Dead Man's Song pd-2

by Jonathan Maberry

  Eddie was slammed back against the seat but he was at an angle and his head missed the headrest and smacked against the rear window with a sound like a fist hitting a door. At the same time his right knee jerked upward and he hit the under-side of the steering wheel hard enough to send hot lightning through the joint. The engine continued to roar, but now there was a frustrated, almost petulant gripe to the motor.

  Squinting through pain, teeth clenched and bared, Tow-Truck Eddie stared in stupefaction at the improbable angle of the wrecker. He was looking almost straight up at the darkening sky over the cornfields. He could not believe it. It had all happened so fast. He was in the ditch! The engine whined on, and Tow-Truck Eddie reached out, jerked the stick into park, and wrenched the key over to kill the noise. The engine died along with his confidence. He gripped the knobbed arc of the steering wheel and let out a howl of pure frustrated rage.

  Mike skidded down the hill for thirty yards, wobbling and swaying and almost going off the blacktop into the ditch himself. When he heard the crash of the wrecker, he squeezed the brakes and slid to a long, slow stop and then crouched there listening, ready to flee, panting, feeling sweat running in cold rivulets down his face. He heard the whine of the engine, and then the silence as the engine was abruptly turned off.

  Got you, you son of a bitch! he thought, smiling fiercely, and a dark wave of malicious glee soared up through him. Got you!

  He wondered what to do next. Later he would have to try and sort out what was going on with this nutcase in the wrecker, but for right now he needed to decide what to do next. Go! his instinct told him. Get the hell out of here. The wrecker was now between him and home. He needed to go get the cops. He needed to tell Crow. Would Crow be back from the hike he was taking in the woods with that reporter? Maybe Val would be home. He turned and looked into the darkness that stretched away from the wrecker. Val’s farm was pretty close, a couple miles. He could go there. All of these thoughts banged around in his head with all the noise and distraction of a silver pinball. Getting the hell out of there, no matter where he went, was the only smart thing to do, he knew that much.

  But first…he had to go back up and look over the top of that hill. He had to find out what had happened to the wrecker. He had to.

  This is stupid, he thought, and then said it aloud. “This is really stupid.”

  Sweating icy rivers, his body aching, he nonetheless turned his War Machine around and pedaled slowly, carefully up the hill, all the time listening for the engine to start again. Nothing. Just silence.

  Twenty yards to go, and he wondered if maybe the guy had really cracked up the wrecker. Maybe the guy was hurt. Screw him if he is. Maybe he was dead, that was something to think about. Mike didn’t want to be responsible for killing anyone, even if the guy was some kind of nutcase who liked to try and run down kids on bikes.

  Get the hell out of here. Go. Now.

  Ten yards to go, and he wondered—not for the first time—if maybe it was Vic himself in that wrecker after all. Jesus, is he really that crazy? Is it him up there? He felt terror grab at him, but he fought for control. No, he told himself, no. Vic is probably at home. Vic is home getting drunk and probably slapping Mom around. Or maybe doing whatever it was he did to her in their bedroom that made her scream like that. Mike knew that Vic did things—bad things—that made his mother scream and cry out at night, sex things that Vic wanted Mike to hear because he knew it would hurt to hear that stuff. But…was this him?

  Five yards to go and he could see the glow of the wrecker’s headlights, pointing upward at a weird angle. Pointing crookedly at the sky. Mike frowned. No, Mike thought. Vic may be crazy, but this isn’t Vic. This is someone else.

  Three yards to go and then someone leapt out of the shadows at him. Mike screamed as the huge bulk, a mass of shadows silhouetted by the wrecker’s headlights, sprang at him, huge hands reaching, his mouth shrieking with a sound that tore the night to rags. Mike jerked the handlebars hard to one side and leaned over them, throwing his weight to the left and down, kicking down on the pedals, mixing all his weight and muscle as he veered desperately away from the monstrous form. The hulking shape had only a few yards to cross and he’d have him, but Mike had a deep slope, the constancy of gravity, and the iron in his legs put there by total terror. Mike shot past him, down the slope that pointed back to town. It was way too close, though.

