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The fear that reared up in her was immense.
“Terry,” she said in a voice quieter than the soft rustle of dried leaves on the autumn trees outside his window. “Terry…I’m so sorry. ”
Terry could not hear her. No one could. Except him. And as Mandy wept for her failure, Ubel Griswold listened, and laughed.
6
With the Sunday tourist traffic it was twenty minutes down to the Black Marsh Bridge and they could see the knot of police and crime scene vehicles as they crested one of the last hill. “Looks like a party,” Crow said.
Tow-Truck Eddie Oswald was directing traffic, his uniform uncharacteristically rumpled and his face haggard. Eddie was usually neat as a pin. Once he recognized them, he waved them through and told them where to park. As they got out they could see Chief Gus Bernhardt standing at the crest of the embankment that led down to the river and beyond him the near leg of the old iron Black Marsh Bridge. Smoke curled sluggishly up between Gus and the bridge. Crow shot a look at Weinstock, who shrugged, and they crunched over gravel to the grassy hill to join Gus, who was in animated conversation with a couple of firefighters.
“Hey, fellas,” Gus said as Crow and Weinstock joined him. “I hope you brought some weenies for roasting. ” His pink face was alight with pleasure as he turned and swept an arm down the hill like an emcee introducing a headline act. “Voilà!”
“Holy jumping frog shit,” Crow said.
Gus clamped Crow on the shoulder. “I think we can pretty much close the file on Kenneth Boyd. ”
At the base of the bridge support, tied to the concrete block that anchored the big steel leg, a body stood wreathed in wisps of smoke, the arms and legs twisted into dry sticks, the skin black and papery, the head nothing more than a leering skull covered in hot ash. A crudely lettered and soot-stained sign had been affixed to the support by bungee cords. It read: DON’T FUCK WITH PINE DEEP!
Weinstock whistled softly between his teeth. “Ho-lee shit. ”
Gus beamed. “I guess the local boys got sick and tired of that Philly piece of shit kicking up dust out here. Pine Deep,” he said with pride that threatened to pop the buttons on his straining shirtfront, “you can hurt us, but you can’t beat us. ”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Crow muttered and pushed past him. Weinstock shot the chief a look as he followed.
“What?” Gus asked, totally perplexed.
“You sure that’s Boyd?” Crow asked.
“I sure as hell hope so,” Gus said.
A state police criminalist, Judy Sanchez, was working the scene and turned when she sensed Weinstock and Crow approaching. She knew Weinstock from when Boyd had broken into the morgue to steal Ruger’s body; she knew Crow from AA, though they just acknowledged each other with a slight nod.
“What can you tell me?” Weinstock asked, nodding at the corpse. “Any ID?”
She gave a short laugh. “Beyond the fact that he’s probably male and probably human, no. Those college boys torched him good. ”
“They want to know if that’s Boyd down there,” Gus said, still having a blast with this.
“You figure college kids for it, Judy?” Crow said.
“Looks like it. We got joints, beer cans, lots of sneaker prints. Little Halloween doesn’t let go around here very fast, does it?”
Little Halloween was Pine Deep’s unique holiday, celebrated only when Friday the 13th occurred in October; it was like Mischief Night on steroids. Each one was legendary, and when it showed up the kids at the college went out of their way to outdo the pranks of previous classes. The current tally included three bonfires—two of them built around cars belonging to hated teachers—a game of nude touch football between a sorority and a frat that was likely going to end in expulsions and, very probably, a lawsuit; a rock concert played so loud that fish in the Floyd Pond died; a spate of bricks thrown through store windows; a school bus being completely disassembled, with all of the parts placed neatly on the high school soccer field; the vandalizing of the Pinelands Hospital Morgue; and the subsequent burning—in fact rather than effigy—of Kenneth Boyd.
“It’s a fun-loving town,” Crow said sourly.
“Pine Deep,” Weinstock said sotto voce, “a great place to visit. Bring the whole family. ”
They stood there looking at the corpse, thankful that the breeze carried the cooked-meat stink out toward the river. Sanchez said, “So…yeah, it’s probably Boyd. Even with all the charring you can tell that the head has received several gunshot wounds. ” She looked at Crow. “Your fiancée’s doing, I hear. ”
“Yep. ”
“Tough chick. ”
“She is that,” Crow agreed.
Weinstock blew his nose noisily, “We’re going to need dental records or DNA on it. ” He cut a look at Crow, but Crow was wearing his best poker face.
