A little smile flickered on her mouth. “I’m married to it.”
“Oh. Then you’re Mrs.…um…Crow?” I ventured.
“Val Guthrie. I kept my maiden name.” She offered her hand and we shook. Her hand was hard and dry and strong. She didn’t go for a manly bullyboy handshake. She was strong the way women are strong. This one had zero interest in defining herself by comparison to a man. I liked that. I liked her.
“Sam Hunter,” I said.
“You’re the private investigator?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Named ‘Hunter?’”
“Yes.”
“That a stage name or something?”
“No. It’s a coincidence, but I’ve come to embrace the cliché.”
That upped the wattage on her smile as she reappraised me. “You’re a smartass.”
“Says so on my business card. Sam Hunter, Professional Smartass.”
She laughed. “You’re going to get along fine.”
She patted me on the shoulder and, still smiling, walked toward a parked Ford F-250 pickup whose bed was piled high with burlap sacks of seed. I watched her go, admiring both the straightness of her posture, and the curves that went with the whole package. Smart, sexy, and powerful. Nice.
I turned to the open office door and wondered what kind of a husband a woman like that would have. My guess would be someone who looked like Thor from the Avengers movies. Some big, tanned Nordic son of a bitch with muscles on his muscles and maybe a bit of aw-shucks in his voice. Or one of those redneck giants who bench press Hereford cows. Probably politically to the right of Sarah Palin. Rural Pennsylvania bears a lot of resemblance in attitude and culture to the less progressive back roads of Mississippi.
As I went in, the man I saw behind the desk was the precise diametric opposite of my guess.
He stood up to meet me, a wide grin on his elfin face. He was shorter than the woman who’d just left—call it five-seven and change. Slight build, curly black hair that had gone mostly gray, a sallow tan crisscrossed with white lines from old scars. His nametag said CROW.
“Mr. Hunter?” he asked, extending his hand.
Chap. 16
The killer followed the big man back to the road, then hid behind a rhododendron while the man got into a black SUV and drove away. The killer noted the license number, but if this man was what he thought, that plate number would likely be a dead end.
That was fine.
The big man was hunting now.
Hunting him.
The killer wanted to make very sure that the big man found his prey.
Chap. 17
“Sam Hunter, sir,” I replied, taking the chief’s hand. For a little guy, he had a good, strong hand. Shooter’s callus on his index finger, and a ring of calluses all the way around to his thumb. Only other guy I know with those kinds of hands trained with those Japanese swords. Katanas.
“How can we help you?”
“I was asked to come here and—”
Still smiling, Crow interrupted, “Let’s see your driver’s license, P.I. ticket, and any other I.D. you’d like to show me. That’s it, spread it all out on the counter.”
I did as he asked, and he scooped it up and took it over to his desk. He didn’t offer me a chair. Cops have a right to ask private dicks to jump and to ask how high on the way up; and if we don’t jump the right way, they can get a judge to pull our license faster than you can say Sam Spade. At best, P.I.s are an irrelevant fact of life to cops; at worst, we are flies to be swatted. I did not feel like being swatted.
I stood like a schoolboy in the principal’s office while he studied my cards and then typed my information into his computer. Crow made a few calls and I watched his face. He frowned, he grunted, his eyebrows arched. He’d be a lousy poker player. Finally he sat there, lips pursed, for maybe fifteen seconds. I wondered if he was jerking my chain and decided he probably was. A wiseass comment struggled to get past my lips, but I clenched my teeth and kept it trapped inside.
“Okay,” Crow said, rising and crossing to the counter that served as the intake desk. He placed my stuff down and slid it across to me. “No wants, no warrants.”
I nodded and put the cards back into my wallet.
“I called Minneapolis P.D. and some buddies in Philly. You don’t have a lot of friends out there.”
“Hoping to make some here,” I said.
He grinned. “Let’s see how that works out.”
We stood there and smiled at each other for a moment. Then Crow waved me past the counter to his desk, nodded at the patched and creaking leather guest chair, and sank into a slightly bigger one on the other side.
“Chief,” I said, “before we begin—”
“Crow,” he corrected.
“Hm?”
“Everybody calls me Crow. I don’t like ‘Chief’ ’cause it makes me feel like I should be wearing feathers, and I don’t like ‘Mister’ ’cause my dad was Mr. Crow and he was kind of a dick. So, Crow.”
“Fair enough. I’m Sam.”
We nodded to seal that.
“Crow, before we begin, I’d like to understand why I’m here.”
“Me, too,” he said.
“Um…what now?”
He went to a Mr. Coffee and poured two cups, handed me one. “You go first. How’d you get here?”
I sucked my teeth for a moment, then decided to tell him the truth. Most of the truth. I left certain parts out, as I’m sure you’ll understand.
“Limbus,” he murmured, echoing the word.
“They said you reached out to them. That you were looking for some help on a case.”
“Is that what they said?”
“More or less. They said the Pine Deep P.D. did. I guess that’s you, right?”
“Mostly me. Couple officers hiding somewhere, sitting speed traps, generally fucking off. And my best guy’s out at a crime scene.”