  It was so close that as the demon fled down the hill Tow-Truck Eddie felt cloth and hair teasing the tips of his fingers; then there was nothing but cold dark air at the ends of his fingers and the demon shot away down the hill, picking up speed so fast that he seemed to shrink instead of go farther away. If it had been on flat land, Tow-Truck Eddie might have had him, but as he tried to run down the steep slope his bruised right knee buckled with each step.

  Mike belted down the hill and up the next. He didn’t stop until he was nearly a mile away, and at that distant, lofty perch he finally stopped. He literally fell sideways off the bike and lay there, gasping, barely able to breathe. His chest was a howling red-hot mass of pain, his lungs were burned raw, and lights danced all around him in a mad fireworks display. Even at that distance, Mike could see the figure of the man. He appeared to be jumping up and down in place, tearing at himself in a fit of such awful rage that it scared Mike. He stared in shock and confusion, in growing horror at the realities of the situation. Who was this madman? He was too big to be Vic.

  Then it hit him, and he could not believe that he hadn’t seen it before. A big man, a wrecker—both with ties to Vic. The man who had just tried to kill him had to be Tow-Truck Eddie.

  Knowing it still didn’t help him make sense of it. Why would Tow-Truck Eddie be trying to kill him? It made no sense, none. Everyone knew Eddie as being super religious. And, besides he was a…cop. Mike lay there, unable to move, shocked to a vigilant stillness, watching the man dance with rage, watching as he sank slowly down to one knee, burying his head in his hands, becoming part of the shadows of the hill for a moment; and then saw the man throw back his head and let out a howl of such pure bloody rage that the whole night was torn by it. It rose above the hills and the trees and into the starfield above; it was a terrible thing to hear, and it struck some primal chord of fear in Mike that came near to choking him. The howl rolled over the hills at him, a cry of frustration as much as it was an awful promise.

  Chapter 28

  (1)

  Val and Connie strolled quietly down the lanes between the corn as stars blossomed and wheeled overhead. It was dark, but Val had the pistol snug in the back of her waistband and Diego and two of the hands were still on the property, working one field away on a tractor that had broken down. The glow of lanterns and the hum of a portable generator where the men worked was a comfort to both women.

  Mostly they didn’t talk, and when they did it wasn’t about Mark or the recent violence. The safest subject for Connie was a discussion of Val’s wedding plans. Connie warmed to that subject immediately and was filled with ideas for making the event the talk of the season. Most of Connie’s suggestions were frou-frou nonsense that would have had Val in too many layers of Italian lace with her hair in curlicues, but Val let her ramble. It was refreshing to hear Connie enthused about something.

  Several times, however, she stole covert glances at her watch, wondering why Crow wasn’t back by now. If he’s fallen down the mountain and broken his damn leg I’ll break the other one for him, she decided. When her cell phone rang she looked at it, expecting it to be him, but frowned at the number on the LCD display. She flipped it open.

  “Hello…Terry?”

  “Val? I’ve been trying to call Crow all day but he’s not answering and I need to speak to him but he doesn’t pick up the—”

  “Whoa, Terry, slow down. What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is something wrong with Sarah, the kids?”

  Terry’s tirade ground to a halt and he barked out a dry, totally humorless laugh. “Wrong? Shit. What isn’t wrong?”

&nb
sp; Val blinked, still surprised by Terry’s recent vocabulary shift. Back when they had dated he would never have used a vulgarity. “Terry? Jesus, what is it? Tell me what’s going on.” Connie raised her eyebrows to ask what was up but Val held up a hand for her to wait. “Terry, tell me what’s happening? Is it something with you and Sarah?”

  “No, no, not that. Thank God, it’s not that, too.”

  “Then what? Are you sick?”

  There was that dry laugh again. “Sick? Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

  “Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor?”

  “I’ve been to doctors. I’ve been to a dozen doctors. Frigging quacks, all of them, Val…you just don’t know…. Nobody knows.”

  “What, Terry? What don’t I know? Tell me.”

