Bad Moon Rising
Page 7

Mike looked at her and their eyes met. His mom looked into his eyes—dark blue eyes flecked with red with thin gold rings around the irises. She blinked at him in surprise and took a small involuntary step backward, her own eyes widening, her mouth sagging open.
“Michael…?”
There were no bruises on Mike’s face, no sign of the savage beatings he’d received from Vic over the last couple of weeks. His skin was pale and unmarked except by his splash of freckles, his mouth thin and sad. Every line and curve of his face was the same as it should have been—though the absence of bruises was strange—but all Lois could see were those eyes. The blue of them looked like they’d been spattered with tiny droplets of blood; the gold rings gave them a totally alien cast.
Mike bent forward and kissed her forehead; she tried to pull back, but he held her close. “I love you, Mom,” he whispered, then he turned and hurried down the hall, opened the door, and went out into the bright morning.
His mother stood there, hand to her open mouth, totally oblivious to the burning pancakes. Nor did she see the cellar door open just the tiniest crack and other eyes watching her. These eyes were a much darker red and they burned with a hungry light.
4
Newton grabbed a wad of Starbucks napkins out of the glove compartment, dried his eyes, and then angrily scrubbed away all traces of the tears on his cheeks. He cursed continually under his breath, a steady stream of the foulest words that bubbled onto his tongue; then he wadded up the napkins and threw them against the windshield as his muttering suddenly spiked into a single shriek: “NO!”
He punched the dashboard and then pounded his fists on his thighs until the pain shot through his muscles all the way to his bones. “No, goddamn it!”
Newton reached out, gave the ignition a violent turn, and the car coughed itself awake; he slammed it into Drive and pulled away from the curb. He didn’t head home, but instead did a screeching U-turn in the middle of the street, ignoring the bleat of horns, and when he stamped down on the gas the Civic lurched forward in the direction of his office. He needed a good computer and a better Internet connection than the dial-up he had at home. He needed to get some answers, and he needed them now.
He ran two red lights and a stop sign as he barreled out of town, down A-32, past the dirt road the led down to Dark Hollow—which sent a chill through him despite his anger—past the Guthrie farm, all the way to the Black Marsh Bridge. In his pocket, forgotten in the midst of everything else, the old coin he’d found on the slopes of the Dark Hollow pitch jingled among the newer change. It was a weatherworn dime someone had once drilled a hole through so a Louisiana aunt could put a string through it and tie it around the ankle of her nephew from Mississippi. A charm against evil that Oren Morse had worn until the day he died. A charm that he’d lost just minutes before the town fathers of Pine Deep had beaten him to death.
With all the residual hot-blood flush in his thighs from where he’d pounded out his rage, Newton did not feel the dime flare to mild heat as he drove. Later on he would remember that dime, and a toss of that coin would decide the life or death of a lot of people in Pine Deep. Including Newton.
5
“What the hell are you doing up there?”
Vic’s voice caught him unaware and Ruger stiffened, but he composed his face into a bland smile before he turned and looked down the stairs to where Vic stood on the basement floor, fists on hips, glowering.
“I smelled cooking,” Ruger said as he slowly descended the steps, making it a slow roll, making it look casual, like Vic’s hard look was nothing.
Vic looked at him and then up at the near side of the cellar door. “Cooking, my ass. You’re still sniffing after Lois.”
Ruger said nothing as he brushed by him, making sure to use one hard shoulder to clip Vic on the pass-by. Ruger knew he was a lot stronger than Vic and he wanted to leave a bruise. Like the Indians used to do in the books he used to read. Counting coup.
“I’m talking to you asshole,” Vic snarled. The bump had knocked him off balance but he recovered cat-quick and gave Ruger a hard one-handed shove that knocked the cold-skinned man into the corner of the workbench. Ruger rebounded from the desk and spun so fast that he appeared to melt into shadows; one moment he was by the desk, the next he was beside Vic with one icy hand clamped around the man’s throat.
“You don’t lay hands on me, motherfucker…not ever. I’ll tear your heart out and wipe my ass with it.”
There was a small metallic click and then Ruger felt a touch even colder than his own as the barrel of a pistol pressed upward beneath his chin. “You really want to dance, Sport?” Vic said; his voice was a choked whisper, but the hand holding the gun barrel was rock solid.
