Jack To A Queen - Various - 13 Brand New Yeehaws (Cassette)
The Bone Man stood still for a long time, staring at the thing, then as he moved a step forward the creature raised its gory head and looked around slowly until it saw him step into the sunlight.
Instantly the vacuous expression transformed into one of feral hate and appalling hunger. Boyd bounded up and lumbered toward the newcomer, staggering on one broken and twisted leg but showing no flicker of pain.
Ragged hands that were tipped with black claws reached out toward him as his mouth opened in a guttural scream of rage and hunger. The Bone Man said nothing, did nothing, just watched as Boyd rushed at him, watched as he swayed from side to side in a parody of drunkenness. Boyd launched forward with unnatural speed, slashing at him with its claws, snapping at the air with his jagged teeth, rushing forward to try and bowl him over, drag him down, overwhelm him with a savage animal rage.
The Bone Man did not try to step aside or run; he merely waited as Boyd leapt the last few yards, snarling with fury—and passed straight through him. The Bone Man smiled the smallest, thinnest smile. The creature bounded forward again, claws tearing the air, and again he passed through the Bone Man as if he were smoke. Boyd rose slowly to its feet, standing in a hunchbacked crouch, glaring at him. Boyd sniffed the air with his broken nose, paused and sniffed again. Then as if some unseen hand had reached into his mind and dialed down a rheostat the predatory light went out his eyes and his snarling mouth drooped again into the slack-jawed hang of emptiness.
It took two aimless steps backward, turned first to the right and then to the left, both motions apparently without purpose, and after swaying in the sunlight for a full minute, he tottered off across the road back toward the cornfields. The Bone Man watched him go and stood quietly for a long time until even the faintest sounds of his lumbering passage through the corn had faded.
He sighed and then sat slowly down on the rotted log, pulling his guitar around so that as he sat it lay across his bony thighs. His long fingers stroked the strings, and as the breeze returned to stir the tips of the tall corn he began to play and sing. In the clearing near the cornfields where four people had now died, the Bone Man played blues to lament the dead and to preach the gospel of the dark times.
Not times coming at the End of Days, but of the darkness here at hand—an October darkness, abroad and hungry. He pedaled his bike faster and faster, his legs pumping insanely, the rubber of the thin tires screaming in a high-pitched wail, the cold wind slicing at him as he fled, but the wrecker kept getting closer and closer. Mike risked a look, daring to glance over one shoulder and there —right there! He could hear the roar of the engine as it chased him.
No, not a roar—it was a growl. Deep, angry, hungry —not at all the sound of a machine but the hunting snarl of a beast. A monster. He leaned forward over the bars, his butt up in the air, trying to add more weight and power to his pumping legs and at the same time cut the wind resistance. He flicked another glance over his shoulder and saw that he was pulling away. He kept it up, trying to make it to the entrance of the farm just down the road. If he could make that…just a few hundred yards now…he would be safe.
Crow would be there. His chest was an oven that burned up the air as soon as he gasped it in and then set to burning the flesh of his lungs, and still he raced on. Sweat burst from his pores and ran down his face and chest before freezing against his skin, and still he raced on.
Pinwheels of fire exploded in his eyes, and still he raced on. His heart was slamming against the walls of his chest and felt like it was ready to burst, and still he raced on. Less than a hundred yards now and he began angling wide so that he could make a fast, hard turn left and shoot onto the entrance road. Suddenly there were people lining the side of the road. Silently watching the race as they stood in the shadows. Even in the dark, even at that speed, he could see their faces and read their expressions.
Mike raced on. Then he sped by a tall, stick-thin black man in a dirty black suit that was streaked with mud and rainwater. The black man said something but his voice made no sound. At the end, as he was about to make his turn, he saw a tall blond man with heavy features and furious eyes step out into the road and grab at his handlebars with both hands.
He rolled in midair, trying to land on his feet, needing to land running, but he kept turning and slammed onto his back with so much force that he could hear bones break all along his back.
He skidded along the blacktop, his hooded jacket shredding, and then his shirt…and then his skin. By the time he stopped the long slide, there was a ten-foot smear of red painted on the blacktop. Mike cried out in agony and raised his head to see where the truck was and how much time he had, trying at the same time to read his body to see how badly he was hurt.