  “Val,” Terry breathed huskily and Val realized with a start that Terry was crying. Softly, but wretchedly. “I think I’m over the edge, Val,” Terry said in a tortured voice. “I think I’m gone.”

  “Hey…hey, now…,” she said.

  Terry’s voice broke into pieces and collapsed into ruin, and Val thought she knew the shape of this. Crow had told her about Terry’s dreams and delusions. They must be intensifying, ganging up on him. Val stood there for a long time, just listening to the big man cry like a lost child. She tried to say soothing things, but felt hamstrung. She opened her mouth to speak and then abruptly there was the sound of fingers fumbling on the receiver. A voice said tentatively, “Who is this, please?”

  “Sarah?”

  “Val? Oh, thank God!”

  “Sarah, what the hell is happening? What’s wrong with Terry?”

  “He’s in the bathroom now. Oh, Val—I just don’t know what to do.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s…well, he’s not well.” Sarah lowered her voice. “Remember what I told you—the dreams and all? It’s gotten so much worse lately. I have a call into his doctor.”

  “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. Is this because of the blight and all? Or the older stuff? From…when we were kids?” She didn’t want to say much more with Connie standing close by, but Sarah caught the drift.

  “I—think so.” She paused. “He’s told me this morning Mandy has been following him around.”

  Val echoed softly. “I know…Crow told me a little, but—”

  “He said that she’s been trying to get him to kill himself. The medication’s not helping. I’m so scared, Val. I’ve…sent for an ambulance.” Sarah was starting to cry now. “He’s falling apart. I can see it happening but I can’t do anything for him.”

  “Hey! Listen to me, Sarah,” Val said, putting some steel in her voice. “Believe me when I tell you that you don’t want to break down right now. Later, but not right now. This is going to sound really harsh, but suck it up because you can’t let him see you fall apart. Not now, not until he’s under care. You hear me?”

  Val could almost hear Sarah take a steadying breath. “Right. Right…but…shit!”

  “Sure, get mad, honey, that’s good, it’ll help—but stay focused.”

  Sarah gave a funny little laugh. “God, I wish I had your strength, Val.”

  “Honey, I don’t even have my strength. It’s all smoke and mirrors.”

  “Bullshit,” Sarah said, but she sounded like she was standing on firmer ground.

  “Should I come over? I can be there in fifteen minutes.” Then she caught sight of the look on Connie’s face. “Connie’s with me. We can both come. Get some girl power going.”

  “No,” she said sharply, “but if they want him to check into the hospital could you come over there later, sit with me for a bit? Can I ask that?”

  “Sure. Call me once you know what’s happening and I’ll scoot on over. Me and Connie. Crow should be back soon, too. We’ll all come over.”

  “He keeps asking for Crow.”

  “Yeah, I know, but Crow’s out of touch right now, but he should be back soon. Look, you get him ready and we’ll all see you later. And…Sarah? I love you. Both of you. Tell Terry that he’s not alone.”

  “Thanks, Val, I’ll tell him,” Sarah said, and hung up.

  Val closed her phone and looked at Connie, then told her the bones of the conversation.

  “That poor man,” Connie said in a motherly way, but her eyes were nearly vacant. After a moment they started walking again, taking the long way around that would bring them up past the barn and then back to the house.

  I think I’m over the edge, Val, I think I’m gone. There had been such pain, such terrible fear in Terry’s voice as he said it. Such awful conviction that the observation was true. “Damn…” she said softly.

  (2)

  Just as Sarah set down the phone there was the sound of a blow and shattering glass from upstairs. “Terry!” She tore out of the kitchen, raced up the stairs, and burst into the bedroom just as Terry Wolfe brought the golf club down on the glass of a framed Warhol litho. The head of the sand wedge chopped noisily through glass and matboard and took the top of John Lennon’s head clean off. Sarah skidded to a halt by the edge of the bed, turning away to dodge the spray of little glass needles.

  Terry turned a face toward her that was a snarling mask of animal rage.

  (3)

  Mike Sweeney got home just before seven, well before his curfew. He walked his bike around back and chained it up by the garage door, then went inside.

