All the Inside Howling (Hollow Folk #2)(63)

Shaking my head, I started to explain, but Becca beat me to it. “He’s friends with Frankie.”

“Merciful Jesus,” the woman said. “Was he that poor man?”

I nodded. “The sheriff hasn’t told us anything. Could you tell us?”

Palms together, the woman closed her eyes, and her lips moved silently. It took me a moment to realize she was praying. Praying in Wyoming. Like God could hear anything out in this windy nightmare. When she’d finished, she opened her eyes and said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, but—”

Again, Becca spoke over me. “Frankie didn’t have a mean bone in his body. Frankie never would have started this.”

“Lord rest him,” the woman said, “he never had a chance. He was asleep in one of the back seats. I don’t mean any disrespect, but he was sitting alone on account of the smell. Your friend was going through a rough patch, I suppose.”

“That’s right,” Becca said. “He’d just gotten a job in Evanston.”

“Oh,” the woman said with a little cry, dabbing at his eyes. “He never had a chance. He was still asleep when that—when that maniac slashed his throat.”

My feet felt heavy, like they were encased in lead, while the rest of me had gone light and wavery. “He what?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, please.”

The woman wavered, and then leaned towards us. “No one saw the knife, but there was blood everywhere.” With a slight tremor in her hands, she drew a simple felt hat from her bag. A dark spray marked the back of it. “I was sitting three rows in front, and I felt the drops on my hat and I thought there was a leak in the bus.” She closed her eyes again.

“What did you do?” Becca asked.

“What could I do? I prayed, girl, and the Lord must have heard me, because those two roughnecks,” she nodded at a couple of bulky men who looked like they’d worked hard jobs in hard weather for the last twenty years or so, “they caught that awful man and held him down while the driver stopped the bus.” She glanced at the gouges that the tires had left in the median and sniffed. “Lucky we didn’t flip right over.”

“Thank you,” Becca said, glancing at me. I knew she was waiting for me to say something, but all I could do was think about Lawayne, and Salerno, and the claws that had ripped out Salerno’s throat, and the five deep slashes in the sofa this morning. “He’s in shock,” Becca added, tugging on my arm to lead me away.

As we crossed back towards the median, Becca said, “What is going on?”

“Mr. Big Empty.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain in a minute.”

As we reached the Greyhound, Sheriff Hatcher climbed down from the bus and peeled disposable gloves from his hands. His gaze came up, and his red face reddened even more. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he said, “What are you doing here?”

“I—”

“This is a crime scene. Get back in your car and get back home.”

“Sheriff, you didn’t find a knife.” My words came out in a shout.

Blinking, he mopped his forehead again. Slower this time. “Who’s been talking?”

“You didn’t, did you?”

“We’re still locking down this crime scene. The bus traveled almost three miles after the attack before the driver could stop, and a hell of a lot could have happened in three miles. And that’s not to mention the crowd over there. You think this would be the first time a bystander picked up a keepsake after a crime?”

I nodded, but I knew he wouldn’t find a knife. There wasn’t a knife. DeHaven Knight hadn’t killed Frankie. Or, better said, DeHaven Knight alone hadn’t done it. This was the work of Mr. Big Empty.

“Was it more than one cut? To the throat, I mean.”

“Now you’d better start talking, boy, and I mean start talking fast.” The sheriff shoved his handkerchief in a pocket, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and puffed out his stomach. “Right now would be smart.”

“This has to do with River,” Becca said, her gaze moving from the sheriff to me to the sheriff. “That’s the boy who disappeared, the one Vie tried to tell you about.”

The sheriff frowned. “The one you said disappeared from Karkkanew’s club? You know what happened to him?”

Becca looked at me, and I struggled to think of a way to explain. “I don’t know.” Sheriff Hatcher took off his hat with weary frustration, and I hurried to add, “But it’s all connected. Some—” I almost said something, but I managed to say, “Someone is killing. They killed River. They killed Frankie. They’ll kill again.” Me, I wanted to say. Mr. Big Empty is going to kill me, if someone doesn’t stop him.

“As I remember it, this boy was passing through town and, for all any of us know, has left town, hale and whole and with nothing but fond memories of Vehpese. What’s he got to do with the dead man on the bus?”

“Frankie,” I said. “Francis. I don’t remember the rest, but his name’s Francis.”

“You know his name.”

“Yes.”

“And you know this boy’s name.”