He raised his head and looked down the length of his body and there, framed between the upturned toes of his sneakers, was the wrecker. Three feet away. He felt the wheels all the way up his body; he felt and heard each bone splinter and snap, felt the searing pain as his groin and stomach were ground flat under the immense weight of the wrecker, tasted the coppery blood as it burst in a torrent from his screaming mouth, felt every part of him explode into bloody fragments until the rolling wheels smashed his awareness into utter black agony.
Then he woke up, covered in sweat, his body still screaming from every pore, from every nerve ending. His curly red hair hung in seaweed twists down from his bowed head, and his freckles were as dark as bullet holes against his pale skin.
His heart was beating so hard in his chest that it hurt, lances of pain shot down his left arm, numbing his fingers. Fiery lights danced in his blue eyes and he bent forward, gagging, almost vomiting.
Then…it eased. Like a great wave the pain reached its peak and then slid back into the vast sea of his dreams, leaving him awake and alive. Even so, he trembled and shuddered. As the dream—and the ghost pain—eventually faded and he settled back against the sweat-soaked sheets, he feared to return to sleep, just as much as he feared being awake in this house. Vic Wingate here in the real world, the wrecker lurking on the black roads of his dreams. At fourteen, Mike Sweeney had cultivated a precise understanding of the nature of hell and an absolute belief in its reality.
A team moroseness tinted by extreme exhaustion. He held a clipboard in one hand and had a folded newspaper under his arm. Tow-Truck Eddie looked up from his reading as Weinstock slouched in. When the door was closed, Weinstock dragged the guest chair nearer the bed and sprawled in it, looking over his shoulder at the closed door. Crow grunted agreement. Maybe God. He was on the cops full time when I was, but aside from workrelated stuff I doubt we ever said ten words to one another.
He never asked again. He could bench-press Iowa. Guess he never asked you about JC? We Jews are all going to hell. We have a special section, a gated community.
Right next door to the Buddhists, the Hindus, and the pro-choice lobby. Humanity, I guess. Which reminds me, say ahhhh. Any double vision?
Blood in your urine? Pins and needles anywhere? Just your garden-variety every-molecule-inmy-body-hurts kind of pain. Both slugs barely grazed you. Nothing broken, but you have a lot of pretty serious bruising. But I never cry like anything less than a ten-year-old. On top of what she must be feeling about her dad, that eye socket is going to hurt like a son of a bitch.
A migraine is not out of the question. Better to keep her under as long as we can. The house is probably a wreck, what with the mess Ruger made and then a zillion cops tramping through it. Asked him to see to the house and the farm. I think they may be wrong.
It was lurid stuff, poorly written and overly dramatic. Crow made a rude noise and pushed it away. Long on hysteria, short on details. Crooks read papers, too. Gus would have their balls. Do him some good to smile once in a while. I got to do the autopsy on your sparring partner. Want me to save you Jack To A Queen - Various - 13 Brand New Yeehaws (Cassette) souvenir?
Something you want brought in? You know I proposed, right? Weinstock looked dubious. The shrinks are with her now, and will be seeing her off and on all day. Our residents reseat teeth after every hockey game at the college and twice on Friday nights after the bars let out.
He has very real grief to deal with, but he also has Connie to attend to. She was very nearly raped, as you know, and neither of them is coping with that very well.
Yeah, Bob, what is it? You know him. Teaches at the college, fills in for me as ME sometimes. Did something happen to them? Nels and Jimmy?
It was LaMastra who ultimately found the line of footprints leading deep into the corn, though there was little actual blood along the wandering path.
Earlier, after they had first viewed the scene, Ferro had put the call out through Gus that they needed a lot more men on the ground, and the request—fueled by early news stories of the manhunt and the killings —flashed through jurisdictions on both sides of the Delaware.
By the time LaMastra had picked out the front yard of the Guthrie place was a parking lot, and more cars lined the service road and both sides of the verge on A for a hundred yards north and south. Gus took names and badge numbers from every cop, and LaMastra divided up the teams while Ferro and a ranger from the State Forest Commission pored over regional maps. Cell phone reception was spotty so officers with high-powered walkie-talkies were assigned to each group.
