Bad Moon Rising. Джонатан Мэйберри

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.

      Chapter 7

      He drifted through the forest on silent feet while above and around him the air was filled with the scream of crows. The ragged black birds carted and wheeled above the Bone Man’s head, sometimes landing in rows along the arthritic arms of trees, sometimes gathering in gossiping clusters on the ground. Several hundred more of the night birds lined a twisted path, standing like diners