“Related to this?”
“To be determined.”
“Okay,” I said, “but did you call Limbus or not? Didn’t you ask them to bring in an expert?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
He opened his desk drawer and removed a business card, looked at it for a moment, then handed it to me. I didn’t need to read it. I already knew what it would say.
LIMBUS, Inc.
Are you laid off, downsized, undersized?
Call us. We employ. 1-800-555-0606
How lucky do you feel?
However someone had drawn neat, straight lines through most of the text.
“Look on the back,” he suggested, and I turned it over.
In very neat script someone had written a note:
We can provide a consultant
familiar with matters of this kind.
Before I could ask, he opened his desk and removed a second card. And a third. They were identical, front and back.
“I found one of these near each of the crime scenes.”
“Near?”
Crow studied me for a moment. “Near. One was in my cruiser, apparently placed there after I arrived on the scene. My cruiser was locked.”
“Ah,” I said.
“Ah what?”
I explained where I’d found mine.
He gave a sour grunt. “The others showed up pretty much the same way. I even had an officer watch my car. He did and no one approached it that he could see.”
“How sharp is your officer?”
“Sweeney?” Crow’s smile was thin and wide and weird. “He’s pretty sharp. Nothing gets past him.”
“Except someone did.”
Crow gave me a crooked smile. “That note on the back. Want to tell me what it means?”
I shrugged.
“Sorry, Sport,” said Crow, “but I’m gonna need something more than a shrug. Explain to me how you are an expert.”
“I never said I was an expert.”
“You’re here as a ‘consultant,’ though.”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Exactly what do you consult on?”
That was the question I’d known was coming but didn’t really know how to answer. I’d hoped that he would have been in some way clued in about me, but it was pretty clear he wasn’t. Or maybe in place of a good poker face, he was a bluffer. If so, I couldn’t read him.
So, I reached into my jacket and produced a set of color prints I’d made from the email attachments Cricket had sent me. I spread them out on Crow’s desk, neatly, side by side.
“The news reports say these were accidents,” I said.
“So do my official reports.”
I shrugged. “But we both know different.”
He looked at me instead of the pictures. “And you’re certain these were murders?”
“I am.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because,” I said, “I’ve seen these kinds of murders before.”
Crow nodded, gathered the photos up and handed them back to me. “So have I.”
Chap. 18
The killer heard another car coming, and he faded deeper into the shadows as a police cruiser came bumping and thumping, trailing a plume of dust.
An hour ago, this same cruiser had been out here, but the officer had abruptly left minutes before the big man had arrived. The killer now understood. The big man had somehow lured the police officer away so he could have a few minutes alone at the crime scene. Now the officer was returning.
The killer shifted downwind so that he could not be detected and then climbed another tree. He settled in, drew his camouflage cape around him, and watched. The officer who got out of the car was not the same one who was here before. That first officer had been a redneck with a beer gut. This new arrival was lean and hard-muscled. Very tall. With red hair and sunglasses that he never took off, not even when he walked through shadows.
The breeze was blowing past the crime scene toward where the killer hid, and that allowed him to take the officer’s scent.
Suddenly all of the alarms inside the killer’s mind began to ring.
This officer was not at all what he seemed.
He was something much more.
Something powerful.
Something very like the killer.
Very much like him.
Chap. 19
Crow told me he wanted to take me to the most recent crime scene. We took his cruiser, which was a battered Ford Interceptor SUV that looked like it hadn’t seen the inside of a car wash since Bush was president. As I got in, I peered at the side panel of the door.
“Is that a bullet hole?” I asked.
“Good chance,” he said.
I got in. There was a hole on the inside too. A through-and-through. “You didn’t get it fixed?”
He shrugged. “Air conditioner’s busted. Gives a nice cross breeze.”
“Uh-huh.”
As we drove he talked about everything except the case. The Phillies and the Eagles—teams I didn’t give a fuzzy rat’s ass about since my heart belongs to the Twins and the Vikings. I said “Uh-huh” a lot. He talked about his wife’s farm, which was now the fifth-largest independent garlic farm in Pennsylvania. I asked him if he had kids. He didn’t answer and didn’t say anything for a couple of miles. Then he started a new conversation about what he liked on TV. As if I hadn’t asked the question.
So, fuck it, we talked about TV. The Walking Dead. Game of Thrones. 24. We both liked typical man stuff. Monsters, guns, and boobs. Big surprise. He was a closet fan of So You Think You Can Dance. My dirty secret was Downton Abbey. Total tough guys.
For most of the drive, we were backtracking the route I’d taken to get to town, but then he made a turn down a small side road. I caught the name on the sign.
Dark Hollow Road
It was a name I’d seen in the news stories. There had been murders here. And that murdered rich guy, Ubel Griswold, had lived in Dark Hollow.
I asked him about Griswold.
And Crow goddamn nearly drove us off the road and into a tree.
Chap. 20
The killer watched the big police officer.
The cop spent several minutes taking photographs and measurements.
Then the officer abruptly stopped, stiffened, and turned in a slow circle. It was very much like what the other man had done earlier.
Except the officer raised his head and sniffed the air.