Gus Bernhardt made some calls and brought in a dozen men he knew to be top hunters or hunting guides, and he deputized them on the spot, mostly to enforce a confidentiality decree. Three teams of hunting dogs were brought in—the same ones that had failed to track Ruger through the rain two nights ago—and at the search began in earnest.
Ferro and LaMastra both knew it. Spotter planes were in the air before the first teams had covered half a mile and they crisscrossed the fields all morning.
Ferro stayed at the farmhouse to coordinate, but LaMastra wanted to be out in the fields. It had become a blood hunt, and everyone there wanted a taste. Their dislike of each other went back years.
Val was swathed in bandages and hooked up to machines that beeped and pinged. A bag of saline hung pendulously above her, dripping steadily. The liquid was so clear that it seemed to exemplify purity, and that somehow comforted Crow.
Nothing else these days seemed very pure, from the blighted crops to the pollution spread by Ruger and his crew. Had he done so he would have gotten there before Henry had been gunned down.
This knowledge was a worm gnawing at his guts. Her face was shrunken by the depth of her sleep and her right eye was covered by a thick gauze pad held in place by a circlet of bandages, but even with all that she was beautiful.
Strong jaw, high cheekbones, clear brow. Her nose was a little askew from a motorcycle accident—the same one that had given her scars on her knees, breasts, and belly.
Scars Crow knew very well from close study. Hands that could be so gentle and yet could turn a wrench or hit a tennis overhand that could chip paint from the foul line. At nine, Val Guthrie was as tough as a hickory stick and smart as a whip, and her father put in charge of all the kids hired from around the town. Her best friend at the time was another rich kid, Terry Wolfe, and it was pretty clear that Terry was sweet on Val. Crow and Billy had become friends with them and throughout that summer and into the grim Black Autumn that followed they ran as a pack, often with little Mandy Wolfe running along behind to catch up.
When that season started it was always Val who called the shots even though Billy was older. Then things turned bad and by the end of that season Billy was dead, Mandy was dead, and Terry was in a coma, all victims of the Pine Deep Reaper. That left Val and Crow together during those last days before the Reaper was himself cut down. Now, thirty years later, Val and Crow were going to be married—just as another Black Autumn was burning its way through their lives.
He froze, not wanting to wake her and yet willing her to wake. Her one visible eyelid trembled for a moment and her brow furrowed as if she were puzzling out the nature of being awake. Then that eyelid opened and she looked right at him with one single dark blue eye.
She sipped once through the straw, took a breath, and took a longer sip before handing the cup back, her face thoughtful. Crow could imagine the tape machines in her head replaying everything that had happened. Crow opened the drawer of the bedside table and fished it out. He clumsily managed to place it around her neck and attach the clasp. She seemed to relax a bit more once it was on. Crow gave it to her straight, repeating verbatim what Saul Weinstock had said.
Val listened and then gave a single curt nod, but he knew she was processing it. He took a deep breath and then told her about the new killings out at the farm. I saw the news earlier and they have state troopers, forest rangers, every kind of cop…even dogs and planes out there. Right next to Ruger. A few moments later she squeezed his hand and when he looked at her there were tears in her eyes. Crow reached for her and tried to comfort her with his nearness, whispering meaningless words as he held her.
He slipped out of bed, took the portable phone, and clicked it on as he went into the living room. He slouched down into a leather armchair and immediately his dog leapt into his lap. Just so you know. Mike Sweeney had told Jack To A Queen - Various - 13 Brand New Yeehaws (Cassette) about the Cape May Killer connection, but Mike was on the periphery of what had happened. For Hangood shifting gears into true newsman mode was an effort, but he managed it.
The cops have been keeping this hush-hush. What I mean is…some other reporters know about the cop killings, but no one else knows about the Cape May Killer angle. Hangood was still trying to find sense in this. No one said anything about it being related to Cape May.
We have to go to press right now. We have to get this out in a couple of hours. I saw the bodies, Dick. I have pics. Long range, sure, but pics. And I, um …overheard some conversations between the two lead cops. I know the whole story, Dick, and how it ties back in with the Cape May thing. I have it all. You could get a Pulitzer for this. He was hyperventilating. She barely shrugged. He closed the door and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, punched in a number, and waited.
