wasn’t a big man, but he was taller and heavier than Crow, and he wore a hyena smile as he spoke, slowly chewing a wad of pink gum. His teeth were wet and his eyes looked piggish. Crow wanted to stuff him into a laundry chute.

      “Look, Jim,” he began, trying to be reasonable, “it’s not like I don’t know the drill here. How about a little professional courtesy?”

      “You’re not a cop anymore.”

      “Actually, I think I am. Terry swore me back onto the department during the Ruger manhunt. He never swore me out again, so technically—”

      Polk took a half step closer and lowered his voice. “Terry Wolfe is a hophead schizo who didn’t have enough brains to even commit suicide. Who the hell cares what he did or didn’t do?”

      Polk’s words stunned Crow. “Hey, Jim, let’s dial it down here.”

      Polk tapped Crow’s chest with a stiffened index finger. “Dial your own shit down, Crow. You’re not a cop in this town, and your butt-buddy Terry Wolfe isn’t around to hold your hand. Right now all you are is a pain in the ass and a potential nuisance to a police investigation. You got no rights and you got no say. Are we clear on that?” With every other word he jabbed Crow in the chest.

      With each tap more of the shock drained out of Crow as cold fury took its place. He looked down at the finger pressing against his chest and then slowly raised his eyes to meet Polk’s. For a few seconds he said nothing, just letting the hardness of his stare work on Polk, and Crow could see the tough-guy façade lose some of its fastenings. Very softly he said, “Jim…I don’t know what bug crawled up your ass, but I’m going to tell you only once to move that finger before I break it off. Maybe you opened a box of Cracker Jacks and the toy surprise was a new set of balls, but believe me when I tell you that today is not the best day to get in my face.”

      Polk gave him a hard-ass sneer, but he lowered his hand. “Get your ass out of here, Crow. When we want you, we’ll call 1-800-dial-a-drunk.” With that he turned away and reached to push open the ER door.

      “That’s it?” Crow said, laughing before he could catch himself. “That’s really the best exit line you can think of? Dial-a-drunk? That wasn’t even funny when I was a drunk, you dumbass hick, and now it’s just…lame.”

      Polk almost turned around; it was there in his mind and he even had a hitch in his step, but they both knew he wouldn’t. Instead he pushed angrily through the swinging doors and let them flap shut behind him.

      Crow went and peered through the crack between the doors, but all he could see was another cop’s back. Shit.

      Totally perplexed by what had just happened—and feeling anger burn on his cheeks and ears—Crow turned away and trudged back to Val’s room, grinding his teeth all the while. Newton was still asleep in the chair, and Crow crossed to the empty bed and sat down, feeling weak and defeated.

      Chapter 2

      (1)

      Vic Wingate pulled his midnight-blue pickup into the slot behind his house and killed the lights. The sun was setting brush fires on the horizon, but the back alley was still shrouded in bruise-colored shadows. He lit a cigarette from the dashboard lighter and looked up and down the street. Nothing moved; even the pear trees in his neighbor’s backyard seemed frozen in time.

      “It’s clear,” he said, but Ruger was already getting out of the car like he didn’t give a shit.

      Inside, Ruger sank down into Vic’s Barcalounger with a volume of Eastern European folklore. Vic went to the wet bar at the foot of the stairs and poured himself a C&C and ginger ale without ice. He took a small sip, rinsing it around to clear out the acid taste in his mouth, swallowed, and then took a larger gulp. When he lowered the glass he saw that Ruger was not reading but was instead staring up at the ceiling. It was only then that Vic could hear the muffled footsteps above, followed by the bang of a pan on the stove. Lois, up early.

      “Smells good,” Ruger said in his whispery voice.

      “You can smell her cooking all the way down here?”

      “No,” Ruger said, his eyes dreamy and unfocused, “I can smell her.” He closed his eyes; one corner of his mouth hooked up in a smile as thin and curled as a dentist’s hook. “Full-blooded bitch.”

      “Hey, Sport,” Vic snapped, “that’s my wife you’re talking about.”

      Ruger waited maybe five whole seconds before he opened his eyes. All color in the irises had melted into a featureless black. It was like looking into the eyes of a shark. His smile never wavered and he said nothing; all he did was lower his head and pick up his book.

      Vic stared at him for a while, then cut a sharp look at the ceiling, angry at Lois for no reason. He slammed back the rest of his drink and built another, searching in the shadows of his mind for that little thread of contact, that indefinable conduit that would link him to the Man. It was getting harder and harder to touch the Man, which made no damn sense since with things moving like this it should be getting easier. The Man was feeding every day now, taking the discharge of pain and terror from each kill that Ruger and his goon squad made. Every day he got stronger, so it should be easy for Vic to reach him. Behind him he heard the soft rustle as Ruger turned a page.

      He paused, the mouth of the whiskey bottle hovering over the rim of his glass, the liquid sloshing softly as he gave Ruger a long, calculating appraisal. He didn’t like the thoughts that were forming in his brain.

      “Son of a bitch,” he breathed.

      Ruger said, “You say something?”

      Vic set the bottle down very carefully, screwed the cap back on, and turned with his drink, forcing his hands to hold the glass steady, forcing his mouth to smile a smile that was just as thin, just as icy as Ruger’s.

      “No, Sport, I didn’t say a goddamn thing.”

      They looked at each other, two sharks smiling across the sea of eddying shadows, seeing each other with perfect clarity.

      After a moment Vic said, “At some point you and I might have to sit down and have a heart-to-heart talk about some shit, you dig? But right now we both have bigger fish to fry.”

      Ruger kept giving him the look for another couple of seconds, then his eyes seemed to lose some of their heat. “Okay.”

      “The Red Wave launches in two weeks. We’re nowhere near ready.”

      “We’re not behind schedule, far as I know.”

      “Yeah?