Chap. 21
The Ford slewed around and kicked up gravel and leaves, barraging a weathered fence and nearly knocking the slats out. He threw it in park and wheeled on me, took a fistful of my tie, and jerked me forward so that we were inches apart.
“How the hell do you know about Ubel Griswold?” he snarled.
His face was insane. I mean it. Like bugfuck nuts. There was nothing in those eyes but a wild madness that scared the living shit out of me.
The moment stretched and I could feel the heat of each of his ragged breaths.
When I didn’t answer, he leaned an inch closer. “Listen, dickhead, this is not a game you want to play. Not with me.”
“What the fuck?” I said. And I said it slowly.
Crow shoved me back against the door. His hand rested on his holstered pistol. “I’m going to ask once more. Real nice. And believe me when I tell you that this is not an opportunity for wiseass comments or calling for a lawyer. This is you and me here in this truck and we are going to have an open and frank conversation, am I making myself crystal fucking clear?”
I held my breath.
I had an escape hatch for when things really hit the fan, but I didn’t want to use it. Not on a stranger, not on a cop. And not on someone who might actually be an innocent. Not sane, by any stretch, but probably not a villain.
Besides, if the wolf came out to play there was no way to ever reclaim the moment.
So I had that ace but knew I couldn’t play it. I’d be alive but in jail, or in the wind, and I didn’t want to live the rest of my life that way. On the other hand, he was a cop, a stranger, and, clearly, a fucking lunatic. Or something close to it. He could mess up my entire life.
When I didn’t answer, he snapped, “Do you understand me?”
I nodded. “Loud and clear. It’s your game, man. Just calm down.”
“I’ll calm down when I have a reason to. And don’t you tell me what to do. You’re on the wrong side of the badge to do that. Now…let’s try this one last time—how do you know Ubel Griswold?”
“I don’t know him.”
“How do you know about him?”
“From Google. I looked him up.”
“Why? What’s your connection to him?”
I said, “Limbus.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Limbus. That’s how I know about Griswold.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Give me more than that.”
You have to develop good instincts about people if you’re going to shoot hoops in the kinds of playgrounds I frequent. My nerves were telling me this guy was half a keg short of a six-pack. My senses told me that he was scared out of his goddamn mind. And that he was primed to attack. I could smell the adrenaline. I could almost taste it.
My gut, though…
My gut told me he really was one of the good guys.
Call it instinct, call it whatever.
I held up my hands in a no-problem way.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll tell you, but you’re scaring the shit out me with that gun.”
He looked down at his hand, at the fact that he’d unsnapped the holster. He made a little grunting sound. Surprise at what his hand was doing while he wasn’t watching.
“Fuck,” he said.
“Fuck,” I agreed.
Didn’t snap the holster though. Instead he laid his hand on his thigh. A token gesture that lowered my blood pressure by maybe half a point.
“Talk,” he said.
I took a breath, and told him about Limbus, about Crick
et, and about the envelope of money.
Crow didn’t say a word the entire time. Didn’t ask a question. Instead he sat there and chewed on his lower lip and looked strange. Older. Confused. Tired. He took his hand off his lap and rubbed his eyes, then spent almost a full minute looking out the window.
“Shit,” he said.
I cleared my throat. “Don’t suppose you want to tell me what the hell’s going on? ’Cause, Chief, I’m pretty sure I’ve never been this confused before.”
“Welcome to Pine Deep,” he muttered.
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”
We sat there for another minute. Doesn’t sound like a lot of time until you’re peeling the seconds off one at a time while seated next to an armed crazy person.
Out of the blue, Crow asked, “What do you know about the Trouble?”
I shrugged. “What everyone else knows. Maybe a little less. I mean, sure, it was big news for a while. Domestic terrorism, over ten thousand people dead. Worst day in U.S. history. Got that. I didn’t hear Ubel Griswold’s name in any of that, though, except in a footnote about a coincidence. Him getting killed thirty years to the day before the Trouble here.”
He nodded. “Yeah. You ever see the movie they made? Hell Night? Or read the book?”
“No. I read a review when it came out. Saw it on Redbox but didn’t get it. I heard they changed the story around. Made something supernatural out of it.”
“Something like that.”
“So? Why are we talking about it?” I asked.
He looked out the window at the cornfields to the right side of the road and the deep, dark forest on the other.
“If you weren’t here because of that Limbus card, I wouldn’t be saying what I’m about to say,” said Crow.
“Um…okay.”
“The story about the white supremacists spiking the town’s water, driving everybody crazy?”
“Yeah?”
“Kind of true.”
“Kind of?”
“Kind of. It was a cover story.”
“Wait,” I said, “are you saying there was a government cover up?”
Crow shook his head. “Not exactly. Not the way you’re thinking. The Feds did cover some things up, but there was a group of white supremacist dickheads operating in town, and they did, in fact, dump a bunch of hallucinogens into the water. Fritzed everyone out. They also planted bombs to blow up the bridges, knock down the cell towers, take out all phone and cable service, and generally turn the main part of town into World War III.”
Limbus, Inc. Book II Page 27