Vic Wingate answered on the third ring. Saul Weinstock. Has to be done fast. That a problem? Trust me when I tell you that Ruger is not out of the game. Now shut up for a second and let me think. We have to find a way to get that Jew doctor to postpone the autopsy for at least a full day. You understand me, Jimmie? A full day. And because the Man wants it that way—or is that not enough of a reason for you? No damn use at all, you reading me? Polk leaned against the Jack To A Queen - Various - 13 Brand New Yeehaws (Cassette) cinder block wall of the fire tower and stared at nothing for two whole minutes, then he pushed himself away and straightened his clothes.
Chapter 4 1 When Tow-Truck Eddie came home from the hospital his mind was racing like the engine of his wrecker. He locked the front door, closed all of the blinds, and yanked the curtains shut, bathing the house in gray-brown darkness despite the sun outside.
He peered around the corners of each curtain to make sure that no one outside could see in, and whenever he was uncertain he used strips of duct tape to seal the edges of the curtains to the wall.
He finished, paused to consider, and then went and taped up every window in the house, basement to attic. It took three thick rolls of duct tape. That was okay, he had plenty. For his privates he used a razor. Once the house was secure, he double-checked the locks on the front and back doors, stripped off his police uniform, and went upstairs to the little shrine he had made to contain the first of the holy relics he would collect.
He crossed himself seven times as he knelt in front of the shrine, then he opened the doors and removed the vessel that contained the Eucharist, which he placed on top of the cabinet. He went through the entire ritual of blessing the elements, taking his time and getting each step precisely right. Error was sinful, even if by accident. That it was really a Tupperware container did not matter. One day he would have elements made from gold, but for now humility in all things was correct. He took a deep breath, fighting the rush of excitement that shivered upward from where his knees pressed into the floor and where his upturned heels dug into his buttocks.
Gooseflesh covered him like a contour map of the Holy Land as he pried off the lid and removed the Eucharist. He blessed it and holding it in both hands lifted it toward heaven. After all, this was the heart of the Baptizer, whom God had directed him to kill so that his energies could be released and consumed by the new Messiah, by TowTruck Eddie, who was the Sword of God. He took a knife and cut a thick slice, praying all the while, phrasing it as formally as he could.
This is the flesh that makes the seal of the Final Covenant. All glory to God the most high! He set the cup down and lowered his forehead to the floor and wept for the glory of God. When he was finished, Tow-Truck Eddie returned the vessels to their places, took the cup and knife to the bathroom and washed them seven times each, put everything in its place, and left the room that held the shrine.
Still naked and now fully erect, he went down to the basement where he kept his weights and by candlelight he pushed his body to its absolute limit, clanking the barbells, pyramiding the weights so that he lifted heavier weights each time while decreasing the reps, keeping himself in the haze of the burn, loving the bite of lactic acid in his bulging muscles, watching the veins pop and harden, delighting in the shine of sweat on his skin.
Both times he stopped, washed himself, prayed for forgiveness, and did seven Our Fathers before going back to his weights.
At fifty Tow-Truck Eddie had a thirty-two-inch waist and at expansion his chest was sixty-eight inches around. His biceps taped out at twenty-four inches and his wrists at fourteen inches. In his bare feet he stood just over six feet six and on his weakest days he could bench-press pounds in twenty-rep sets. He had always been strong, but never in his life had he been this strong, this blessedly powerful. He jogged upstairs to the second-floor shower and spent a half an hour under the hottest spray he could endure, soaping himself to a high lather, rinsing, soaping, rinsing, until the bathroom was totally fogbound.
Jack To A Queen - Various - 13 Brand New Yeehaws (Cassette) toweled himself dry and dressed in clean white underwear, sweat socks, a crisp blue pair of work pants, and a starched work shirt. He pushed a ball cap down over his short blond hair, strapped a Buck folding knife to his belt, tucked a leather slapjack in his back pocket, tucked his feet into work shoes, and then grabbed his keys as he headed for the door.
The wrecker was parked behind his house and it sat there like a sleeping dragon. Then he fished in the box and removed a license plate, walked around behind the truck, and pulled off the existing plate, which was held in place by magnets, swapping it for the dummy plate. Satisfied, he relocked the toolbox and climbed behind the wheel. It was time again to hunt for the Beast. Vic said that he would be out all day and when his mom asked him where he was going there was a sound that could have been a slap.
