Bad Moon Rising. Джонатан Мэйберри

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 the 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