For all that, it wasn’t Vic who was seeing the most important part: Vic, blackhearted son of a bitch though he was, couldn’t turn anyone, couldn’t make more soldiers for the Red Wave. Vic could kill people, true enough, but only Ruger, and to a lesser degree Boyd and the ones that brainless jackass already recruited, could make a kill and then turn that kill into a recruitment. It didn’t matter that there were already twenty soldiers out there like him because in truth none of them were quite like him. The Man had told him so. He was special. A general, a king among them, just as the Man was a god to their kind. This was the pecking order. Vic thought it was the Man then him and then everyone else on their bellies below him, but that was bullshit. Ruger knew different because the Man has whispered inside his head while Ruger was doing time in the morgue drawer. Ruger was key to the ongoing success of the Man’s agenda. So, once the Red Wave hit, what good would Vic really be to the Man? Either he’d have to be made into a soldier himself, and Ruger didn’t like that idea, or Vic would have to be someone’s lunch.
That thought made Ruger smile in the darkness.
Vic must know that his usefulness was limited, too, otherwise he wouldn’t be holding back so much information from him. He clearly knew more about what Ruger was than he let on. Maybe even more than was in the books. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out why. Vic wanted to have an edge over Ruger and his recruits even after the Wave came and passed, and Vic needed to be seen as a valuable resource just in case Ruger ever exceeded him in the estimation of the Man.
Ruger looked down at the clipboard that lay on his lap. Once Vic had gone out for the day Ruger had started making a list of things he did, and did not, know about who and what he was. He was wasting no time. When Vic came home Ruger would hide the list. There was almost a month to go before Halloween. Plenty of time to poke around, read a book or two, and maybe do some experimentation. It was always better to be more in the know that the mooks you had to deal with. Not that Vic was really a mook—he was smart and he was sharp, but he wasn’t as smart or sharp as he thought he was, Ruger was sure about that.
He looked down at his list. The word “blood” was written near the top and he considered that point. Yeah, he could feel the urge, but it wasn’t at all like he expected. It wasn’t an ache in the stomach like a starving man would get, or even a burn in the veins like a junkie. This was way deeper than that—more like a stirring in the groin, something sexual. Ruger knew all about that and he knew that only a total idiot let his dick drive the bus. That kind of thing could be controlled. Maybe, he thought, even refined. That would take some thinking, maybe a little practice.
He heard muffled footsteps echoing from upstairs. Vic’s wife, Lois. Ruger hadn’t met her yet, but he could smell her, even all the way down here. Gin and perfume, nervous sweat and fear. A nice combination. She might be worth practicing on one of these days when Vic was out. He’d have to think about that.
Lower down on his list was the word “sunlight.”
“Go outside and you’ll burn, sport,” is the way Vic put it. Ruger saw that a lot in the books, too, and he’d seen it in movies. The thing was, that it wasn’t in all of the books. Not the older ones, anyway. He had to wonder about that and thought of ways to test it.
“No time like the present,” he murmured as he got up. The back door was closed and locked and Vic had the key, but that didn’t mean jack shit to Ruger. He took the door-knob in one hand and closed his left hand around the dead-bolt assembly and pulled. It resisted his pull, but only for a second, and then the screws Vic had sunk into the oak just tore loose with a screech of protest and the door jerked inward.
“Well kiss my ass!” Ruger breathed, impressed. It was far easier than he had thought it would be. Good to know. Outside the sunlight filled the entire alleyway and by instinct Ruger lunged back away from its touch as it painted the door with clear light, but then he stopped, just on the safe side of the line of the glare, still in shadows. He licked his dry lips and stared at the light outside for a full minute, counting the seconds. Looking at it was no problem, and that was good. Then he raised his left hand and tentatively reached out, coming right up to the dividing line between shadow and sunlight, and then crossed it with just the tips of his fingers. His hand was shaking as he felt the warmth wrap itself around each black nail, around the paper-white skin.
