When Mike had opened his eyes, the Bone Man tried apologizing, but the kid looked through him as if he wasn’t there. Like he didn’t see him anymore, which made no sense. If the dying could see him, and the dead could see him, then Mike should have been able to.

But the kid had gotten up and wandered off, heading back to town. The Bone Man yelled at him, had strummed his guitar—something that always seemed to work before—but the boy just didn’t hear, as if whatever bond had existed before the kid died had burned away once he woke up.

Now, everything was in motion. The Bone Man could see what Vic and Ruger were doing and now he understood the time frame of the Red Wave. If there was ever a time when he needed to be heard, it was now…and wasn’t that just the way? You need something, you get a kick in the nuts by God.

Now the boy was on his own and the Bone Man was almost to Griswold’s house. L’il Scarecrow was walking in harm’s way and he hoped there was something, however small, he could do to help. “This being a ghost shit just sucks.”

3

The room was totally black and after that huge crashing impact of the trapdoor swinging down everything settled into an ugly silence. Crow felt the floor under him, but he couldn’t see it.

“Frank?” he whispered.

Nothing. Then, “Crow…?”

“Vince? Where are you? Where’s Frank?”

There was a rustling sound and then bright white as LaMastra turned on his flashlight. Shielding his eyes from the glare, Crow looked around. LaMastra was on his knees, the light in one hand while he reached down to pick up his fallen shotgun.

“Are you hurt?”

“No” LaMastra answered. “You?”

“I’m good. Where’s Frank?”

LaMastra swept the light toward the door. “I think he’s outside. Damn, look at that shit.”

Crow got to his feet and examined the doorway, running his hand over the massive panel that now sealed the door shut. He fished out his pocket Maglite and played its beam over the ceiling. “Son of a bitch set a good trap. Look.” He pointed with the light. “See there? He made it look like someone had done a bad patch job on the ceiling, with nails sticking down through from upstairs like some shithead carpenter did it using nails that were too big.” He turned the light back onto the doorway. “It’s a perfect fit. That whole panel was a trapdoor attached to the ceiling. Soon as we tripped the wire it swung down on hinges and slammed itself flush into the doorframe. No way for us to pry it out, no angle for leverage even if we had the pry bars.” He pounded on it. “Solid as a bitch. And those nails…they were the teeth of the trap. Holy shit…”

LaMastra set down his flash and used the side of his fist to pound on the door. “Frank!” he yelled. “Frank—you out there?”

There was no sound at all from the other side.

“I think he got hit,” Crow said. “When it fell, it looked like he got hit.”

“Must have knocked him out, otherwise he’d answer.”

Crow didn’t think so. Not all of the nails in that trapdoor were intended to seal the door. There were a couple of dozen right in the middle. He saw the light shine on them a second before it hit Ferro. The trapdoor must weigh half a ton; nothing less would have made it move so fast or hit so hard. All that weight pushing those nails? Crow’s heart sank.

“We have to get out of here, Vince.”

“Give Frank a minute…he’ll get us out.”

“I don’t think so.”

LaMastra half turned and shot him a vicious look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said. Maybe Frank’s okay, maybe he’s not, but right now you and me are locked in this friggin’ place. No way I’m going to stand around and wait. What if the roaches come back?”

The big detective glared at him, his features made harsh by fear and the glare of the flashlights. “Frank’s okay,” Vince said stubbornly.

“Whatever you say, Vince…but I’m going to look for another way out of here.”

He turned away and surveyed the room. To his left a staircase led upward into total blackness, to his right were the French doors that had been part of the trap. The doors hung open, their tripwire snapped. Crow peered cautiously through into the next room. “Looks empty. Maybe we can get out through the kitchen door. It should be through there.”

Grudgingly, LaMastra joined him, “What if the back door’s bricked up?”

“Then we’ll find the stairs, go up, see if maybe there’s a way out. If we have to maybe we can blast a hole in the roof and climb the hell out.”

“No other option?”

“We find the cellar stairs, go down there. See if there’s a way out.”

LaMastra looked at him like he was crazy. “Why on earth would we want to do that?”

“We don’t. I’m for the direct route, right through the house and out. But we have to expect more booby traps.”

“You think anyone’s here?”

“No way to know, but if there is, they sure as hell know we’re here. C’mon, let’s move.”

