When he told the boys down at the Witch’s Hat where he was going today, he’d just about heard it all. “He deserves to live with the rats” and “I hope the goddamn bugs eat him alive” and “you couldn’t pay me enough to go out there.” But Bugsy paid them no never mind and went about his business. He knew Greymore’s parents and had met Paul a few times when he had to go out and spray for termites or set some traps for mice. The kid was tough to look at, poor bastard, but that didn’t make him a killer. Not as far as Bugsy was concerned. He judged people by the way they treated others and nothing any of the Greymores ever did made him think bad of them. The boys said he was too naïve but this way of thinking had got him through sixty years on God’s green earth and he wasn’t about to change now. Not on that no good Cody Crawford’s word especially. So when Paul Greymore called and asked if he could come out and check the place out, Bugsy said “Sure, Mr. Greymore, I can be out there tomorrow, first thing. No, I don’t need directions; I took care of some critters there for your folks years back.”
As he drove through town he thought back to the last time he had been out there. Damned if it wasn’t 1961, just before all the trouble started. Had some hornets nesting in their attic that time. Hot as a bastard it was that day. Carol Greymore had mixed up a big pitcher of lemonade and made him sit down and have a glass after he came down from the attic. “It’s hot as the blazes up there, Mr. Cronin, and I won’t let you leave until you sit yourself down and cool off with a drink.” She always called him Mr. Cronin and the husband always called him Walter. Paul was home that day and they had had a long conversation about fishing. Paul was always fishing or out on the lake. Never had many friends because of his face, so he kept to himself. But he had talked a blue streak about fishing that day. Bugsy had mentioned hunting season and the kid had gotten quiet. Said he couldn’t figure out how someone could kill an animal for sport. Bugsy remembered feeling funny since he killed all kinds of critters just about every day. So they kept talking about fishing until Bugsy finished his drink. Then he thanked the Greymores and went on his way. Seems it wasn’t too long after that the parents were dead and Paul was in jail.
As he turned off Main St. and headed along West Border Road, something began to bother him. Something wasn’t quite right. There was also something familiar about the wrongness that Bugsy couldn’t put a finger on. When he turned onto the unpaved Hillview Street, the feeling intensified. Like something you see out of the corner of your eye but not long enough to tell what it was, this was something hiding in the corner of Bugsy’s mind but he couldn’t quite see it clearly. It would come to him later, he thought as he pulled into Greymore’s driveway, always does when you stop trying. Greymore was replacing some spindles on the front porch and walked over to meet Bugsy. “Thanks for coming on such short notice, Mr. Cronin, especially on a Saturday. I really appreciate it.”
Bugsy shook hands with him, “No trouble at all, Mr. Greymore, and you call me Bugsy, or Walter if you prefer, like your dad did. They were nice folks, your parents. I never did tell you how sorry I was.” He began gathering supplies from his van as he spoke.
“Thank you, Walter. I wasn’t sure when I called if it was you or if you had passed the business on to a son.”
Bugsy chuckled, “No, it’s just me. Both of the boys got too educated for killin’ critters. And for living in Haven, for that matter.”
“Do you still do any fishing, Walter? I remember you telling me some spots to try when I was younger but… I never got the chance.” His voice trailed off as he said the last few words.
“No, I guess you wouldn’t have. I fish quite a bit since the wife passed on, keeps me from spending too much time down at The Hat when I’m not working.” He slammed the back door shut and the whole van rattled.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Walter.”
“Thank you, Mr. Greymore. Now, where shall we start?”
“Please, call me Paul. And we can start anywhere you like; I think I have every kind of pest known to man.”
Two hours later Bugsy was back in the van having finished work at Greymore’s. Greymore was right; he did have just about every critter Bugsy had ever been called upon to exterminate. Except mice, of course. That crazy old nag next door had so many goddamn cats nobody up on Hillview would ever have mice again. Greymore sure seemed like a nice enough fella, though. Not a child-killer, not in Bugsy Cronin’s book. No way, Bugsy thought. Christ, after everything that happened in ’61, hadn’t people even begun to talk about Greymore maybe killing his own father earlier that same year? The poor mother had up and died just weeks after Greymore was sent away. Heart attack, they said. More like a broken heart, Bugsy figured. Greymore had a pitcher of iced tea made when Bugsy was finishing up, just like his mother had made the lemonade years back. As a matter of fact, a lot of things were beginning to feel like that summer, including the weather. Bugsy reached in his pocket for a hanky to wipe the sweat from his brow and as he did a squirrel bounded in front of the van. The squirrel froze when it saw the van closing in on it. Bugsy instinctively stepped on the brake and swerved to the right. But it was too late. Bugsy felt the thump as the tires went over the animal and could almost hear the wet squish as the squirrel’s innards were forced out through its skin. He pulled the van over to the shoulder of the road and climbed out to make sure the van wasn’t damaged. That one was free, he chuckled to himself, as he got a shovel and scraped up the remains of the squirrel into one of the barrels he kept in the back of his van. As he did, something clicked in his head. He jumped back in the van and retraced his route out to Greymore’s.
When he had driven the roads slowly he was sure he had figured out what seemed wrong earlier: not one piece of roadkill for miles out toward Hillview. This time of year the side of the road was usually littered with carcasses of skunks, squirrels, raccoons, possum and other critters. Sometimes even a deer or a fox, and just once, a moose. Now that he had discovered what was itching him all day, he began pondering what it meant. It seemed that he remembered something similar several years back, maybe that same summer he visited the Greymore’s parents. Instead of going home he drove over to the Witch’s Hat, Haven’s local watering hole. A few drinks might just help him solve this little mystery.
(16)
The two friends worked quickly moving the rocks away from the mouth of the cave. They scrambled inside as soon as the opening was large enough and began shining their lights all around. “Look at the size of this place!” Billy’s voice echoed strangely in the cave. There wasn’t much light and their flashlights weren’t strong enough to offer much help. They could see the cave was fairly large and seemed to slope downwards to a smaller tunnel. “Let’s see how far in it goes.” Billy said as he began walking toward the back of the cavern.
“Wait a minute, Billy. This might be dangerous.” Fear began to creep up Denny’s back. He felt like he did when he was in the cellar the other day.
“Don’t be such a chicken. We have to see where it goes.”
“Billy, the cave could go in different directions once we start out. All I’m saying is, we need to leave a trail.”
“Okay, you’re right. How about we get some sticks and strip the bark off one end. We’ll leave the bare end pointing the way back.”
Twenty minutes later they entered the tunnel armed with sticks to mark their trail. The tunnel quickly narrowed to the point they had to walk single file and the ceiling was only a couple of feet above their heads. Denny’s apprehension grew with every step; he felt like the tunnel was closing in on him. He switched his flashlight off because Billy was leading the way. The tunnel darkened considerably with only a single light.