Joe stood for a moment with his head down, then walked back to the party. “Teenagers” he said with a smile, but the hurt was clear in his eyes, and things began breaking up shortly after. Denny and Paul helped Joe and Billy carry the presents inside, then said their goodbyes and headed up the hill together. “Did you really mess up Dale’s face, Paul?”
Paul hesitated for a minute before answering. “Sometimes you’re forced into a situation and you have to do what’s right. For some reason, with me, it always comes down to violence. Joe and I met as kids and became friends as a result of a fight, it was part of life in prison, and it continued the minute I arrived back in Haven. The answer is yes, I messed him up. I probably shouldn’t have done it, but at the same time he’s lucky that’s all I did.” He said it with such a tired, resigned voice it sent a chill through Denny despite the summer-like heat. They were walking in the shadows and the lighting made Greymore’s scars more prominent. He had that faraway look in his eyes and once again Denny thought about some of the Butcher stories. Is that what was going through Greymore’s mind?
Paul snapped back to the present and sensed Denny’s uneasiness. “They were giving me a hard time at the gas station. That I could live with. Then one of them insulted Father McCarthy, intimidated him. I could tell Crawford was the leader so I went after him. Another valuable lesson I learned in prison I guess.” He chuckled to himself but it came out like a bark. “Anyway, it was over pretty quick. I’m sure the way it’s being told makes me look like the crazy, deformed child-killer back to his old tricks.”
Anguish. It was the only word Denny knew to describe the depth of sadness in Paul’s voice. He never really understood the meaning of the word, the depths of emotion it signified until that moment. He would never forget it now. “Actually, that’s exactly how it’s being told. I figured you’d be ten feet tall and carrying an axe in one hand and someone’s head in the other.” It was out before he even knew he was going to say it. Paul stopped walking and looked at Denny for a second, then burst out laughing. Denny couldn’t help but join in. Greymore actually doubled over, unable to control his laughter, and Denny had tears running down his face before he got a hold of himself.
“Thank you, Denny. I haven’t laughed like that in… well I don’t know if I’ve ever laughed that hard!” They had reached Greymore’s house and Paul held his hand out to Denny. While they shook, Paul tightened his grip for a moment. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Denny. I hope we see more of each other.”
“Well I only live a few houses up… I’m sure we will. I’m back and forth to Billy’s all the time.”
“Great, see you later, neighbor.”
As he headed up his walk, Denny heard him whisper “axe in one hand and head in the other” and begin laughing again. Smiling himself, Denny headed home.
(24)
Denny pored over the faded pages of the book as most kids his age would have studied a comic book or a Playboy smuggled from their big brother’s room. He jotted a few notes in his spiral notebook then glanced at the lengthening shadows outside. The librarian gave him an impatient look as he returned attention to the book. She can wait a few minutes to close up tonight, he thought. The book was a collection of essays written by local writers compiled in 1939. The librarian had told Denny in a very condescending tone that the book was considered rare, that’s why it was in the Research Room and could not be checked out. And that is why Denny was furiously copying passages from it.
Talking with Paul at Billy’s birthday, almost getting to tell him about the caves, reminded Denny he had research to do, but the library was closed on Sunday and Monday for Memorial Day. Denny had gone to church on Sunday as planned and realized how much he had missed the Sunday masses. He looked forward to following through with the plan he and Father McCarthy had laid out over the coming weeks.
The day at school had dragged, Denny had spent it lost in thoughts of solving the mystery he and Billy had stumbled upon. The book he was riveted to now he had originally grabbed in hopes of finding some information about the caves in the area, but one essay proved far more intriguing. It was written in 1931 by a local farmer/writer named Jacob Whiting. Apparently Whiting’s entire family, along with much of Haven’s population was wiped out by a plague that swept the area in the summer of 1927. Young Jacob had heard talk after the plague died out and did some investigating. What he found at first was no secret concerning the origin of Haven.
The town was founded by a group of suspected witches who fled Salem during the trials to avoid prosecution and possible execution. Hence the name “Haven.” The town grew, families moving in from all around who knew nothing of the town’s history. With that growth came the inevitable: politics. The town leaders were all descendants of the original founders. When another group opposed them to gain control of the town, they simply let it slip to the unsuspecting townspeople that there were Salem witches running the town. A lynch mob of angry townsfolk remedied the problem by hanging several of the town elders for witchcraft. Before their demise one of the “witches” allegedly put a curse on the town, condemning it to “suffer great tragedies every cycle until an acceptable sacrifice was made.”
Whiting went on to discuss some of his further research which he claimed supported the curse. Working backwards from his family’s deaths in 1927, he was able to find examples of the curse’s tragedies roughly every 17 years (apparently a “cycle” or generation back in Puritan times was 17 years). There was a major drought in 1910 which caused a bad crop and left many people to starve in the bitter winter that followed. In 1893 a hurricane devastated Haven while leaving surrounding towns untouched. Whiting stated that records became hard to obtain any further back but the pattern was clear—every 17 years Haven would suffer a radically high death rate.
Denny made a few more notes before closing the book, and then thought about Whiting’s claims. He realized almost immediately that, coincidence or not, the pattern had continued. The fatal explosion at the ammunition facility occurred in the summer of 1944. Denny already knew that the child killings kept the pattern going in 1961. That would mean this year would be another one.
The realization left Denny feeling suddenly cold. The usual comfortable library smell that he loved was now choking him. He had to get out of here and tell someone, but who? As he gathered his notes together his anxiety grew. By the time he had returned all the books and newspapers to their proper shelves, he was sure he was being watched. He could feel eyes burning into his back. He turned quickly to the window and for a moment he thought he saw the pale, white glow of a face disappear to the side but it was getting so dark he couldn’t be sure.
He stepped out into the diminishing twilight, the heavy door slamming behind him. It was still hot and sticky. Dark clouds sailed across the sky, threatening to break the dry spell. Thunderclouds, Denny thought. He walked quickly down the tree-lined path from the library and turned on to Elm Street. And suddenly he was surrounded.
“Hey, smart boy. Getting an early start on your summer reading list?” Dale Crawford’s remark was met with snickers from his gang. The usual suspects. Chuck Brantley, a thin, bookish kid who looked out of place running with Crawford. Buddy Dentner was blessed with the same athletic genetics as Crawford but he worked at it, religiously lifting weights and jogging to stay in perfect ass-kicking shape. Tony Costa was chubby and slow and dimwitted, but there was strength in numbers. The four tightened the circle around Denny. He thought it was best not to answer and maybe he could get out of this alive. His eyes were drawn to the scar on Dale’s cheek and he had to suppress a grin, knowing that Paul had put it there. They closed in on him slowly. “Shouldn’t you be home at this hour, Denny? Mommy might worry. Might think the Butcher got you.”