Bad Moon Rising (28 page)

“Afternoon, Chief,” he said. “Nice day for it, huh?”

“Sunshine brings in the tourists,” Gus said, as if that’s what Polk meant; and at least that much was true because the town around them had swollen to bursting with tourists. Thousands upon thousands of them—overnighters and day-trippers, kids and adults, families and school groups. They were everywhere, going in and out of the stores like lines of worker ants. Laughing, all of them. Everyone seemed to be having tremendous fun.

Polk hated them all. He hated the smiles on their faces, he hated the hands that lovers held, he hated the grins on the faces of the kids as they showed each other the costumes they’d bought for tomorrow night. Speakers on the lampposts played music, and Polk swore to himself that if he heard one more goddamn rendition of “Monster Mash” he was going to take his hunting rifle and climb to the top of the Methodist Church and just plain open up.

“You drink your lunch today, Jim?”

Polk blinked and refocused on Gus. “What?”

“I been talking to you for a whole minute and you’re just staring shit-faced at the crowd. What’s with you today?”

“Late night,” Polk said. “Burning the midnight oil.”

“Midnight oil, huh? Well, I hope she had big tits,” Gus laughed at his own joke and signaled his driver to go. Polk stepped into the street and watched the cruiser head south.

South was a good direction, he mused. Maybe he should head south, too. Maybe
before
tomorrow night. Once this party got started Pine Deep was going to be a really bad place to be found loitering. Polk knew that he was a fool, but he wasn’t fool enough to really believe that his neck would be safe once Ruger and those
others
started their shenanigans. What was the phrase he heard on TV so often? “Ethnic cleansing?” Tomorrow night was going to be all about
them
, and Polk didn’t belong to that club and sure as hell didn’t want to. Not that he felt any kinship with the throngs of bleating sheep that flocked all around him.

Yeah, getting out of Dodge was a great idea, and south was as good a direction as any. Somewhere nice and hot, where there was a lot of sunshine. He had plenty of cash now. He could go now, not even bother to pack. Just get in the car and drive.

He snorted, mocking the thought even as he had it. Sure, it was a nice idea, except if Vic caught up to him. Or Ruger.

He thought about the evidence in Saul Weinstock’s office—the evidence he told Vic wasn’t there. He wondered if he should tell Vic now. Make up a story, say he went back and checked and found it. Would Vic reward him for that? Maybe, maybe not. Vic was hard to predict; he never jumped the way you’d expect.

Or should he go drop a dime to someone? Maybe that Philly cop, Ferro. Drive down to Doylestown or Newtown and use a pay phone. Put a rag over the mouthpiece and leave an anonymous tip. God, it would nice to screw things up for Vic. Might even work, he thought. Probably
would
work. Polk looked around. It would save a lot of people, too. People like him.
Ethnic cleansing
. Them against us.

Polk thought long and hard about making that call. Fifty cents in a pay phone and the Red Wave might come crashing down before it got rolling. Tell Ferro about the evidence and a whole lot more besides. Name names, give locations. Polk knew enough to bring it all down.

He looked at his watch. Nearly two in the afternoon. He smiled as he looked at the people around him, trying to feel what they felt, trying to see the day through their eyes. He should make that call.

“Vic would kill me,” he said aloud. A passerby flicked him a glance, but as Polk was in uniform the tourist said nothing. Polk turned and watched him go. “Vic would kill me.”

The speakers began playing “Monster Mash.”

Or worse than kill me
, he thought, and that was really the decider. Polk knew too much, and it included way too much about Ruger and his kind. There were fates worse than death, Polk knew, and that was no joke.

He jingled the coins in his pockets, feeling with the pad of his thumb the faces of a couple of quarters mingled in with the pennies, nickels, and dimes. His car was parked across the street. Tank was almost full; the gym bag with the cash was hidden in the wheel well. Hours and hours until sunset.

“God help me,” he said softly, and he turned and walked up the street, away from his car, back toward the station.

(5)

“Thank God!” Weinstock said and gave Ferro’s proffered hand a vigorous shake. Then he seized LaMastra’s and wrung that. “Come in, come in. I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you fellows. Thanks so much for coming.”

Ferro gave him a stern glare. “To be honest, Dr. Weinstock, we’re not happy to be here and the clock is ticking on my patience.”

“Understandable, understandable, sure. Well, you guys should sit down and get comfortable. There’s a lot to go over.”

