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He reached the top of the hill just as a flat black cloud cover from the south was being pulled like a tarp over the moon and stars. Even so he could see his way. There was a dirt road that led from the Passion Pit back out to the main road of the A-32 Extension; or he could just cut through the corn to the Guthrie place. All of the corn, far as the eye could see, was Henry Guthrie’s, and way over past the fields was the barn and in the barn was the Bone Man’s bedroll.
“It’s over,” he said to the night as he set out toward the corn.
Then the lights came on.
Four sets of car headlights and one set of blue and red police dome lights. All at once he was caught in a circle of light. He stopped, frozen in the moment, as he heard the sounds of car doors opening and shoes crunching down on gravel.
“Hold it right there, boy. ”
Boy . There it was again. Suddenly he felt as if he was down South again. He knew this was trouble.
He stood there, arms long and heavy at his sides, as seven men walked toward him from all sides, forming a loose ring. Big men, some of them. None of them were strangers. The man with the badge was Officer Bernhardt, a stocky young man with a hound-?dog face and little pig eyes. He had his right hand on the walnut grips of his holstered . 38, and his left thumb and index finger circled around the handle of his baton where it jutted above the belt ring. He was the only cop.
The others were townsmen. All of them were young, with Vic Wingate at seventeen being the youngest, though he had the meanest face. Vic always called him Nigger Joe whenever they chanced to meet. The Bone Man had always tried never to meet him. The oldest was Jimmy Crow—and that was almost funny, Jim Crow—but there was nothing funny about the cold humor in Crow’s eyes. Next to him was the biggest of the men, Tow-?Truck Eddie. The Bone Man didn’t know his last name, but the kid was about twenty and had to be six and a half feet tall. Tow-?Truck Eddie never sassed him with race names, though; he was a polite kid, and the Bone Man was a little heartened to see him here because he knew the kid was a regular churchgoer and was often seen in Apple Park, sitting on the bench reading a Bible. The other three were just young guys from town, Jim Polk, who had just started at Pinelands College, and Phil and Stosh, but the Bone Man didn’t know their last names.
Seven men with seven hard faces, ringed around him.
The Bone Man had been rousted by cops from every jurisdiction from here to Benoit, so he knew it was always b
etter to wait and find out what the game was.
“You that boy Morse, aintchu?” said Officer Bernhardt. Again the “boy” rankled, coming as it was from a kid ten years younger than the Bone Man.
“Yessir. ” When he was scared his accent became more that of a southern farm kid. It came out like “Yahsuh. ”
“Whatchu doin’ way out here, Nigger Joe?” said Vic Wingate.
The Bone Man wanted to toss them all down the hill. He also wanted to run. He said, “I was jus’ taking a walk. ”
“Taking a walk?” Jimmy Crow echoed. “Taking a fuckin’ walk?”
“Maybe he came out here to peep into some cars and see white kids making out,” suggested Polk. “See some white titty. ” As he laughed he touched his genitals.
“No, sir,” said the Bone Man, trying to force the Delta drawl out of his voice. He wasn’t going to be Amos or Andy to this pack of shit kickers. “I’m not a Peeping Tom. ’Sides, there’s no one out here tonight. Ain’t nobody been out here for weeks, ya’ll knows that. ” He heard the slip again and almost winced.
“How the hell you know that?” growled Crow.
“’Cause everybody knows that. Since them killings started nobody comes out here to neck. Nobody hardly comes out at all. ”
Vic stepped half a pace forward. “But you go out for evening strolls. ”
The Bone Man said nothing.
“This is bullshit,” said Crow. His face was set and hard. His oldest boy, Billy, had been the third victim of the killer and the hurt of it was in his eyes.
“Why’s that, boy?” asked Bernhardt.
Morse tried not to let the rage and humiliation show in his face. Boy? What did that fat ass think this was, 1956? It constantly amazed him how much more redneck Pennsylvania was than most of the South.
“I’m not afraid to go walkin’,” was what he managed to get past his clenched teeth.
“That’s really strange,” Vic said. “Everyone else is afraid of the dark, afraid that the killer might get them…but you’re not. Now, why is that?”
The Bone Man said nothing.
“C’mon, Morse…why is that? Why is it that a skinny nigger like you is the only person in this whole town who ain’t scared to go out in the dark when there’s a killer running round loose?”
Polk snickered. “Maybe he ain’t afraid ’cause the killer can’t see him in the dark, black as he is!”