Ruger’s eyes had gone totally dark again and they burned into Vic as the moment stretched itself thin around them. Vic could feel Ruger’s hunger, his power, prowling around in his mind, could feel the shadowy charisma of that stare as if it were a physical thing, but he kept his gun hand steady. Upstairs Lois put a pan in the sink and started the water, each sound clear and distinct. Both men involuntarily shifted their eyes upward, held their gazes there for a moment, and then awareness kicked in and they noticed each other’s look. Their eyes met and lowered together.
“Take your hand off me, Sport, or I’ll paint the ceiling with what’s left of your brains.”
For a microsecond Ruger’s hand tightened, but then he abruptly let go. “Like you even care about that bitch.”
Vic almost reached his free hand up to massage his throat, but restrained it—that would look weak—but he couldn’t control the involuntary swallow. His throat hurt like hell. He jabbed Ruger hard with the pistol barrel. “I don’t give a leaping shit about Lois…but she’s my property, Sport. Mine.”
Ruger said nothing, but he sneered and slapped the pistol barrel away—which Vic allowed—and turned away to hide a hungry little smile.
6
Crow watched as Weinstock got up and walked into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. He reappeared in a minute, dabbing at his eyes with wads of paper towels, leaned his shoulder against the door frame, and threw a quick look at the door to make sure it was firmly closed.
“I can’t believe we are having this conversation,” he said. “I can’t believe I’m having a conversation with the word ‘vampire’ in it.”
“Welcome to my world.”
“It’s my world, too, damn it. I’ve been living this nightmare for weeks now, ever since I did the autopsies on Jimmy Castle and Nels Cowan.”
“Not that I want to play who’s the bigger dog, Saul, but I sure as hell got you beat there because mine starts back in 1976, during the Black Harvest.”
Weinstock winced. “Oh man…don’t even try to tell me that the Massacre is tied into all this. I don’t want to hear that. I don’t want to know that.” He came over and sank down in the chair. “Okay, okay…tell me everything.”
So Crow told him. He started with Ubel Griswold moving into the town, talked about the 1976 blight that destroyed the town’s crops and killed most of the livestock—including all of Griswold’s cattle—and how the Massacre began shortly afterward.
“What are you saying? That Griswold was a vampire, too?”
“No…I don’t think that was it.” Crow licked his lips. “I think Griswold was a werewolf.”
Weinstock sat back and studied him. “Okay. Right. Fine. A werewolf. Peachy. Our conversation now includes vampires and werewolves. Why don’t we throw in ghosts and the Jersey Devil, too, then I can go and blow my brains out and no one will blame me.”
“You want to hear this or not?”
Weinstock signed. “Not really,” he said, but he made a twirling motion with his index finger to indicate that Crow should continue.
“For whatever reason Griswold moved here, if we at least for the sake of argument accept that he was a…werewolf…” Even Crow had a hard time saying the word. It felt clunky in his mouth and its edges caught in his throat. “Then he must have come here to lay low. Raising and killing the cattle kept him off the radar until the blight killed the cattle and all of the other local livestock. When the urge to hunt came on him where else did he have to turn but people? Even then he tried to keep it on the QT by preying on tramps and hobos, but I think the lust for human blood got the better of him and he just started hunting anyone he could find. Val’s uncle was killed, my brother Billy. Terry’s little sister, Mandy…and remember, Griswold almost killed Terry, too. He was in a coma for weeks.”
“God…”
“I would have been killed, too, ’cause he came after me, but Oren Morse—the guy we used to call the Bone Man—he saved my life. Griswold hadn’t completely transformed yet and the Bone Man was able to stop him. He tried to tell people about it, but nobody listened to him. Far as the rednecks in the town were concerned—my own father among them—Morse was just a black draft-dodging tramp. This was thirty years ago, Saul, and no one paid any attention. When I told my father he kicked the shit out of me. You got to remember, he was one of those young jackasses who hung out at Griswold’s all the time. Griswold was their hero.”
“I seem to remember not shedding a tear when your dad died, hope that doesn’t offend.”
“Nah, Dad was a complete tool. Point is, he either didn’t believe me or didn’t want to believe me, and he put such a fear of God into me that I didn’t tell anyone else about it.”
“What about Morse? Wasn’t he supposed to be tight with Val’s dad? Did he talk to Henry about this?”
“Probably, but Henry and I never talked about it, and Morse was murdered not long after.”
Weinstock chewed his lip. “How sure are you that Griswold was a werewolf? I mean, serial killers are well known for following the moon, for cannibalizing their victims, yada yada…it’s a known pathology.”