The two detectives sat; the doctor went around behind the desk and perched on the edge like a frightened pigeon ready to take flight. He looked like hell, with dark smudges under his eyes, three visible cuts from a botched job of shaving, and a case of the shakes that made LaMastra glad that Weinstock wasn’t about to operate on him.

“Before we get started, I want both of you to swear to me that everything I tell you, everything we discuss here today is going to stay between us.”

Ferro pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the desk top before saying, “I’m not sure we can make that promise.”

“You got that right,” LaMastra agreed. “Doc, let’s do it this way—you shoot straight with us and we give you our word that we will play fair with you. We can’t promise anything more than that.”

After a long moment, Weinstock nodded. “Okay, okay…whatever. I just need to get this out. Frank…Vince…please, you have to help us save our town!”

(1)

After fleeing the highway the night before, Mike slept in a barn on the Sackmore farm, a spread that been one of the hardest hit by the blight and had sold out in early August, their place now deserted. Mike tried the house, but it was too cold and drafty—just hardwood floors and no heat. The barn, at least, had old hay and he burrowed into it; it kept enough heat in his skin to keep him alive.

Twice in the night pale-faced figures crept past the barn, not hunting him, but hunting nonetheless. If they smelled the blood in his veins it did not lure them inside. The second one lingered longest, listening to the strange melody that rode the night wind and seemed to come from nowhere. But it wasn’t just the ghostly blues that drove him off. When he was within a dozen yards of the barn he heard a sound and looked up to see that the entire sloping roof of the vast old barn was black with the close-packed bodies of thousands of crows. The trees all around rustled and hissed with them as their wings brushed against each other.

The white-faced night hunters fled, first one and then the other, disliking the music and the sea of bottomless black eyes that watched from every tree branch and roof shingle.

Inside, Mike slept on through the night and into the late morning, unknowing, and drifting from haunted dreams of his mother into deeper levels of coma in which the chrysalis inside him struggled toward birth.

(2)

Vic Wingate got home late from his morning round of errands and found the mess that Ruger and Lois had left for him. Just the blood spatters downstairs were bad enough and he went into the kitchen and drank two beers for brunch before going upstairs to see how bad it was. The bloodstains began about halfway up the stairs. There were long artistic smears, flecks and splotches, dots arranged in arterial spray patterns, and here and there were handprints. One of the prints was Ruger’s, Vic knew, but the others were smaller. Lois’s.

Lois and Ruger were gone, but they’d left him a real mess to clean up. Vic smoked a cigarette while leaning against the bedroom door staring at the bed.

He changed into soiled work clothes from the hamper, wrapped plastic bags around his shoes, and fetched a yellow rubber rain slicker from the hall closet. He lined the hamper with a double layer of plastic trash bags and took it with him.

The first of the body parts was at the top of the stairs. Well, not so much a part, just a lump, really. It didn’t look like anything Vic recognized.

Vic bent down and picked up the meat and tossed it into the hamper. As he worked, he thought about Ruger, remembering the things Ruger’d said.

It’s a new world, pal, and it must be a real kick in the nuts—especially after all these years and all you’ve done—to realize that you’re on the wrong end of the food chain.

Ruger wouldn’t have been so bold, made such a statement, if he hadn’t gotten at least a provisional nod from the Man. That troubled Vic so much he wanted to cry. Not just the implied betrayal of the Man, or—if betrayal wasn’t the right word, then what was? Disfavor?

Vic moved down the hall, collecting pieces that he figured would eventually add up to two teenage girls. He’d seen a lot of carnage, had created a good deal of it himself, but this was over the top. What the hell had happened to Lois since the change? She hadn’t just come awake like the others. She was more like Ruger. Powerful…way past what the other vampires were like. Crazier, too, and ten times more savage.

Not for the first time he wondered if the Man had made a mistake in bringing Ruger on board as his general. As his
left
hand. Vic felt sure right from the beginning that it had been a bad move. He looked at the crimson junk in the hamper and fought the urge to shiver.

The Red Wave
, he thought…and hoped that it wasn’t he who had made a mistake.

(3)

“This doesn’t make a lot of sense,” LaMastra said as he shuffled through the papers Weinstock kept handing them. “I see bloodwork, reports on saliva samples, forensic dentistry reports on bite marks…but so what? I mean, we already know that Boyd attacked those two officers. We know he bit them, et cetera, et cetera…so why the hoopla?”

“It’ll make sense,” Val assured him.

“It had better make sense soon,” Ferro said, slapping down one stack of papers and snatching the next set out of Weinstock’s hands. “My patience is wearing pretty damn thin.”

