"You're going to feel really stupid in the morning," I said. "Send some cops now—I'll try to stall him." I hung up and jumped on my bike. I had to find them.
They had turned toward-the wood plant nearly ten minutes ago; they could be anywhere by now, including Freak Lake. I drove back down Main Street to where he'd turned, to try to follow or guess his path, but halfway there I heard a car door slam, and went to investigate. A block and half away, surrounded by quiet storefronts and dimly lit by the light of the moon, Mr. Crowley's car was parked behind another on the side of the road. Crowley was walking from his trunk toward a heap on the ground. As I got closer I could sec that the heap was a body lying on a tarp. I was too late.
I dropped my bike in a shadow and crept closer to Crowley while his back was turned. I reached the corner of his block, just half a block away, and ducked into a storefront alcove.
The second car was the victim's, I guessed, broken down in the worst possible place, on the worst possible night—in the dark, far from human ears, and close to Mr. Crowley. Crowley had apparently found him looking for help, and offered to take a look.
Next to the body on the tarp was a pile of steaming black sludge—Crowley had already made the switch, of stomach or intestines or whatever he needed from this one, and he'd had the foresight to lay out a ground cloth to catch the noxious evidence. He straightened the corners of the tarp and began to roll it up just as the police headlights came into view. I ducked down as they drove past, and watched through a corner of glass as Mr. Crowley paused, hung his head, and slowly stood up.
One of the policemen stepped out of the car and drew his gun from behind the cover of his open doors; the other was silhouetted in the driver's seat, talking on a radio. The body was rolled up and hidden, but there was blood on the ground from the initial attack.
"Put your hands in the air," said the cop. I knew some of the cops in town, but I couldn't recognize this one in the dark.
"Lay down on the ground, now!"
Mr. Crowley slowly turned around.
"Sir! Do not turn around! Lie down immediately!"
Crowley faced them now, tall and broad in the brilliant headlights. His shadow stretched behind him for nearly a block, a giant made of darkness.
"Thank goodness you're here," said Crowley, "I just found him. I think that killer got to him." Crowley's pants were soaked in the victim's blood; I was amazed he even attempted the lie.
"Turn back around and lie down on your stomach," said the policeman. His gun was like an extension of his arm, black and straight. Crowley's claws were hidden now; he looked perfectly human, yet perfectly menacing. His eyes were thin and grim, his mouth closed tightly in a flat, emotionless line.
"Turn back around, and lie down on your stomach," said the policeman. '"We will not ask you again."
Crowley's eyes seemed to bore into the officer, and I wondered what he was feeling. Anger? Hate? I peered closer, seeing a glint of light on his cheek. Tears.
He was sad.
The policeman on the driver's side opened his door and stepped out. He was younger than his partner, and his hands trembled. When he spoke his voice was shaky. "Backup's on its way—" he said, but before he could even finish his sentence, Crowley rushed them, still in full human form but snarling angrily. The older policeman shouted a warning and both men began firing, bullet after bullet slamming into Crowley's chest.
He went down.
"Holy—" said the young cop.
The older cop lowered his weapon slowly and looked at his partner. "Suspect down," he said. "I never would have guessed this tip was any good—what is this, the third one tonight?"
"Fourth," said the young cop.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" asked the older one. "Call for an ambulance!"
In a flash, Crowley was up again, standing at the old cop's side—his face inhumanly elongated, his mouth a ragged quiver of fangs. Bone-white claws slashed through the cop's gut, and he was dead almost instantly. The demon Crowley leapt over the squad car toward the young cop, who screamed and fired wildly, hitting the rear corner of Mr. Crowley's car just before the demon jumped on him and pulled him down, out of my view. The policeman screamed once more, and stopped.
As quickly as the violence had erupted, it ceased. The policeman, the demon, the guns, the street, the cold night sky—all were as silent as a tomb.