It hurt. It hurt a lot, but he did not catch fire. His skin didn’t blacken, didn’t even turn red. Even when he leaned forward and let the golden morning light bathe his face and hair. Not a whiff of smoke. Only pain, and what was pain to him but an old friend?
Ruger closed the door and went back to his chair. It took over two hours for the pain to subside, and for a while he had to grit his teeth together to keep from yelling. Time passed slowly, and while it did Karl Ruger learned a lot about himself, and about what he was. It was stuff he was certain Vic would not want him to know.
While the pain was at its worst, Ruger used the agony to focus his mind, used it like a whip to keep his train of thought on its tracks. As he endured the misery of it, he thought of Malcolm Crow, and of all the things he would like to do to him. Crow, and that black-haired Guthrie bitch. Twice he had tried to kill them, and twice he’d had his ass handed to him. There would have to be a third time, and he didn’t know if he could wait until the Red Wave to see it done. No, by the time the Wave hit he wanted them both broken and dead. Or better yet…recruited. Yeah, that had a nice feel to it.
A fresh wave of pain hit him and he kept the hiss of suffering inside as a plan began to form in his brain. Yeah, he mused, maybe recruit Val Guthrie and then use her against Crow. First break his heart, then break him down, and when he had nothing left, maybe Ruger would let Val send him on with a big, red kiss. He closed his eyes and with that thought in his mind the pain transformed from agony to true ecstasy, and he reveled in it, allowing the pain to be both his teacher and his mistress. There was a lot to learn from pain, and how one handled pain; Karl Ruger had learned a lot over the years, but right now he was learning its deeper secrets. Boy, would Vic be surprised.
(4)
Three hours later Vic was in his lounger, his face showing more anger than he wanted as he watched Ruger continue to stare out the backdoor’s peephole. His phone rang and when he saw it was Polk he flipped it open. “Make it brief,” Vic snapped.
“Just got home from the hospital. I got grilled by that nigger cop, Ferro, but it’s cool. After I let you in I went out a service entrance and came back and visited Rhoda, so I was in her room when everyone started making a fuss. I’m in the clear. All they know is that someone let Boyd in, but they don’t know who. They just know it wasn’t me.”
“Good work, Jimmy boy.” He closed his phone without saying good-bye and called to Ruger. “You thirsty?”
“Of course I am.”
“You have any idea what to do about that?” Ruger was standing at Vic’s cellar door, peering through the peephole at the empty street. He didn’t answer the question, so Vic said, “You deaf?”
“I heard you,” Ruger whispered. “If you’re hoping to get some jollies by seeing me jones for some O-positive, then too bad. It’s not like the movies, asshole. I can wait.” He touched the wood of the door with the tips of his long white fingers and as he watched the street he drew his fingertips slowly down the length of the door, from head height to waist level. Each black fingernail left a visible groove in the oak and little curls of wood fluttered to the cement floor. “When I need to feed, I’ll feed.”
Vic heard the faint screech as the nails grooved the wood. There was no visible change in his face, but his hand moved with apparently casualness from the armrest to the butt of the pistol tucked down between thigh and cushion. “I just fixed that shit, so don’t go messing with it.” In truth he had been furious—and visibly shaken—when he’d come home and found that Ruger had torn the lock open. At the time he had wheeled on Ruger and had given him a searching, accusing glare. “Did you try
to go out?”
Ruger kept his face bland while he said, “Do I look like a Crispy Critter? I’m not stupid, you know.” Then because he knew more explanation would be needed, he contrived another lie. “I was getting antsy and wanted to take a look outside and just tore open the door, forgetting what time of day it was.” He was pretty sure Vic bought that, and thereafter Ruger changed the subject.
Vic lit a cigarette. “You know, sport, everyone in town is talking about how Malcolm Crow and Val Guthrie bitch-slapped you. Twice. That cockup at the hospital was a real mess.” Ruger answered with silence. “What am I supposed to think about that, sport? What’s the Man supposed to think about that?”
