That, Pendergast felt certain, was where she had gone: Oldham, the long-abandoned town that, for reasons he could not fathom, she had focused on. Not two hours before, she had all but implied that the heart of the mystery remained unsolved. Even as he considered this, he felt a twinge that perhaps he had dismissed her concerns too readily — that her intuition had told her something that his own cold analysis had overlooked.
The killer was barefooted, in a storm, with the temperature dropping into the forties. That fact, more than any other, profoundly disturbed him, as it indicated there was something about the case he had missed completely — something fundamental — just as Constance had insisted. And yet, even as he pondered the mystery of the bare footprints, he couldn’t find even the glimmer of a solution.
With a burning sense of chagrin, he set off into the storm, following the faint and quickly disappearing marks in the sand.
47
The house burned brightly as Gavin stared down Main Street. This couldn’t be happening. He could see, in the light of the fire, the bodies in the street: people he knew, friends and neighbors. The door to another house stood open... and he had a terrible feeling there would be another body inside it, as well.
That... demon had rampaged through town in minutes and had then seemingly vanished, leaving behind a scene of mayhem. How could this have happened?
He heard the chief calling the Lawrence PD on his radio, requesting a massive SWAT team presence. His voice was almost hysterical. “We’ve got a maniac on the loose here, multiple fatalities, I can see at least two bodies from where I’m standing... Yes, ma’am, damn it, I said two bodies! We’ve got a house on fire... Send me everything you’ve got, everything, you hear? The whole 10–33 arsenal!”
Gavin tried to get a grip. He had to think, think. This was unbelievable, a horror beyond all horrors...
“Gavin!”
He turned. The chief was staring at him, face red and perspiring despite the cold. “It’s going to be an hour before Lawrence can get choppers in the air. The first responders will arrive by vehicle... Are you following me?”
“Yes, yes, Chief.”
“We need to split up. I’m going to take the squad car and wait for them by the bridge, guide them into town. I want you to head down Main, search the houses. Starting with that one with the open door.”
“Without backup?”
“The killer’s gone, for chrissakes! We’ve got local Fire and Rescue coming in ten minutes, we got SWAT teams in twenty, choppers in an hour. You’re going to have plenty of backup. Just reconnoiter, provide first aid to the injured, secure the crime scene.”
Gavin didn’t have the ability to argue. The chief, the son of a bitch, the coward, was going to wait at the bridge, locked in his car where he would be safe, while asking his sergeant to put his ass on the line, going alone and blind into those houses.
As he opened his mouth to protest, he had a further thought: splitting up might actually be a good thing. Gavin realized he had something a lot more important to do than tally up bodies, and in order to do it he needed to ditch the chief.
“Right, Chief. I’m on it.”
“Good man.” The chief turned and headed back toward the station house, while Gavin made a show of walking down Main Street, taking stock. Even as he did, he could hear the Search and Rescue sirens going off, calling in volunteers. They would be on the scene in minutes... and if he was still around, he’d never get the chance to try to figure out what had happened and get things back on track.
Glancing behind, he saw that the chief had disappeared into the station house. He turned and ducked between two houses, into the concealing darkness. Pulling out his flashlight, he broke into a run. Oldham was maybe five miles away. It was, he told himself, no more distance than what he habitually jogged in the morning. Giving allowance for crossing a nasty section of marsh and tidal flats on Crow Island — thank God it was low tide — he could be there in no time.
48
Chief Mourdock slid his bulk into the squad car and exited the station garage, lights flashing, siren wailing. He had a vague idea that the sight of the squad car in full siren would be a comfort to the people cowering in their houses.
He felt completely flummoxed by what he had seen. Rose Buffum had spoken of a demon, a monster, but of course that was crazy. It had to be a Jack the Ripper type, a homicidal lunatic, who had come into Exmouth and gone on a rampage. Things like that happened in the unlikeliest places. It was just some random horror.
And yet those splayed, torn bodies...
At this thought he felt a cold, paralyzing fear, so powerful he gasped aloud. Six months from retirement... and now this, on top of the Dunwoody murders?
Fuck it. He would get to the bridge, park, lock the squad car, and wait for the SWAT teams and backup to arrive from Lawrence. At this time of night, in the storm, the roads would be free of traffic. They’d be here in no time.
...But what if there were downed trees? What if the roads were blocked? What if the power failure delayed them?
The fear stabbed like an icicle probing his guts. He reassured himself that all he had to do was wait for the SWAT teams to arrive and take over. They would push him aside, relieve him of all responsibility and decision making. Then, whatever happened, it wouldn’t be on him.
The Metacomet Bridge loomed ahead, the row of sodium lights that normally illuminated it dark. He eased onto the bridge, the rain lashing his windshield, the wipers slapping back and forth. He drove halfway across and put the vehicle in park, keeping the engine running, making sure the doors were locked. When he satisfied himself that he was safe, he pulled out the mike and called the Lawrence dispatcher. He was assured that a massive response was on its way, all the 10–33 equipment Lawrence had accumulated since 9/11 being put into service — MRAPs, BearCats, heavy weaponry, stun grenades, tear gas, and two M2 Browning.50-caliber machine guns. The convoy would arrive in Exmouth in less than ten minutes.
Until that time, Mourdock told himself, he could do nothing.
But now he wondered if maybe it had been a mistake sending Gavin into town alone. It would look really bad if his deputy were killed, with him sitting here doing nothing. But Gavin would be safe; the killer had gone. Surely the killer was gone.
Mother of God, he was looking forward to his retirement, his pension, his sofa, and a cold six-pack in front of the ball game.
But the more he thought of it, the more he realized that, whether or not Gavin was killed, it would look bad — him, sitting out here in his locked patrol car, away from the town that he had been hired to protect. It wouldn’t go unnoticed by the first responders...
Suddenly he had an idea. He could turn around, take Dune Road toward the ocean, avoiding downtown and its chaos. There was a turnout south of town, not far from the lighthouse, where he could wait. If he turned off his headlights, nobody would see him, nobody would know. Then, when he heard the sirens and saw the lights of the approaching cavalry, he could rush back into town as if he’d been on the scene the whole time.
The vise of fear that had clamped around his chest eased ever so slightly. Cowardly? No — just looking after number one. After all, he’d put in his twenty... almost. And there was that sofa and that cold six-pack to protect.
Throwing the vehicle into gear, he did a three-point turn, drove off the bridge, then took a right off Main onto Dune Road. To his left, he could just make out the faint glow of the burning house. Then came the lighthouse beam, winking through the storm.
Past the lighthouse, he reached the turnout, maneuvered the patrol car around in readiness to scoot back into town, killed the lights but left the engine running. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes for the convoy. Just five more minutes and his ordeal would be over...