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“As I said, more is known than can be proved. The killer left no useful clues, and he certainly didn’t leave any witnesses. Even so, people talk, and some of the talk has pointed the investigative team in the direction of Karl Ruger. It would be fair to say that an arrest would have been made within a week, two at the outside. ”
“So, how the heck did a psycho hit man get involved in a drug heist?”
“Philly’s getting too hot,” said LaMastra. “Word started getting around that Karl was maybe the hitter, and that meant that sooner of later he’d end up in a field somewhere, hands tied behind his back with his cock cut off and stuffed in his—”
“I…uh…get the basic idea,” Terry said, cutting him off and shooting a significant glance at Shirley.
Ferro glared at his partner and LaMastra gave Terry and the officers an apologetic nod. “I think it’s a fair guess that not everyone knows it was him, or at least not the right ones. If they did, parts of him would be showing up in fifty different states. More likely it’s that no one knew it was him until just recently, probably as recently as last night or this morning. It was all breaking fast. The way we figure it is that when Ruger got wind of the rumors he immediately organized the drug hit to give him some traveling money. The fact that he was working with Boyd seems to bear that out. ”
“Why’s that?”
“Boyd was a kind of small-?time fixer. A travel agent,” said LaMastra. When Terry looked perplexed, he explained, “He gets people out of the country when things get hot. Fake IDs, passports, whatever. Because he’s good at it everyone leaves him alone. ”
Sergeant Ferro nodded. “If they were working together, then it’s probably a good bet that Boyd was going to arrange to get Ruger out of the States. He stole a lot of money and that buys a lot of plastic surgery and false ID. There are places where a new face and new papers and a million dollars could get you lost in a big hurry. ”
“So he split,” Terry said, “and now he’s running around loose in Pine Deep?”
Ferro and LaMastra both looked at him soberly. “Yes,” they agreed.
Terry looked at Gus, who shrugged and shook his head. “So, now what?”
Ferro pursed his lips. “Well, Your Honor, the rest of our boys should be here any time now. They have surveillance pictures of Ruger, Boyd, and Macchio that we’ll distribute. Since the road posts in Crestville failed to spot them, then we have to assume that they’ve stopped here and decided to hole up
. That means we have to work out a search and detain program that will run them to ground. ”
“Uh, Sergeant, this is not really the sort of thing that our chief’s department is used to handling,” said Gus diffidently. “I mean, we don’t really do manhunts…. ”
Ferro looked faintly amused. “Don’t worry, Chief, you’ll be getting a lot of help from my team. We can probably count on the state police and by tomorrow probably the FBI as well, not to mention some pinch hitters from the neighboring towns. We’re used to doing this sort of thing. I don’t mean to usurp any authority from you, sir, but we have a set way of handing these things, and if you’ll let us, we can run the show for you. ” He glanced at Terry. “If that’s acceptable to you, sir?”
“Darn straight!” Terry said. “Like I said, I don’t care if you have to call in the National Guard, just do what you have to do. Chief Bernhardt will be more than happy to defer to your greater expertise. ” He glanced at Gus, who, rather than looking offended at the loss of authority, appeared to be massively relieved. “You tell us what to do,” he concluded, “and we’ll give it a go. ”
Ferro nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Mayor, Chief. Okay,” he said and clapped his hands, “let’s get to work. ”
3
The wrecker was a gleaming, grotesque monstrosity. From the rat-?eye red of its running lights to the shroud-?black opacity of its tinted windows, it appeared every inch a pernicious and predatory thing, soaring along the road in a hideous silence. The split-?rim hubcaps were polished to a spotless chrome finish, as was every cold metal accessory from the twin exhaust stacks to the guardrails that looked as if they had come from some ornate and disinterred coffin. The duel sets of rear wheels pushed the behemoth along the road at a ghastly speed, whipping along past harvested and unharvested fields, past whitewashed telephone poles that looked like old bones, past the bolted doors of night-?darkened houses. Aside from the faint whine of the tire rubber on the macadam and the fainter growl of the perfectly tuned engine, the wrecker made no other sound; for all the noise it made it might have been a midnight wind.
In the cabin, Tow-?Truck Eddie squatted in a repulsive tangle of ungainly muscularity, unnaturally disfigured by knots of muscles. Muscle upon muscle, tendons like bundles of piano wire, veins like high-?pressure hoses. Even his face was hard with bulging muscles, bunching as the driver clenched and unclenched his jaw. He drove in complete silence, eyes fixed and staring, barely seeing the road as it unrolled itself before his headlights, big hands gripping the nubbed and leather-?wrapped wheel with crushing force.
He made no sound, played no radio, listening instead with entranced delight to the voice in his head, the voice that whispered and whispered.
On his massive hands the blood still gleamed bright and fresh, lit by the dashboard display; in his mouth he could still taste the blood of the man he’d killed. His thick lips twisted and writhed in some semblance of a smile as he drove wildly through the night. The night that was now his.
He savored the taste of blood in his mouth, and he knew that it had made him pure, made him holy. It was the first time he’d ever really paid attention to the taste of blood. It was delicious, and he wondered if he would have more of it. Inside his head the voice of God told him that yes, he would. Soon.
As Tow-?Truck Eddie drove, God whispered secrets to him, telling him of the glory that had been, and of the glory that was to come. God reminded him of his own holy purpose—that of finding the Beast and killing him.
You are the Sword of God .
It echoed like thunder in his head.
Somewhere, out there in the darkness, in some unknown spot on the black road, his destiny waited. Destiny in the form of the Beast—a creature of vast cunning and evil power that he must find, must oppose—must destroy—because he was the Sword of God, and it was his holy purpose to do God’s will here on earth. Now he knew that, after all his waiting, the Beast was out here on the road tonight, waiting for him to find it, to confront it, to begin the battle of Good against Evil, of heaven against hell. That was what the voice of God told him, pounding the words into his brain. Over and over again.
He laughed out loud, and his laugh was an explosion of righteous joy because his holy work was beginning. He had always known that someday God would set him on the right path. He’d prayed for this for years. His destiny had been clear to him since childhood. If he was who he thought he was—who he knew he was—then the voice that spoke so powerfully in his mind could belong to no one else but his own father. To God himself.
He laughed again and searched the roadside shadows for the Beast.
The wrecker cut through the night air like a butcher’s knife leaving a screaming darkness behind it.