That far end of the cellar was mostly in shadows and Vic’s face was a pale vagueness in the gloom. Even so, Vic could see—or thought he saw—the red burn of Ruger’s eyes.
“News flash, asshole—when you come back from the dead there’s no how-to manual. I was barely turned when I hit the hospital.” He licked his lips. “Times are changing, though. Every minute I keep learning more about what I am. I’ll bet I know some shit that you don’t know.”
Vic snorted. “Don’t put too much down on that bet, sport, and don’t try and pussy out of this. Own it like a man. You screwed up.”
“If you think I’m a screwup, then cap me, Wingate,” Ruger said quietly. “Otherwise go stick it up your ass.”
Vic picked up the pistol. “You think I won’t?”
Ruger smiled and Vic could definitely see that. Rows of jagged white teeth. Crow had kicked his front teeth out, but already they were starting to grow back—though they were keeping their jagged ridges. It made Ruger look like a cannibal. “If the Man wanted me dead he could reach out and snuff me out just like that. You know it and I know it.” Now it was Vic’s turn to be silent. “So, if I’m still alive—and if he sent you and my ol’ buddy Boyd to go and hijack me from the hospital—then I’m thinking the Man doesn’t think I’m all that much of a screwup.”
“Maybe,” Vic said grudgingly, “but it sure doesn’t mean that you’re employee of the month, either. To me you’re as useful as Gertie here.” He waggled the pistol. “And I think we can get along fine without you.”
Ruger gave a short, cold bark of a laugh. “You think you’re king shit, but you’re no more on the policy level than I am. We’re all fingers on the Man’s hand, and we should bow down and kiss the ground every time we even think of his name. Instead you’re second-guessing him. I find that very interesting.”
“Smooth talk for a screwup, sport.” But Vic shifted in his seat as he said that.
“By dawn tomorrow I’ll have done more for the Man than you’ve managed in thirty years, so the next time you want to blow smoke about something, just blow it up your own ass.” He took a small step forward. “Remember—there’s a lot more of us now than there are of you.” He jerked his chin toward the pistol. “I’ll bet you don’t even take a shit without that next to you these days. Getting scary out there, isn’t it?”
“Don’t try that Bela Lugosi crap on me, sport. I was running with the Man before you figured out which hand to use to jerk off with.” He sat back against the leather cushions. “I’m still waiting to hear this grand plan of yours for Crow and that Guthrie bitch. You pretty much blew your chance to make it look like an act of vengeance from a man on the run—which was the plan as I recall—so you’d better not be planning something too crazy. We want tourists in town, not more cops, you dig?”
“I have something low key in mind for them. Y’see, I planted a seed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“At the hospital, I put a worm in Crow’s brain and I think the little bastard is going to come to us. Well…he’s going to come to the Man.” Ruger’s smile faded but there was still laughter in his red eyes. He turned away and bent to the peephole again. “And that should be a real treat.” He grinned at Vic. “Something the Man suggested. You don’t need to worry about it. The thing you got to do is figure a good way for us to introduce Val Guthrie to my ol’ buddy, Boyd.”
“Boyd? Why, you afraid to do it yourself?”
“Time’s not right for me to risk being seen around the Guthrie place, or don’t you agree? I mean, hell, you went to such great pains to get me out of the hospital—made sure Boyd was seen hauling my ass out of there. Everyone knows I’m dead, but Boyd’s in the catbird seat right now. He’s the man of the hour. I think we need to have him pay the Guthrie slut a visit, maybe give her the standard recruitment speech.”
Vic thought about it, then gave Ruger a grudging nod. “You want to fry Crow’s grits for him. Make him hurt first, am I right?”
“That’s exactly what I want. Nice to be on the same page.”