Mike listened to his mom apologize for forgetting her place and then prattle on about how she was going to pack him a nice lunch. There was a space of time filled only by distant noises in the kitchen, and then the slam of the door as Vic left. Mike rose from his listening post and went quietly down the stairs, pausing briefly to lean around and peer down the hall. Mom was sitting at the kitchen table pouring gin into her oversized teacup.
He moved like a pale ghost down the hall, carefully opened the front door, and slipped out. His bike was around back, beside the garage. Mike had repaired the damage it had sustained when he was nearly run down on the highway. He walked it quickly down the street to the corner before climbing on. The effort of pedaling, even slowly, hurt. His cracked rib were still sore, though he had to admit it did hurt a lot less today than he thought it would, but he had all the bruises that Vic had painted on him with his fists, and every single one of those yelled at him as he started riding the bike up the hill toward the center of town.
However, Mike was not thinking about his bruises, but about his new dream—the one with the wrecker. Possibly it was the newness of the dream that made it so intense, and the fact that it was largely a memory of what had just happened. It could have been that, sure. Or, it could be something else. So much of his life had argued too eloquently for the opposite of those concepts. Mike had no cosmology, no metaphysics. Yet there was something else.
He biked along the winding side streets toward Corn Hill, flicking his glance carefully down each side street just in case there was a gleaming wrecker waiting there, engine growling quietly. Already the streets were filling with tourists. The crowds were heavier than they had been last weekend, and definitely heavier than they had been this time last year.
A good year for the town, except for the blight. Eddie did not consider the blight to be the work of an angry God because he had asked God that question and his Father had told him that the spread of disease and pestilence that was crippling the farms surrounding Pine Deep was the work of the Beast. Eddie could understand that.
The Beast was a destroyer and God was a bringer of good things, and those thing included the rain and sun that brought forth the abundance of the harvest. The thought that the Beast had caused such blight in Pine Deep—his town —filled him with a cold rage. It was yet another reason to find the monster and destroy him before all of the farmers Eddie had grown up with were ruined. Destroying the Beast was the same as defending his town, which was the proper work for the Sword of God.
Suddenly he saw a figure in a hooded sweatshirt pedaling a bicycle not more than half a block away. Heading away from him. Was it the same bicycle? Tourists were jaywalking, slowing traffic, and Eddie ground his teeth as he saw the figure—was it the Beast?
Growling in fury, Eddie edged his wrecker forward and the sheer reality of its massive size made the tourists hustle out of the way until he finally reached the corner of Trencher Street and he made a hard left out of the flow and bustle. But the street was empty. Wherever the Beast had gone to, he was nowhere in sight. Eddie cursed and punched the steering wheel with the callused heel of his hand. Patience, whispered the voice in his mind.
Eddie sat there until cars choked the street behind him and began honking, and when he was calm again, he took his foot off the gas and began rolling down the street, continuing the hunt. The trees stood rank after rank, mingling Scotch pine and Norway spruce, pitch pine and Table Mountain pine, and a dozen other varieties, spreading back into Jack To A Queen - Various - 13 Brand New Yeehaws (Cassette) game lands by the tens of thousands, packed so tightly together that men walking nearly shoulder to shoulder were almost constantly separated by the knobby trunks of the trees.
The underbrush was heavy, tending toward stunting maple, gnarled scrub pines, and thorny bushes ringed by late-season poison ivy and poison sumac. The ground was uneven and seemed to close like a thousand hungry mouths around the ankles of the searchers. More than one man went down with a twisted ankle and had to limp back to the staging area on Dark Hollow Road.
Hours hobbled by like cripples and at times the cool October sun seemed frozen into the hard surface of the sky. At the van of one long arm of the search, Detective Vince LaMastra stalked with hungry eyes, an acid stomach, and a fury that had nowhere to go but inside. His team made it all the way to the Passion Pit, a flat piece of ground at the top of a steep pitch that tumbled down into the shadows of Dark Hollow. Standing on the lip of the pitch, LaMastra stared down into the shadows, feeling empty and on edge.
He did not notice that all of the trees around him with filled with crows, each of them watching him with bottomless black eyes. Back at the staging area, Frank Ferro paced slowly back and forth, hands jammed deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the deepening cold, thoughts blacker than they had ever been.
