white and sulfur gas erupted from the mud. Pinecones rained down and caught fire as they fell. The Bone Man coughed and blood sprayed from his mouth and nose.
The devil tried to rise, tried to reach behind him and claw the stake out of his body, but his arms wouldn’t reach. He screamed again, and again, but now the screams were man screams, and they were weaker. The red in his eyes drained away and then the yellow faded and the eyes were an icy blue, but still they were without any trace of humanity. No love, no fear, just a cold and enduring hatred that burned into the Bone Man even as the eyes began to glaze and empty of all light.
The devil collapsed back onto the muddy ground near the swamp. His mouth opened one more time, but instead of a scream a dark pint of blood splashed heavily onto the damp leaves.
The Bone Man sank down onto his knees and then toppled forward onto his palms. Blood dripped from his mouth and nose and fireflies danced in his brain. He stared at the devil for a long time, stared at him…and watched him die.
Above them the moonlight shone cold and hard on the devil, but now it was only light and it did no harm.
(4)
The Bone Man went through the devil’s pockets. There was some cash, but he left that. He flipped open his wallet and looked at the driver’s license. The devil’s face stared at him, a small cruel smile caught by the camera. The name on the card was Ubel Griswold, but the Bone Man suspected that it wasn’t the devil’s real name. He found nothing else that was personal enough, so he just tore out some of the devil’s hair, wrapped it in a leaf that had a few spots of blood, and put it in his shirt pocket. When he got back to his sleeping bag, he’d take the hair and blood and mix it in a bowl with some herbs and then bury it in a churchyard. Evil, he knew, is hard to kill, and he wanted to kill the devil on the spirit plane as well as the physical. Else it’d come back.
He dragged the corpse of Ubel Griswold toward the swamp and pushed it down into the steaming mud. He found the green stick the devil had broken off and used it to push the body down into the hungry mud. It took a long time, but eventually the body was completely submerged in the black goo. Now no one would find it except the bugs and the vermin, and the Bone Man thought that was fair enough.
He spat on the stick and threw it into the woods, then wiped his hands on the seat of his work pants.
Then he gathered up the pieces of his guitar—all except the neck, which was still buried in Griswold’s back—and dug a fresh hole and buried them. He wept for his guitar. It had been his father’s and then his great-uncle’s before that. That guitar had played a lot of sweet blues music, from Mississippi and all over the country. Once Charley Patton had borrowed the guitar from his great-uncle and had played “Mississippi Boweavil Blues” on it at a church picnic in Bentonia, laying it on his lap like a Hawaiian guitar and singing in that loud gospel voice of his. Another time the Bone Man’s father, old Virgil Morse, had played backup on a couple of Sun Records sides by Mose Vinson. That guitar had history, and even the Bone Man himself—or Oren Morse to those back home—had played it in a hundred clubs and coffeehouses from Pocahontas, Mississippi, to the Village in New York to the smoky black clubs in Philadelphia. Now it was splinters and all its music and magic had fled out.
Still, it had held enough magic to kill the devil, and what more can you ask of a guitar than that?
He covered over the pieces and stood up. The moonlight showed him the way up the hill and he started climbing, his legs aching from all of the running and his heart still hammering with the greasy residue of terror.
He climbed and climbed and almost the only thought that ran through his head was It’s over.
A dozen times he caught his trouser cuffs on thornbushes and had to pull hard to free himself. He never noticed that one time when he pulled he tore loose the dime on its twine. The old charm fell into the brown grass and was lost to him forever.
He reached the top of the hill just as a flat black cloud cover from the south was being pulled like a tarp over the moon and stars. Even so he could see his way. There was a dirt road that led from the Passion Pit back out to the main road of the A-32 Extension; or he could just cut through the corn to the Guthrie place. All of the corn, far as the eye could see, was Henry Guthrie’s, and way over past the fields was the barn and in the barn was the Bone Man’s bedroll.
“It’s over,” he said to the night as he set out toward the corn.
Then the lights came on.
Four sets of car headlights and one set of blue and red police dome lights. All at once he was caught in a circle of light. He stopped, frozen in the moment, as he heard the sounds of car doors opening and shoes crunching down on gravel.
“Hold it right there, boy.”
Boy. There it was again. Suddenly he felt as if he was down South again. He knew this was trouble.
He stood there, arms long and heavy at his sides, as seven men walked toward him from all sides, forming a loose ring. Big men, some of them. None of them were strangers. The man with the badge was Officer Bernhardt, a stocky young man with a hound-dog face and little pig eyes. He had his right hand on the walnut grips of his holstered .38, and his left thumb and index finger circled around the handle of his baton where it jutted above the belt ring. He was the only cop.
The others were townsmen. All of them were young, with Vic Wingate at seventeen being the youngest, though he had the meanest face. Vic always called him Nigger Joe whenever they chanced to meet. The Bone Man had always tried never to meet him. The oldest was Jimmy Crow—and that was almost funny, Jim Crow—but there was nothing funny about the cold humor in Crow’s eyes. Next to him was the biggest of the men, Tow-Truck Eddie. The Bone Man didn’t know his last name, but the kid was about twenty and had to be six and a half feet tall. Tow-Truck Eddie never sassed him with race names, though; he was a polite kid, and the Bone Man was a little heartened to see him here because he knew the kid was a regular churchgoer and was often seen in Apple Park, sitting on the bench reading a Bible. The other three were just young guys from town, Jim Polk, who had just started at Pinelands College, and Phil and Stosh, but the Bone Man didn’t know their last names.
Seven men with seven hard faces, ringed around him.
The Bone Man had been rousted by cops from every jurisdiction from here to Benoit, so he knew it was always better to wait and find out what the game was.
“You that boy Morse, aintchu?” said Officer Bernhardt. Again the “boy” rankled, coming as it was from a kid ten years younger than the Bone Man.
“Yessir.” When he was scared his accent became more that of a southern farm kid. It came out like “Yahsuh.”
“Whatchu doin’ way out here, Nigger Joe?” said Vic Wingate.
The Bone Man wanted to toss them all down the hill. He also wanted to run. He said, “I was jus’ taking a walk.”
“Taking a walk?” Jimmy Crow echoed. “Taking a fuckin’ walk?”
“Maybe he came out here to peep into some cars and see white kids making out,” suggested Polk. “See some white titty.” As he laughed he touched his genitals.
“No, sir,” said the Bone Man, trying to force the Delta drawl out of his voice. He wasn’t going to be Amos or Andy to this pack of shit kickers. “I’m not a Peeping Tom. ’Sides, there’s no one out here tonight. Ain’t nobody been out here for weeks, ya’ll knows that.” He heard the slip again and almost winced.
