Crowley came around the side of the police car a moment later, dragging the two bodies with his right arm, his left hang- , ing uselessly at his side. He was fully human again. He unrolled the tarp and flopped the policemen's bodies next to the first victim, and stood for a moment, surveying the scene— three dead bodies, a sea of blood, two extra cars, and a bullet hole in his. He'd never be able to cover it all up before the police backup arrived.
Crowley walked back to the police car, and shut off the headlights; the carnage fell into gray silhouette. He rum-, maged around inside a while longer, and I heard nothing but cracks and scratches, until at last he emerged and tossed a couple of black blocks onto the pile of bodies. I guessed it was the squad car's video camera, but there was no way to be sure from this distance.
There was still time. The police had called for backup, but even if they hadn't, someone was bound to come and find Crowley. He couldn't possibly hide all of this.
He pulled off his coat and flannel shirt, tossing them into the pile, and standing pale and half-naked in the moonlight.
His left arm was badly wounded from the bullet he'd taken, and he poked at it with a grunt. He reached up with his right hand—the fingers shifting fluidly into claws—and rested his fingers on his shoulder. He set his feet carefully on the sidewalk, bracing himself for something, and then jumped as a cell phone chirped loudly at his waist. He grabbed the cell phone with his good hand, and flipped it open, raising it to his ear.
"Hello Kay. I'm sorry, dear, I couldn't sleep." Pause. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want to wake you. Don't worry, honey, it's nothing. Just insomnia. I went for a drive." Pause.
"No, it's not my stomach, I feel just fine." He looked down at the pile of corpses at his feet. "In fact, my stomach feels better than it has in weeks, dear." Pause. "Yes, I'll be home soon. You go back to sleep. I love you, too, dear. I love you."
So she wasn't a demon. She didn't know anything about it.
He turned off the cell phone and, fumbling, clipped it back to his belt. Then he reached up and sliced into his left shoulder, cutting away the flesh and wrenching the bone free with a sickening pop. I fell back in surprise. He gasped, falling to his knees, and tossed the arm onto the first victim, where it began immediately to sizzle and collapse. Once separated from whatever dark energy kept the demon alive, the limb degenerated into sludge within seconds.
Awkwardly, with only one arm, Crowley did the same to the corpse of a policeman, removing first its coat and then its left arm. He held the limb up to his tattered shoulder, and I watched in amazement as the flesh seemed to reach out to the new limb, enveloping it and pulling it close, knitting and flowing together like putty. A moment later the arm moved, rising up at the shoulder, and Crowley swung it around in circles, first small, then wider and wider, feeling its weight and testing its motion. Satisfied, and shivering with cold, he pulled a handful of garbage bags from his trunk and began to pack up the bodies.
I found myself wondering, of all things, why he didn't just take the arm from his first victim—why go to the trouble of undressing the policeman when there was a perfectly good body right next to it, prepped and ready to go?
I heard a car approaching, wheels plowing heavily through the slush, and looked back. A pickup passed a block and a half away, on Main Street, bright red in the streetlights. There was no way they could have seen Mr. Crowley's grisly work from so far away, and in the midst of such darkness. The truck drove on, and its noise faded into the distance.
Crowley worked quickly and efficiently, stuffing the policemen into the trunk of the first victim's stalled car. The owner of the car, wrapped tightly in a garbage sack, went into the trunk of Crowley's own car, along with the bagged remnants of Crowley's clothes, his bloody tarp, and the stolen hardware from the police car. It was a smart plan—when, investigators finally found the policemen, they would appear to be the only victims, and the owner of the car would be the natural suspect.
If Crowley hid the man's body well, they might never realize that he had also been a victim tonight—instead, he'd he the prime suspect, throwing the police and the FBI off of Crowley's trail for weeks.
Crowley climbed into his own car, started it, and drove away. No one had come. He'd gotten away with it.
He'd faced two armed policemen, and come away without a scratch—in better condition, in fact, than when he'd started.
The evidence was gone, and what evidence was left behind all pointed to someone else. As soon as he drove out of sight, I ran hack to my bike and pedaled as fast as I could in the other direction—the last thing I wanted was for someone to find me there and link me to the crime.
How could anyone stop this demon? He was virtually unkillable, and too strong and clever even for the police. They'd done everything they could, used all of their training and skill— they'd riddled him with bullets, for goodness sake—and now they were dead. Everyone who'd seen Crowley tonight was dead.