Ferro knew that he was something of a control freak. Not really a type-A personality, but close enough. He liked answers, he liked patterns, and he liked cases that stayed within the boundaries of police work. Even when he failed to close a case, his world was balanced on the fact that it was all cops and robbers and sometimes the robbers won.
This case, though, seemed to be outside of those boundaries. Vince had put his finger on it earlier when he said that the case was getting away from them. Maybe it already was. It was that kind of case. Outside of all normality, beyond cops and robbers.
He tugged his cell phone out of his pocket and tried for the twentieth time that day to get hold of Mayor Terry Wolfe, but there was still no joy. Annoyed, he jammed the phone back into his pocket as he looked out over the sea of waving corn that was stirred by a piercing breeze out of the north.
He thought about that feeling, trying to pick it apart. Or tried to but no amount of personal recrimination would make the feeling go away as he looked out over the corn to the forests beyond.
He wanted LaMastra and the others to stop, to turn back, to leave those ugly woods. A minute later, though, he used the powerful satellite phone. You got anything? Nothing, not even a footprint. Definitely Boyd. Weinstock yet. The only new intel I have is that, teeth or no, Boyd is our man to about a ninety-nine percent degree of certainty.
Bring everyone back. The dirt stood eight feet high, like a small mountain range, and as the tracker past it his two dogs suddenly jerked away from the excavation. He frowned at the way the dogs were moving and sniffed the air to see if there was skunk on the breeze, but the air just smelled of ozone and wet earth.
Had the dogs barked or been more visibly agitated, the tracker would have investigated the mounds, because the dogs knew the scent and would certainly have barked at even the faintest trace of their prey, but these dogs just wanted to move on and move away.
That sent a different message to the tracker. The day was old, the dogs were tired, and maybe there was a skunk hunkered down in the corn poised to spray. The last of the men passed by, and within minutes even the sound of them moving through the corn to the staging area had faded to a whisper and finally died. Silence settled like dew over the excavation. An hour passed, and nothing moved. Full dark came on, sliding in tidal waves of shadows across the seas of corn, washing up against the wall of pines.
Stars ignited coldly overhead, and there was the faint threat of moonlight far away to the east. The big mound, the one nearest to the front rank of cornstalks, trembled. The piles of loose dirt shivered for a moment, was still, and then abruptly fell outward from the mound in muddy clumps as the whole side of the mound collapsed. As it fell away, an arm was revealed. Waxy-white flesh in a torn and stained sleeve. Dead fingers lay half-curled like worms around a palm that was caked with dirt.
The nails were thick and dark, cracked and crusted with old blood. A night bird cawed and flapped its way out of the trees and lit atop the mound, staring hungrily down at the dead flesh. It waited for a while, listening to the night, hearing no sound, seeing no movement, then it hopped down the slope driven by hunger at the sight of so much spoiled meat. Two others swooped down and landed on the ground near the base of the mound.
The razor-sharp blade of the moon sliced through a distant bank of clouds and bathed the hand in a blue-white light. The night bird cawed again and hopped down another few inches. The other two stood and watched. One more hop and the night bird was close enough to bend down and take a single experimental peck, tearing a tiny scrap of skin away from the bulge of muscle at the base of the thumb.
The other birds cried out in appreciation and edged forward. Now all three were close enough to dine. The one on the mound took a final hop and stood by the edge of the hand, its clawed feet an inch from the little finger.
It swallowed the first bite and bent for another. The hand shot out and closed around it with such speed and force that the bird exploded in a spray of bloody black feathers. It had no chance to cry out as it died, but the others screamed in terror and threw themselves into the air, racing up and away as the dead thing under the dirt shoved its way out into the moonlight, still holding the crushed bird in its hand. It rose slowly, using its other hand to paw dirt away from its milky eyes and slack-lipped mouth.
For a moment it stood swaying there, staring up at the rising moon with a dreadful expectancy. Then it seemed to notice that it held something in its hand and looked down to see burst meat and fresh blood. Chapter 5 1 Crow tapped on the half-open door as he leaned into the room. He was a few years younger than Val, handsome like their father, but softer, less rugged, and unlike his father Mark, was starting to lose his hair.
He had a thick purple bruise on his right cheek that had already started to yellow around the edges. There was a thin band of bruising across the bridge of his nose, and deep pain vibrating in both of his eyes.
