Dead Man's Song

The wrecker slewed around and actually slid sideways, burning smears on the hardtop. Immediately the angle of the turn became warped and the back wheels skidded all the way around and then swung completely clear of the road as they spun out over the deep drainage ditch. With neither weight nor traction the wheels raced at insane speeds, sending up a banshee cry, and then Eddie let loose his own howl as the whole back end of the wrecker canted into the ditch and he was bounced around in the cab like a rag doll in a clothes dryer. The front wheel jumped high off the ground and the massive machine slid down five feet into the drainage ditch, front wheels spinning madly in the air now and dirt spraying up in huge clouds as the back wheels touched down again, but the rear tires only dug themselves a trench. The wrecker continued to slide backward until the towing bar thudded with finality into the mud wall on the far side of the ditch.

Eddie was slammed back against the seat but he was at an angle and his head missed the headrest and smacked against the rear window with a sound like a fist hitting a door. At the same time his right knee jerked upward and he hit the under-side of the steering wheel hard enough to send hot lightning through the joint. The engine continued to roar, but now there was a frustrated, almost petulant gripe to the motor.

Squinting through pain, teeth clenched and bared, Tow-Truck Eddie stared in stupefaction at the improbable angle of the wrecker. He was looking almost straight up at the darkening sky over the cornfields. He could not believe it. It had all happened so fast. He was in the ditch! The engine whined on, and Tow-Truck Eddie reached out, jerked the stick into park, and wrenched the key over to kill the noise. The engine died along with his confidence. He gripped the knobbed arc of the steering wheel and let out a howl of pure frustrated rage.

Mike skidded down the hill for thirty yards, wobbling and swaying and almost going off the blacktop into the ditch himself. When he heard the crash of the wrecker, he squeezed the brakes and slid to a long, slow stop and then crouched there listening, ready to flee, panting, feeling sweat running in cold rivulets down his face. He heard the whine of the engine, and then the silence as the engine was abruptly turned off.

Got you, you son of a bitch! he thought, smiling fiercely, and a dark wave of malicious glee soared up through him. Got you!

He wondered what to do next. Later he would have to try and sort out what was going on with this nutcase in the wrecker, but for right now he needed to decide what to do next. Go! his instinct told him. Get the hell out of here. The wrecker was now between him and home. He needed to go get the cops. He needed to tell Crow. Would Crow be back from the hike he was taking in the woods with that reporter? Maybe Val would be home. He turned and looked into the darkness that stretched away from the wrecker. Val’s farm was pretty close, a couple miles. He could go there. All of these thoughts banged around in his head with all the noise and distraction of a silver pinball. Getting the hell out of there, no matter where he went, was the only smart thing to do, he knew that much.

But first…he had to go back up and look over the top of that hill. He had to find out what had happened to the wrecker. He had to.

This is stupid, he thought, and then said it aloud. “This is really stupid.”

Sweating icy rivers, his body aching, he nonetheless turned his War Machine around and pedaled slowly, carefully up the hill, all the time listening for the engine to start again. Nothing. Just silence.

Twenty yards to go, and he wondered if maybe the guy had really cracked up the wrecker. Maybe the guy was hurt. Screw him if he is. Maybe he was dead, that was something to think about. Mike didn’t want to be responsible for killing anyone, even if the guy was some kind of nutcase who liked to try and run down kids on bikes.

Get the hell out of here. Go. Now.

Ten yards to go, and he wondered—not for the first time—if maybe it was Vic himself in that wrecker after all. Jesus, is he really that crazy? Is it him up there? He felt terror grab at him, but he fought for control. No, he told himself, no. Vic is probably at home. Vic is home getting drunk and probably slapping Mom around. Or maybe doing whatever it was he did to her in their bedroom that made her scream like that. Mike knew that Vic did things—bad things—that made his mother scream and cry out at night, sex things that Vic wanted Mike to hear because he knew it would hurt to hear that stuff. But…was this him?