“Forensic evidence. He autopsied those two cops Boyd killed. Castle and Cowan. He’s got to have lab reports and shit. And Polk told us they had morgue video of Boyd stealing your body…what if there’s tape of Cowan and Castle getting up to go out for a stroll?”
“Balls. Even so, we certainly can’t kill him right now. There’s no one to pin it on and it’d draw the wrong kind of attention.”
Vic nodded. “Plus, he’s a good friend of Crow and Guthrie. It’d be way too high profile, too many of the wrong connections, and it would just strengthen anything Crow had to say.”
Ruger’s mouth gave an ugly tremble. “I could turn him.”
Vic considered, but then shook his head. “Too chancy. We run the risk of him going brain dead.”
“Yeah…which is something I don’t quite get. About one in five of the people I turn wakes up with ‘No Sale’ written on his eyeballs. Like Boyd, only worse in a lot of cases. It’s a pain in the ass, and it’s dangerous to the plan. They don’t like following orders, even if they understand the orders, which I friggin’ doubt. When they’re not milling around groaning like extras from Night of the Living Dead, they’re trying to break out to go hunt. I had to put a few of them down ’cause they were just too unruly. You’re the expert…what’s with that shit?”
“Hell if I know. Some vampires are like that. Not everyone wakes up smart and charming. Look at you, for instance.”
Ruger shot him the finger. He said, “Are you sure they’re actual vampires? They’re more like zombies.”
“Supposed to be vamps, according to the Man. Just different. Just like some of you guys have retractable fangs and some don’t. Some of you guys have these oversized chompers that look like walrus teeth, and some don’t and can pass for Joe Normal. Lots of different species. Maybe it has something to do with ethnic background, who knows? The only ones that are a real problem are those Dead Heads like Boyd. At first I thought he was a fluke but, you’re right, it seems to be a pattern, and that could hurt us if it gets out of hand.” He shook his head. “So, I guess, we can’t risk having it happen to the Jew. Not yet.”
“Well, then the answer’s pretty obvious—we have to find out if he has any forensic stuff, find out where he keeps it, and then get rid of it. Simple as that. Steal his files, fry his hard drive. Your boy Polk’s supposed to be a computer geek, right? He could find out what the doc has stored. Delete it or some shit.”
Vic looked thoughtful as he sipped his whiskey. “That’s not bad. Another job for Jimmy-boy. And in the meantime I have to make a decision about Cowan and Castle. Much as we need soldiers we don’t need liabilities.”
“Let me handle that end of things. Those guys belong to me.”
“You mean they belong to the Man,” Vic said, a warning edge in his voice.
Ruger smiled. “That’s what I meant.”
(2)
Crow heard someone call his name and looked up from the hallway water fountain to see Saul Weinstock coming out of the elevator, his clothes sweat-stained and soiled and his face as gray as five-day-old steak. Crow stepped forward, offering his hand, but Weinstock clamped a hand around his bicep, spun him, and dragged him back down the hall to Val’s room. “We have to talk…right now.”
Once they were inside Crow pulled his arm free. “I’ve been trying to get to you all night. How’s Val?”
“She’s fine, she’s fine…look there’s something else I have to—”
Crow put his palm flat on Weinstock’s chest and gave him the smallest of pushes—not hard, but hard enough. “Saul…tell me about Val. Now.”
Weinstock blinked in confusion for a moment, then his face cleared. “Right, sorry, man…you can’t imagine the kind of night I’ve had. Can I at least give you the short version?”
“Shortish, but tell me something before the big vein in my head pops.”
“All right, all right…Val has a fracture of the medial wall of the orbit and a mild concussion. We did a CT scan and there’s no evidence of a subdural hematoma and though there is some damage to the maxillary sinus there’s been no blowout injury—which is a fairly common result of the kind of injury she sustained.” He looked at his watch. “I have a neurologist coming in at nine this morning to do a more complete workup. Val’s probably going to have headaches for a while, some loss of balance, double vision, maybe some short-term memory loss. We’ve been worried about retinal detachment, but it’s looking better, though we’re still waiting on that report from Dr. Barrett. I told them to page me the second he’s done with her, and they’ll be bringing her up here. Should be pretty soon. If the retina’s good, then there may not even be any vision loss. Considering the trauma she’s had, she’s got luck on her side.”
“Luck’s relative,” Crow said. “You told Sarah that Terry was lucky.”
Weinstock looked pained. “Yeah, well, around here any time a doctor gets to give news that’s not worst-case scenario ‘luck’ is a good word to use. Believe me, we don’t get to use it enough. But I hear what you’re saying, what with Mark and Connie and all.”
Crow gripped Weinstock’s sleeve. “What about the baby? I’ve been terrified to even ask. She didn’t…lose it?”
Weinstock brightened. “No, thank God. For a slender woman Val has the constitution of a bison. We ran every test in the book and even made up a few new ones, and as far as our OB resident is concerned everything is looking good. Even so, Gail Somerfield will be here later this morning and there’s no better OB-GYN in the state. I love Val, and I’ll be damned if after all that’s happened I will let anything happen to her or her baby.” He paused and gave Crow a warm smile. “Your baby.”
Crow closed his eyes and a great dark wave of tension seemed to roll out of him.
“So, yes—lucky in that regard,” Weinstock said, “but there’s still everything that went on at the farm last night. You’ll have to really be there for her, buddy. More than ever, what with Mark and Connie and all…”
“I know. About Connie…did she suffer much?”
“I doubt she was even aware of anything from the time she was attacked.”
“God. I just can’t believe this. It’s like Ruger and Boyd had some kind of vendetta going. Why them, though?”
Weinstock shook his head. “Who the hell knows what goes on in minds like that?”
“Is there anything new on Terry?”
“Not much. They moved him out of surgery and into ICU but—”
“Are you talking about Mayor Wolfe?” a voice asked.
Weinstock stopped and wheeled around to where Newton was struggling to sit up in the chair by the window. The little reporter blinked like a turtle and fisted sleep out of his eyes.
“You!” Weinstock said, pointing a finger at him. “Whoever you are, get out.”
“Whoa,” Crow said, stepping between them. “Ease up, Saul—Newton’s a reporter. You know him, the guy that broke the Ruger story.”
Weinstock inhaled through his nose. “In that case get the hell out. And I mean now.”
“Hold on, Newt’s with me,” Crow said, waving Newton back to his seat.
Weinstock’s face was alight with anger. “Crow…there are some things I want to tell you that I’m sure you’re not going to want him to hear. Trust me on this.”
“Don’t be too sure. A lot of stuff happened yesterday and Newt was with me. You can speak openly.”
“No way…not in front of a reporter.”
“Saul, I don’t think there’s anything you can tell me that he won’t be ready to hear.”
“No.” This time it was Newton who said it.
Crow and Weinstock both looked at him. “Hey, Newt, you can’t bail out on me now.”