He came in and sat on the edge of the bed. When Mark said nothing, Crow went on. What about you and Connie? They give her as many sedatives as she wants. I know this is going to sound like a stupid freaking question, but how are you handling this? Crow kept his face neutral, trying to convey friendship. After several minutes of complete silence, Crow sighed and left. Over the last thirty years he had learned the art of waiting, and knew the benefits of thinking before acting. As a result he seldom made a mistake.
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Mark S Silvermn August 15, at am. Peter Buck January 11, at pm. Roy June 29, at am. Poul Nielsen June 29, at am. Chaim Caran June 29, at am. True Story by Twice as Much. David June 29, at am. Tom June 14, at pm. Chris Evans June 29, at am. Ray August 7, at am. David Stevens August 22, at pm. Pretty Things roadie lived in my village and passed away two years ago. Richard Friend June 29, at am. Richard Freedland June 29, at pm. And golden oldies.
Don Effenberger June 29, at pm. Roxfari June 29, at pm. Andrea June 29, at pm. Wedding bell blues Laura Nyro, Mr Bojangles. Nina Simone. Val June 29, at pm. Zack S June 29, at pm. RAY June 29, at pm.
Robert Wynne June 30, at am. Marty Rosen June 30, at am. Wonderful song. Chris June 30, at am. Peter Puricelli June 30, at am. Kurt Osterheldt June 30, at am.
Pamela Latham June 30, at pm. Eric Redekop June 30, at pm. Where is the list? Jeff June 30, at pm. Steve Wrobel June 30, at pm. Kurt Osterheldt July 1, at am. Great song! Matt Ruderman July 1, at am. Charlie July 1, at am. Kerry J July 1, at am. Take off your clothes Peter Sarstedt my father is the pope you know. Arleen July 1, at pm.
Marlene July 1, at pm. Kurt Fortmeyer July 1, at pm. Terry July 2, at am. Tony King July 2, at am. Al Wood July 4, at am. Rick H July 7, at am. Kerry Edwards July 18, at pm. Tim July 18, at pm. Crystal Blue Persuasion reached number 2 in the states. How did it become lost? Bob July 19, at pm. Michael Vold July 19, at pm.
Wayne Swickley July 20, at am. Ju;ie August 15, at am. Bob Sicora August 15, at am. More Today than YesterdaySpiral Staircase. Phil August 15, at am. Jackie Koehler August 15, at am. Tell It All, Brother. First Edition. Skip a Rope Henson Cargil. David Hollands August 15, at am. Valerie Webber August 15, at am. Christopher Fry August 15, at am. John Wanstrath August 15, at pm. Barry Williams August 17, at pm. Meg George August 18, at pm. Dwayne Crandall August 18, at pm.
Alex Fossati August 19, at pm. Mike August 20, at pm. Roger Rill August 20, at pm. Bill Collins August 21, at pm. Mike Arsham August 21, at pm. Thomas Leonard September 19, at am. Gareth Owen September 24, at pm.
(Nothings Cool Here, So Only I Can Do) Love To Hate - Various - The Boss Tuneage Instant Singles Col, Our Love, My Love - Charles Aznavour - A Tapestry Of Dreams (Vinyl, LP, Album), I Am A Girl - Various - Maschinenfest 2015 (CD), Flavour Of The Old School - Various - Blues & Soul / The Soul Years 1966-1999 / Volume 12 1990-1, 2. Andante - Haydn* - The Academy Of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, Sir Neville Marriner - 8 Namens-Sinfo, Bored Stiff - The Cavemen (3) - ...Yeah (Vinyl, LP, Album), Just A Dream - Delerium - Chimera (CD, Album), Teenage Love (Dub) - Slick Rick - Teenage Love (Vinyl), Belmondo Rulez 2.0 (It’s All About You) - Various - Hits House Vol. 6 (CD), You Dont Know Me - Don McLean - For The Memories (Cassette), In Een Rijtuigje - Wim Sonneveld - n Herinnering Aan Wim Sonneveld (Cassette), Nygammal Vals - Svante Thuresson - Svante Thuressons Bästa (CD), David, 18 - Thought Forms - For The Moving Stars (CDr), Dont Stop - Outlaws - Los Hombres Malo (Cassette, Album), My Jamaican Guy - Grace Jones - Island Life (Cassette)