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“It was just called in a few minutes ago. FedEx guy heard a fight, someone screaming, and then saw this kid go running out of the house, face all bloody. ”
So what? “Give me the address. ”
“Oh, no, you don’t have to go there. Polk’s already there. He called in and told me to tell you to go looking for the kid. Jimmy said you’re the only one free, so you catch this one. Lucky you, huh?”
“Yes, lucky me. Okay, Ginny, do you have anything on the kid? Name, description…”
“Name is Sweeney. Michael Sweeney. Age fourteen, red and blue, five-six, slim build. Probably on a bicycle. ”
Eddie jerked upright. “Repeat that name, please?”
“That was Michael Sweeney. Last seen wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt with some band label, FedEx guy thinks it might have been The Killers. The neighbor said the kid had a bloody nose and there was blood on his hands and the front of his shirt. He was reported to have left the scene on a black mountain bike. ”
“Michael Sweeney,” Eddie said, tasting each honey-sweet syllable.
“Last seen heading south toward A-32. Probably making for a friend’s house. ”
“Out into farm country,” Eddie murmured. “How long since he fled the scene?”
“Say ten minutes. If he’s heading out to one of the farms you should have no problem finding him. ”
“I’m on it,” he said and hung up.
Michael Sweeney. Covered in blood. The image was so delicious that tears filled his eyes.
In his mind it was as if a series of relays clicked into place and a current of pure cognitive energy flowed uninterrupted for the first time in weeks. Of course it was Michael Sweeney. Vic Wingate’s stepson. Eddie had even seen the boy at the garage once or twice. So why had it been so hard to identify him at Crow’s shop? A devil’s mind trick, that had to be. The Beast was, after all, the Father of Lies…it wasn’t so hard to assume those lies could have been more subtle than words. Hadn’t the air shimmered like heat vapors from hell? That was all part of a glamour put on him by the Beast. He hadn’t seen it then, hadn’t grasped it fully, but now everything made sense. Now everything was crystal clear.
Michael Sweeney was the Beast and he was out there now, soaked in blood, probably laughing as he fled into the farmlands. The soulless bastard!
No wonder God had sickened of him and turned His back. How could He not when His son was so weak that the Beast could thwart him with such a simple conjuring trick.
“Forgive me, Father, for I am most heartily sorry for my sins. ” He recited a dozen different prayers of humility and confession, then threw his car into gear and headed out of town.
4
Vic Wingate chain-lit his eighth cigarette and between puffs probed experimentally at his nose and ear. A plastic bag of ice cubes lay on the floor by his feet. He saw Polk’s stare. “What?” he snarled.
They were alone in the living room. Lois was upstairs, and the neighbors had been shooed unceremoniously back to their houses. Polk had taken the call alone, making very sure that no other deputies set foot in Wingate’s house. That would lead to all sorts of complications. He perched on the edge of Vic’s overstuffed wing chair and jiggled his uniform cap in his hands.
Polk cleared his throat. “How bad is this going to be for us?”
Bitterly, Vic said, “Dumb bitch helped him get away. She showed herself to him. ”
Polk’s eyes went wide. “She…showed her…? I don’t get it, if she’s one of them why’d she help him?”
“She ain’t gone over to Him, yet. Bitch has been living on neighborhood dogs and beef blood from the butcher’s. Still got her frigging soul, as if that matters to her. Shit, she never used it before. ”
Polk swallowed the rock in his throat.
The door banged open and Polk leapt to his feet as Ruger walked in from the kitchen carrying the limp body of a teenage girl in his arms. The sight of him made Polk’s balls climb up into his body.
“Hey hey, welcome to the funhouse, Polkie. ”
Polk couldn’t answer. He was staring at what Ruger held in his arms—a teenage girl, head lolling, eyes closed, her face and throat smeared with bright blood.
“Oh, Jesus,” Polk whispered and almost—almost—crossed himself.
Ruger ignored Polk and glanced up the stairs. “She still acting out?”