“Bear with me,” Weinstock said. His voice was steadier than it had been, but his eyes were jumpy and looked feverish. He picked up another folder. “I have here the autopsy report on both men. Full workup. In it I recorded the exact cause of death for both men.”

“Saul,” said Ferro, “if you remember, we saw the bodies. We know the cause of death.”

“Do you? Okay, then what was it?”

LaMastra said, “They were attacked by person or persons unknown—though Boyd seems to be the only possible suspect—and aside from other physical trauma, they had their throats ripped out. I guess they just died from blood loss.”

“Blood loss,” murmured Weinstock. “Yes, that about covers it. But what would you say if I told you that the majority of the damage done to the throat, the tearing of the flesh and tendons and such, were done postmortem.”

Ferro shrugged. “It’s not unusual for a killer to perpetrate additional damage to a victim. Many sociopathic killers even dismember their victims.”

“I know. Still, the damage to the throats of both victims was not done just to satisfy some kind of maniacal frenzy.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know
why
it was done.”

“Okay. Why?”

“To hide the puncture wounds on the throat.”

“Puncture wounds? You mean stab wounds?”

Weinstock gave them a twisted smile and flipped open the folder, turning it around so they could both see the glossy black-and-white photo. It was a very clear shot, a close-up on the throat of Nels Cowan, identified by a note paper-clipped to the edge. The detectives bent forward and stared. “I had to press the flesh back together, fitting the pieces carefully to reconstruct the throat. As you can see there are two ragged punctures just over the left carotid artery.”

“Jesus…” said LaMastra. “What the hell did he use? Looks like one of those two-pronged forks you roast hot dogs with.”

Ferro looked hard at Weinstock. “And this was the cause of death? These…uh, stab wounds?”

“No. The actual cause of death of both men was a nearly total exsanguination. They were both completely drained of blood.”

“When you say ‘completely’…?” Ferro arched an eyebrow.

“During the autopsy, I was able to recover a total of forty-eight cc’s of blood. That would fill a large syringe, gentlemen, and that is all I recovered in total from both bodies. In essence, the bodies were sucked dry.”

Ferro began shaking his head, and LaMastra burst out laughing. “Oh, come on, Doc! What are you selling here, that they guys were offed by a
vampire
?”

Weinstock did not laugh, didn’t even smile. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest, and just looked at them.

Ferro rolled his eyes. “I think we’re done here.”

Val got to her feet to block him from standing. “Frank, please just hear him out.”

“I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense—”

“I can prove this,” Weinstock said.

LaMastra was still grinning. “You’re going to prove to us that there are vampires in Pine Deep?”

Dr. Weinstock returned the smile, but his was cold and humorless. “Yes.”

Ferro folded his arms and tilted his head to one side, giving him a challenging, mocking look. Weinstock reached for another folder, but Crow interrupted him. “Saul, just show them the fricking tape.”

“What tape?” LaMastra wanted to know.

Weinstock opened his top desk drawer and removed a Sony digital cassette still in its cardboard jacket. “Surveillance camera tape from the security camera at the morgue.”

“Of what? The autopsy?” Ferro asked.

“Not exactly.” Weinstock handed the tape to Crow, who put it in the machine. “This was recorded automatically by the morgue cameras the night after Boyd stole Ruger’s body,” explained Weinstock. On the screen, the time display read 8:00
P.M
. “The security guard patrolling the hospital changes all of the tapes every day and each tape records just twenty-four hours of footage. Unlike the tapes from the hall camera, the morgue tapes are never actually viewed unless there is an autopsy in progress or some reason to believe an event has occurred, such as when we discovered Ruger’s body missing from the morgue. This tape would never have been looked at except for the fact that I noticed some irregularities the next day when I was doing routine work in the morgue.”

“What kind of irregularities?” asked Ferro.

“When Boyd broke in to steal Ruger’s body he messed with the corpses of Cowan and Castle. I wanted to do a detailed examination of each man so we’d have a detailed record of any additional postmortem mutilation. Mind you, at this point even I didn’t believe what the evidence was trying to tell me. I was putting together a puzzle without knowing the picture. When I got in that morning the morgue doors were locked and at first everything looked kosher. It wasn’t until I wheeled Castle out of his cold storage and brought him into the autopsy room that I saw the changes.”

“Changes?”

“Physical changes. At first I thought it was just the lighting, but even with changing the angle of the lights, there were definite physical changes.”

