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 better 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!”
A few of the other guys laughed, but Vic didn’t and neither did Tow-Truck Eddie. The big man’s face was almost thoughtful, but he didn’t say a word. Vic on the other hand flapped an arm at the others to shut them up.
“Bullshit, Jimmy. This motherfucker ain’t afraid of what might be out here in the dark because he’s what’s out here in the dark.”
It took Polk and the others a couple of seconds to sort that out. Tow-Truck Eddie just inhaled and exhaled, slowly and deeply, through his nose.
“What kind of shit is this?” the Bone Man said, staring Vic right in the eye. “That’s jus’ bullshit and you know it.”
“Is it?” barked Crow, and Vic snapped, “Then why you got blood on your shirt?”
The Bone Man glanced involuntarily down at his shirt. It was speckled with blood, though in the darkness it just looked black and wet.
“What’d you do?” Polk sneered. “Cut yourself shaving?”
“Holy shit,” murmured Stosh, who had apparently not noticed it until now.
The Bone Man shook his head. “No, man, this is bullshit. I—”
“Is it your blood?” asked Tow-Truck Eddie. He had a soft, deep voice. In other circumstances it would have sounded kind.
“No, but—”
“Then whose blood is it?” Bernhardt asked.
Overhead, there was thunder. The Bone Man looked from face to face and then licked his dry lips. “Look…you gotta believe me….”
“What is it you want us to believe?” the big man asked, his voice still mild.
“It’s about the killer…I found out who it was been cutting those people up.” He licked his lips again. “I figured it out.”
“You figured it out,” Bernhardt said. “You? A corn-picking nigger migrant worker figured it out when the whole police department hasn’t been able to find a single fucking clue?” He laughed. “Yeah, I’m ready to believe that shit.”
Vic stepped closer, his fists balled at his sides and his eyes suddenly intense. In a tight whisper he said, “And just who do you think it is?”
The Bone Man started to say Ubel Griswold. It got as far as his tongue, his lips had just started to form the first sound when Vic hit him with such shocking speed and force that the Bone Man flew backward against Tow-Truck Eddie’s chest. It was like hitting a brick wall.
“Fuck you!” screamed Vic. “Whose blood is on your shirt? What the hell did you do?” He was screaming, totally out of control, as if someone had jabbed him with a hot wire. He stepped into the Bone Man and struck him again, and again.
“Is that the piece of shit killed my boy?” Crow yelled, his expression of cruel delight giving way to real rage. “Give him to me, Vic…” But Vic was raining down blows on the Bone Man with an insane ferocity.
“Stop!” the Bone Man screamed back, his mouth filling with blood. “Jesus, please make him stop!” He tried to cover his face with both arms the way a boxer does, tried to turn and twist to roll with blows, but even flipped out with rage, Vic Wingate was a good fighter. He used short hooks to claw the Bone Man’s arms away and fired straight jabs and crosses to the chest and face and throat. Vic’s hands were iron hammers and under the rain of blows the Bone Man could feel his face break and split.
Tow-Truck Eddie wrapped his arms around the Bone Man and spun him away from Vic. The other men, shocked by Vic’s sudden rage, felt their own anger dampening down. They milled, confused and embarrassed. Vic threw one more punch and it just bounced off Eddie’s huge shoulder.
The Bone Man felt his legs buckle, but he didn’t fall. Tow-Truck Eddie took bunched handfuls of the front of his shirt and held him up. He leaned in close, his pale eyes burning with a weird light.
“Mr. Morse,” he said softly — so softly that only he, the Bone Man, and Vic could hear him. The Bone Man’s head lolled on a loose neck and sunbursts were exploding in his eyes. His ears rang like church bells. “Mr. Morse, tell me what you did tonight. Tell me whose blood this is.”
The Bone Man stared through the fireworks and tried to focus on the big man’s kind eyes. He looked deep into those eyes, searching for hope, or maybe an ally. “Don’t hurt me,” he whispered and was immediately ashamed of his cowardice. An hour ago he’d chased a monster down and killed him, and now he was pleading for his life from a group of Pennsylvania rednecks.