“I see anyone, man, I’m gonna kill them.”

“Works for me.” Crow used his shotgun barrel to push open the doors. They fanned back from the doorway just in case there was another wire, but nothing happened; after a moment they moved into the next room. A threadbare area rug lay on the floor, rumpled and smelling of rat droppings; an old-fashioned couch was pushed back against one wall. Two doorways led from this room: one was naked of any door and emptied into a dark hallway that jagged right out of sight; the other had a heavy door that was tightly shut. Crow moved to the closed door and examined it and the ceiling above. No visible traps.

“Go slow,” LaMastra warned as Crow reached for the handle. The knob turned easily with no telltale resistance, and it swung open on creaky hinges; but there was nothing on the other side besides a neat wall of new-laid bricks.

“I guess we go the other way,” Crow said, aware that there was the clear sense of being herded into a more complex trap. Their options were limited, so he moved through the open doorway. They shined their lights over every inch of it and saw no trip wires.

They moved down the hallway and this emptied out into another room filled with dust and shadows. A water-damaged breakfront sagged on three legs against one wall, and on the opposite wall a battered old oak table stood, supporting a stack of red bricks. Another huge pile of rotted carpet filled the center of the room. Before they moved farther Crow shined his light across the room and could see the white bulk of an old refrigerator beyond the far doorway.

“There’s the kitchen,” Crow said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

They moved slowly, hugging the walls in order to keep a clear line of fire across the whole room. At the kitchen door they peered in and saw the faintest line of pale daylight seeping in on one side of the boarded window.

“Finally,” LaMastra said, “it’s about time we caught a break.”

He took a step forward and his leg passed through an almost invisible infrared beam that cut across the doorway an inch off the floor. Neither man saw it; neither of them expected anything that sophisticated. LaMastra’s heel cut the line and at once there was an audible click and then a sound like a firecracker and suddenly a section of the kitchen floor lunged up at them, nailheads tearing through old linoleum. It was the reverse of the front-door trap and Crow, a half step behind LaMastra, saw the movement and grabbed the bigger man’s shoulder and yanked back, screaming as he back-pedaled them both away from the trap.

They staggered back onto the rumpled carpet—which immediately buckled under him. Crow fell backward and down, and with LaMastra’s weight accelerating the rate of fall they plunged through the massive and perfectly disguised hole in the dining room floor and plummeted into blackness.

4

Vic looked down at his wristwatch. 1:18 P.M. Above him the sky was clouding up nicely, and he nodded approval. Right on time.

A car rumbled across the bridge and Vic waited, looking up a the tiny particles of dust that drifted down from the heavy timbers, then peered down at the wires he held in his fingers. He twisted the leads onto the terminals of the heavy-duty battery. Once the wires were in place he slid the whole assembly into the niche he’d carved out of the bank. Vic removed a diagram from his shirt pocket and consulted it, glancing up to check that the lines on the map matched the long strands of wires that trailed up the supports to the three bundles that were each nestled into their proper places.

He picked up the clock and set the time, then very carefully pulled the button that primed the clock to ring at just the right moment.

“Boom!” he said softly as he backed away from the timer.

As he trudged up the bank toward his truck he tugged a notebook out of the back pocket of his jeans, humming as he walked. There was still a lot to do, but he was ahead of schedule, and that made him happy. He wanted the Man to see that he was still the most reliable of his army, still his right hand. Yeah, he thought as he opened the truck door and climbed in, he’d get all of it done in time, and maybe a little more besides.

He was grinning as he spun the wheel and headed back toward town.

5

There was an unreal moment of mingled darkness and trapped flashlight illumination, a sensation of floating that did not feel at all like falling. Then they hit the cellar floor so hard it sent agony shrieking upward through Crow’s whole body; the carpet padded their fall to a degree, but Crow landed badly, hitting first on the edge of his heels and then falling backward to slam the flat of his back on the concrete floor. Instantly the world exploded in white light and thunder as LaMastra accidentally jerked the trigger of his shotgun and blasted a hole in the carpet inches from Crow’s cheek. Small flecks of gunpowder sizzled into his skin.

The rug collapsed on top of them, and Crow groaned as the weight of the heavy material drove the hard scabbard of his sword case into his spine. Beside him, LaMastra snarled in confusion as he thrashed at the carpet, and with every movement he elbowed or kicked Crow.