“Such as?”

“Skin color, for one. Instead of the waxy, blue-white skin typical of a postautopsied corpse, I was looking at what appeared to be normal skin tone.”

“Normal for a dead man, you mean?”

“No, normal for a living person. There were no signs of pallor, the skin was pink as if flushed with blood. Even the lips seemed red and swollen. Because of the apparent lividity I decided to check for trace amounts of blood in the skin.”

“I thought you said the corpses had been totally drained of blood.”

“They had,” Weinstock said. “They had. But when I cut into Jimmy Castle’s skin that morning, real blood welled out of the wound.”

Ferro frowned. “Welled out, you say?”

“Yes. Not drained out. It welled out of the surface of the skin.”

“But…how can that be? If the heart has stopped pumping…”

“Right, there’s not going to be any blood in the surface of the skin, especially on elevated sections of the body, no hydrostatic pressure in the veins. The place I made my incision was just below the navel, just off center of the big Y-incision I made during the previous night’s autopsy.”

“And blood came out.”

“A lot of it.”

“That isn’t possible,” Ferro said, shaking his head.

“No,” said Weinstock, “it isn’t. Nor is the fact that when I cut through the sutures holding my autopsy incision together the wound itself had nearly sealed itself shut. It was sealed enough to become watertight, so to speak. I reopened the incision, and saw something else that defied all logic or explanation.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear this,” murmured LaMastra.

“In an autopsy we cut away a section of the rib cage and then remove each of the internal organs, weigh them, do some tests on them to determine the presence of toxins, trauma, that sort of thing. After we’re finished, we pack them in a plastic bag and more or less just cram them back into the body cavity, lay the cut-away sections of rib on top of them, and just sew the whole mess together so that the body is as intact as it needs to be when it sent to the mortuary for funeral preparation. There’s no reason to arrange the internal organs in any kind of order, especially since they’d each been severed from the connective tissue that had held them in place. When I’d done my autopsy on Jimmy Castle, I’d done just that. I’d been pretty thorough about it since I was on the hunt for the blood that I never found. So his internal organs should have been a jumble of dead tissue inside the body cavity.”

LaMastra was looking green; Ferro unwrapped a stick of gum and chewed it slowly, the muscles in the corners of his jaw flexing.

“That morning, when I reopened Castle’s body, the internal organs—each and every goddamned one of them—was in the right place.”

Ferro’s face was a stone. LaMastra looked like he’d just taken a mouthful of sour milk.

“It was as if I’d never performed that autopsy. Only the presence of the Y-incision showed that I had even opened the body. Plus, the body—every vein, every artery, every organ—was gorged with blood. Not just filled, but filled nearly to bursting.”

LaMastra was slowly shaking his head. He really did not want to hear this.

“I assume,” said Ferro dryly, “that you did some kind of examination on the blood? Typed it, that sort of thing?”

“Of course. I had to try and determine what had happened. I mean, here was a corpse I know damn well was dead. A corpse I had autopsied in the presence of a registered nurse, and now it was as fresh as if it had died just that moment.”

“It was actually dead, I trust?”

“I checked all the vitals again and again. Castle was dead, no doubt about it. His BP was zero, which doesn’t explain how the blood remained in the veins or had the pressure to bleed out.” Strain was making Weinstock’s voice hoarse. “Castle was your basic O-positive type, but the blood in his veins was a soup. Mostly O-positive, but a bunch of other types mixed in.”

“I don’t want to know this,” LaMastra said to the ceiling.

Ferro glanced at Val and Crow, who sat on the doctor’s couch, holding hands, saying nothing. To Weinstock he said, “Is that what’s on the tape? Your examination of the body?”

“No.”

“Then why are we watching a video of an empty morgue? How is this going to corroborate what you’re trying to tell us?”

“Frank, Vince, try to put yourselves in my shoes for a minute. Imagine how I felt during all this. I was shocked and scared and I didn’t know where to turn. I had to sit down and think about it for a while. While I was trying to work it out, I just happened to catch sight of the security camera and suddenly I realized that whatever had happened to the two bodies must have occurred the previous night, after Barney and I had left. Understand, I was still at this point trying to convince myself that somehow someone had come in and tampered somehow with the bodies, filling the bodies with a mixture of blood for some reason, maybe a prank, maybe some kind of weird fraternity stunt. I don’t know what I believed at the time, but I knew that the event had to have been recorded on the cameras. So I called security and got the tape.”