  “That you, Mikey? You’re home early. Want some dinner?” Her voice floated from the living room, which was dark except for the blue flicker of the TV. There was already a gin slur to her speech.

  Mike stood in the hallway, not wanting to go into the living room, not wanting to see his mother drunk, though nowadays she almost always was. He turned toward the stairs, calling over his shoulder. “I’m not hungry. I’m gonna go study.”

  “It’s Friday!”

  “Big test on Monday.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She sounded more relieved than disappointed that he didn’t want her to cook anything. “If you want something later, we can order. I have some coupons for Pizza Palace.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” He pounded up the stairs and into his room, where he locked his door. He was no longer sweating, but his clothes were damp; his skin still felt feverish and strange, so he stripped the clothes off and headed into the bathroom. He was in the shower for a long time, first just standing under the spray, eyes closed, running and rerunning what had just happened out on the road. It was all so weird, so unreal.

  Tow-Truck Eddie tried to kill me, he thought. Twice now. And tonight he had caused the guy to crash his wrecker in a ditch. As the water pounded him he replayed each moment—the way the truck was lying in wait for him, the way the big driver had let him get just far enough ahead so that it would be a good chase. The way the bastard had nearly caught him when Mike had gone back to look. The way he had howled after his truck had been wrecked. It was all so unreal. He took the soap and washed himself and shampooed his hair and used a nailbrush to scrub his fingers. He wanted to be clean, needed to be clean, as if by washing so hard he could sponge away the unreality of what had happened. Of nearly dying. The water was as hot as he could stand it and he lingered under it, loving the feel of the thousands of tiny impacts, feeling his muscles become gradually looser, feeling the tension go, letting his mind drift…

  Fugue.

  The water rained down on him but Mike Sweeney no longer felt it. He stood there, eyes closed, his skin red from the heat.

  Inside the chrysalis the pupa undergoes slow change.

  On his face the last of the bruises faded to green and then to yellow and then vanished as if the water had washed them away. The cartilage in his knees that had suffered microtears while he raced uphill away from the wrecker mended itself. Internal bruises from cramps deep within his calf muscles relaxed and the tissues mended.

  Transformation continues along predetermined pathways following a biological imperative.

  The water pounds down on him, but Mike Swee
ney has stepped out. No trace of him exists within the chrysalis of young flesh.

  Transformation is inevitable now.

  When he opens his eyelids Mike Sweeney does not look out through those blue eyes, and indeed those eyes are not quite blue. Not pure blue. They are blue flecked with red and the irises are rimmed with gold. Mike Sweeney does not see the water, or the steam, or the shower walls through those eyes. They are not his eyes. Mike Sweeney, as he has been, is almost completely gone now.

  It is the dhampyr who sees through those eyes.

  (4)

  Terry bellowed in rage and lifted the golf club like an ax, standing with legs braced wide, his naked body bathed in sweat, his muscles rigid with tension as the club reached the apex of its lift, and then with a ferocious convulsion that carved definition into every muscular inch of his body he smashed the club down on the largest remaining piece. Splinters leapt up around him, adding to the dozen small cuts that bled sluggishly on his calves and feet and thighs. The glass settled quickly into stillness on the carpet, not only adding to the litter but substantially increasing the number of mocking glass surfaces. He raised the wedge again, not even remotely aware that Sarah was standing in the doorway, her face white with shock. All he saw were the thousands of splinters of that picture glass spread out in a fan-pattern on the thick blue bedroom carpet, each polished surface dispassionately reflecting his face and body. Each little sliver was a fun-house mirror, distorting blue eyes and red hair and strong limbs into feral yellow eyes, stiff reddish-brown fur, and the twisted, hulking musculature of something impossible. When his mouth opened to yell in protest, the muzzles of the myriad mirror-image mouths wrinkled to show dripping fangs. If his hand wiped angrily at the tears on his face, the reflected mockery swiped at its bestial face with a furred paw that ended in black talons. A thousand tacit accusations glared at him from the glittering debris.