Dead Man's Song

“Well, come on, Crow,” Weinstock said, “we’ve all been watching him come apart for weeks now and—”

“Saul—what the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Terry. What are you talking about?”

Crow told him.

“Holy shit!” Weinstock yelled. “My God. I didn’t know—I’ve been in the ER for the last hour working on Terry.”

“Terry? What the hell happened to him?”

“Crow…about ninety minutes ago Terry Wolfe threw himself out of his bedroom window. I’ve got a team of residents picking glass out of him, and he has forty broken bones, including a skull fracture.”

Crow took a wandering sideways step and sat down hard on the fender of his car. He looked wildly across the driveway to where Val was being tended to, and over at the bodies that crime scene investigators were examining. And at the thing that Val had shot fifteen times. Then he looked up at Newton, and all of that hit him, too.

“Crow? Crow—are you there?”

“Y-yeah, Saul…it’s just all…it’s too much.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Believe me—I think I do.”

“Believe me,” Weinstock insisted, “I think you don’t. We have to talk.”

“Not now, Saul…Val…I—”

“No, not now—but soon, Crow, as soon as we can. I need to talk to someone about what’s happening around here. I was going to tell you tomorrow morning. Crow, I’ve never been this scared before in my life!”

“I have,” Crow said hoarsely. “But not recently.”

“Crow—Pine Deep’s in real trouble,” Weinstock said softly.

“Yeah,” Crow agreed. “I think so, too.” Crow cleared his throat. “Look, they’re getting ready to bring Val in. I’m going with her. I’ll…see you at the ER.”

“Okay,” Weinstock said, and hung up.

Crow tried to walk calmly, normally, over to Val, but every third or fourth step he staggered, just a little. The paramedic was reaching down to help her up, but Crow gently pushed him to one side. “I got it,” he said and drew Val to her feet and then pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. “Let’s go.”

There was a look of hurt and panic in her eyes. “Mark—”

But Crow shook his head. “Sweetie, they’ll take care of him. We can’t do anything here, and Connie’s going to need us at the hospital when she wakes up.”

She searched his face with her one good eye; the other was once again wrapped in gauze. “What’s happening, Crow? Everything’s gone crazy.” Tears ran down her face and he bent and kissed her forehead, her cheek, and then her mouth, and as he did so a sob broke in his chest. They clung together, both of them crying as the paramedic fidgeted nearby looking greatly embarrassed.

Epilogue

(1)

Midnight. Little Halloween was over. The night around the hospital was immense, painting the windows a featureless black. Crow sat in the guest chair of what would become Val’s hospital room once she was finished in the ER. Crow had seen Weinstock for only a few seconds. Not enough time to talk as Weinstock ran alongside the gurney team that was wheeling José into surgery. Crow knew that he wouldn’t see him at all, probably not until tomorrow.

Newton came in and sat in the other chair, and they sat there in silence for five minutes, watching the black night beyond the glass. Finally, Crow said, “You file your story?”

Newton shot him a cautious glance. “Yeah. You mad?”

“I should be, but—screw it. It’s your job.” He made a face. “After all…this is news.”

Newton cleared his throat. “Crow…I only called in the basic stuff. The shootings. Val’s brother and the guys who work for her. I—left out some stuff.”

Crow digested that. “The Hollow?”

“Yeah.”

“Just that?” Newton was quiet for so long Crow turned to look at him. “Newt?”

“Crow—I saw that man’s body. I was looking over your shoulder. I saw what you saw.”

“And what did I see?”

A pause. “I saw something that can’t be real.”

Crow drew a breath, let it out, said nothing.

Newton said, “I heard what Val told you, too. I heard her tell you how many times she shot him. I read the police reports on Castle, too, and I know that he fired off nine shots. Crow—you found every single one of those bullet holes. Every one. I was there, I saw you. I saw them.”

“Okay.”

“No—no, it’s not okay. We both know it’s not frigging okay.” Newton looked at Crow. “And I know what you’re thinking.”

Crow gave him a crooked smile. “What is it that I’m thinking, Newt?”

“You’re thinking that Boyd was like him. That somehow, impossibly somehow, Boyd was like him. Like Griswold.” Crow was silent. “That somehow Boyd was a—” Newton stopped and turned away, unable to say the word.

So, Crow said it for him. “That somehow Boyd was a werewolf?”

“Yes. Jesus—this is impossible. I can’t wrap my head around it.”

“You’re wrong, Newt.”

The reporter swiveled around to stare at him. “What?”

“I said that you’re wrong. I don’t think that Boyd was a werewolf. That’s not at all what I think.”

“But—the gunshots. He—”

“What I think, Newt,” Crow said, his eyes reflecting the great dark nothingness beyond the window, “is that Kenneth Boyd was a vampire.”

To that, Newton had nothing to say.