“It’s nasty and devious—much as I hate to say it, I like it. Be careful, though. Boyd going after those cops wasn’t any part of the Plan. He was supposed to get lost until those Philly cops left town, and I even drove his ass out of town, but he went off the reservation and came back to where he last saw you. Who the hell knows why. Guy’s brains are mush, so, even though the man gave him a tune-up, I think you’d better have a talk with him, too, just to be sure he follows the playbook. You want to turn Guthrie, not have Boyd scatter her pieces all over the county. That’s no good to us. That’s shock, not hurt, and if you want to hurt Crow that won’t get you the best bang for the buck.”
“I’ll handle Boyd.”
“Point is, because of Boyd’s screwup the Plan is starting to change. We have more police attention than we need, and we have the wrong kind of media buzz. We need to do everything on the sly now, especially as far as Crow goes. Now we have to be more careful about how and when we take him off the board. He’s one of the only two people who can keep all the big Halloween celebrations going at full tilt. Him and Terry Wolfe. Wolfe’s looking pretty shaky lately—and we both know what that’s about—so if he has a breakdown, or turns, then Crow will have to stay alive and in play. So…hands off him until we know what’s happening with Wolfe.”
“What about Guthrie?”
“It’s a good plan, but let it wait a couple days. Maybe save it for Little Halloween. Hurrying’s not going to help us right now. Besides, you’ve got plenty of other work to do.”
Ruger looked at the wall clock and his body shuddered as if in climax. “Sundown. Time to go out and play.”
Chapter 12
(1)
The shades were up and the curtains pulled back to allow as much morning light as possible to wash over them. Both of them were propped up on pillows with coffee cups steaming on the bedside tables. Crow had his arm around Val and she was resting the unbruised side of her face against his chest. They had learned the routines of cuddling while avoiding bruises and stitches and sore places. Across the room the TV was on with the sound muted as a petite blond read the weather on Channel 6. Sarah had brought them coffee a few minutes ago, told them Terry was still out at the hospital, and then left them to deal with the day that lay ahead of them.
“You can still back out,” Crow said softly, stroking Val’s shoulder. “Terry and Sarah would let us stay here. Or we could just shack up at my place. The cats would love to have you visit.”
“No,” she said firmly, then smiled a bit. “Thanks, honey, but…no.”
Crow let it go. Last night, as they were climbing into bed, Val had told him that she wanted to go home, but Crow had wondered what kind of ghosts would be there. Would they be able to feel Ruger’s toxicity? Certainly they would feel the utter loss of the presence of Henry Guthrie. If it was up to Crow, he would have her sell the damn place and they could buy a town house somewhere on Corn Hill, but Val wouldn’t even listen to that kind of talk. Guthries had always lived there and by God Guthries always would. “I won’t be chased out of my own house,” she said. “I won’t be chased out of my own life. Besides, Ruger’s already taken enough away from me.”
He kissed her hair as they sat in the window bay watching geese mill around
in the yard.
Val said, “Crow?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“About our getting married?” He tensed. “Are you sure?”
Crow laughed. “No, it was just a whim.”
She smacked his chest lightly. “You know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I do,” he admitted.
“When you proposed at the hospital…you knew I needed something real to anchor myself to. It was so wonderful, so sweet of you, but I don’t want to think that you did it just to make me feel better. Like some kind of distraction therapy.”
He laughed again, harder. “Yeah, you found me out. You see, I found it pretty useful carrying around a two-carat Asscher-cut engagement ring just in case some random woman needs a little emotional pick-me-up. It’s worked dozens of times.”
Val raised her head and studied him with her dark blue eyes. “I’m not joking, Crow.”
His eyes still twinkled with humor. “You are possibly the dumbest smart woman in the world if you don’t know how much I love you. I love you more than anything else in the universe, Valerie Guthrie, and I’ve been planning to pop the ol’question for some time now but couldn’t find just the right moment. Though in retrospect proposing while I was whacked out on morphine may be a questionable interpretation of ‘the right moment,’ it seemed to work out okay.”
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