Bad Moon Rising. Джонатан Мэйберри

since that pussy Terry Wolfe tried to kill himself.”

      “Maybe the Man knew Wolfe was going to take the plunge and laid off of Crow,” Ruger offered. “After all, we got to have one of them alive until the big day.”

      “Maybe, but I smell a nigger in the woodpile. I think something went wrong down in the Hollow.”

      Ruger said nothing.

      “And since I don’t hear Lois up there wailing and gnashing her teeth I can pretty much guess Tow-Truck Eddie didn’t kill Mike. Bottom line, we drew a complete blank last night. Maybe even a setback.”

      “You waste too much time on that kid, Vic ol’ buddy. Instead of trying to get that moron Eddie to kill your asshole stepson, why not just do it yourself?”

      “I told you already…I can’t. He has to die by a clean hand. That’s why the Man wants Eddie to do it.”

      “Eddie’s clean? How the hell do you figure that? He works for the Man just like we do.”

      Vic shook his head. “No, he don’t. Eddie thinks he’s hearing the voice of God in his head. Eddie’s this whole-milk-drinking, on-his-knees praying, Bible-thumping child of Jesus, so the Man’s been riffing off that, twisting his faith even more while at the same time making him think he’s the avenging son of Heaven or some shit.”

      That nudged an appreciative chuckle out of Ruger. “Sweet.”

      “Point is, if one of us—especially one of your bunch—kills Mike, then what he is, his essence will be released to the whole town. Once that happens every stick, stone, and blade of grass will be like a holy weapon. It be like everything was radioactive—none of you could even walk here, and the Man wouldn’t be able to rise.”

      “That’s what being a dhampyr means?”

      There was a flicker of hesitation before Vic answered, “It’s part of what it means. It’s in the folklore, in the traditions. I don’t want to get it into right now, either…that’s not part of your end of things except that you just make sure your crowd doesn’t put the chomp on him. We clear on that?” Vic pursed his lips for a moment. “If Eddie can’t get the job done by, say, next week, then I’ll just take a baseball bat to the kid’s knees just so he’s not in the game during the Wave. Been wanting to do that for some time. Kid’s a serious disappointment.”

      “Maybe he has too much of his father in him.”

      “Watch your mouth—”

      “Not him, dumbass, I meant the—whaddya call it?—the biological father. Maybe he picked up the pussy goody-two-shoes gene or something.”

      “Yeah,” Vic conceded grudgingly. “Maybe. Genetics and the supernatural make a weird cocktail. You can sure as hell bet no one’s ever studied it, so all of us, even the Man, are making some of this shit up as we go. Sometimes you never know how things’ll turn out.”

      “In a pinch you could always handcuff the little punk to the radiator come Halloween morning. Let him just sit the whole thing out. Ever thought of something as simple as that, Einstein?”

      “Of course I have.” Vic felt his face flush because it was so simple a solution that he’d over-thought the situation. So, apparently, had the Man. “We’re getting off the point here. About the only thing we managed to get right yesterday was stealing Boyd’s body…though we’d both better hope that our little bit of stage dressing is going to do the trick.”

      “We gotta consider spin control here. Crow and that faggot reporter saw too much down in the Hollow. We have to keep him quiet. Maybe take the Guthrie bitch and hold her hostage to force him to keep his mouth shut, or threaten her and the baby she’s carrying.”

      “Be a tricky play, Sport. Do it too soon it would mean having to hold her for two weeks. You got to remember that Crow was a cop and he’s still cop-connected. There’s ten thousand ways that could go south on us. On the other hand, if we wait too long he’ll probably be poking his nose where it don’t belong.”

      “That Guthrie bitch probably knows what Boyd is…or was, I mean.”

      “Yeah, damn it.” Vic sipped his drink. “We have to slow down any attempts they make to investigate things. I have the Man’s house rigged, but that’s only if they get there closer to the Wave. Until then we have to make things look ordinary so nothing screws up the tourist flow.”

      “If we have to we can move the nest out of there. Or we can tweak the scene, make it look like Boyd was using it as a hideout. That’ll sell if Polk can handle playing an actual cop.”

      “Polk’ll do whatever he’s told, but there’s another potential player in all this and he’s someone people will listen to—that Jew doctor…Weinstock.”

      “What about him? We stole Boyd’s body…he don’t have jack shit.”

      “Don’t you ever watch CSI or any of them shows?”

      “No, jackass, I actually have a life.”

      “Not anymore,” Vic said and there was a long moment when the two of them stared hard at each other, then Ruger’s lip twitched and they both burst out laughing. Ruger beat the arm of his chair as he howled and Vic had to set down his drink to keep from spilling it down his shirtfront.

      “Okay, okay, that’s one for you, you son of a bitch,” Ruger said as the laughter died down. “Get to where you were going, though. How’s the doctor going to be a problem?”

      “Forensic evidence. He autopsied those two cops Boyd killed. Castle and Cowan. He’s got to have lab reports and shit. And Polk told us they had morgue video of Boyd stealing your body…what if there’s tape of Cowan and Castle getting up to go out for a stroll?”

      “Balls. Even so, we certainly can’t kill him right now. There’s no one to pin it on and it’d draw the wrong kind of attention.”

      Vic nodded. “Plus, he’s a good friend of Crow and Guthrie. It’d be way too high profile, too many of the wrong connections, and it would just strengthen anything Crow had to say.”

      Ruger’s mouth gave an ugly tremble. “I could turn him.”

      Vic considered, but then shook his head. “Too chancy. We run the risk of him going brain dead.”

      “Yeah…which is something I don’t quite get. About one in five of the people I turn wakes up with ‘No Sale’ written on his eyeballs. Like Boyd, only worse in a lot of cases. It’s a pain in the ass, and it’s dangerous to the plan. They don’t like following orders, even if they understand the orders, which I friggin’ doubt. When they’re not milling around groaning like extras from Night of the Living Dead, they’re trying to break out to go hunt. I had to put a few of them down ’cause they were just too unruly. You’re the expert…what’s with that shit?”

      “Hell if I know. Some vampires are like that. Not everyone wakes up smart and charming. Look at you, for instance.”

      Ruger shot him the finger. He said, “Are you sure they’re actual vampires? They’re more like zombies.”

      “Supposed to be vamps, according to the Man. Just different. Just like some of you guys have retractable fangs and some don’t. Some of you guys have these oversized chompers that look like walrus teeth, and some don’t and can pass for Joe Normal. Lots of different species. Maybe it has something to do with ethnic background, who knows? The only ones that are a real problem are those Dead Heads like Boyd. At first I thought he was a fluke but, you’re right, it seems to be a pattern, and that could hurt us if it gets out of hand.” He shook his head. “So, I guess, we can’t risk having it happen to the Jew. Not yet.”

      “Well, then the answer’s pretty obvious—we have to find out if he has any forensic stuff, find out where he keeps it, and then get rid of it. Simple as that. Steal his files, fry his hard drive. Your boy Polk’s supposed to be a computer geek, right? He could