Denny backed up until he felt the bushes that lined the library grounds pressing into his back. He glanced quickly up and down Elm Street but there was not a car coming in either direction. As far as Denny could see the street was deserted. “But that freak won’t get you, will he? No, I saw you and your pussy boyfriend Billy hanging out with him.” With that Dale put a big hand on Denny’s chest and sent him reeling back into the hedges. Denny ended up tangled in the bushes, his feet awkwardly sticking out in front of Dale. He looked up and in the fading light saw something in Crawford’s eyes. His stomach clenched and he suddenly felt that this wasn’t going to be just a run-of-the-mill Dale Crawford Beating. Suddenly terrified, he shot his foot out with all his might and kicked Crawford squarely in the balls. Crawford’s eyes bulged almost comically with pain and shock and he uttered a breathless groan before crumbling to his knees. Denny quickly rolled over backwards through the hedge and leaped to his feet on the other side, still clutching his notebook. He heard Dale yelling weakly as he sped across the library lawn. He immediately noticed the lights were out inside. He had left just before they closed. The librarian might still be in there but by the time she got to the door Crawford would have dragged him away. He heard them crashing through the bushes behind him and yelling for him. He dodged trees and picnic benches and darted around the side of the library as distant thunder rumbled above him. Sweat rolled down his face, partly from the heat of the night, mostly from fear. He crashed through the hedge at the far side of the lawn and stumbled to the ground on the sidewalk of Cedar Street. He scrambled to his feet. If he could get over to Stadium Road there’d surely be one of the beer-league softball games breaking up or some people walking their dogs. Before the thought could turn to action he was hit from behind.
The tackler pinned his arms to his sides so the full force of Denny’s landing was absorbed by his chin on the cement. Lightning bolts erupted in his head and the slick coppery taste of blood quickly filled his mouth from where he bit through his lip. He was roughly turned over and felt knees pressing into his shoulders as his mind swam. He tried to squirm free but he was too dazed and Buddy outweighed him by a good twenty-five pounds. Buddy was the best athlete in Crawford’s gang; he must have run on the sidewalk along the hedges while the others followed Denny across the lawn. He heard the others make their way through the bushes and their shadows engulfed him as they towered above him.
“You little shit! You’re gonna pay for that in a bad way.” Buddy hissed. Then Dale arrived, walking rather stiffly.
“Hold him good, boys. Watch those legs.” Dale knelt down beside Denny, near his head. “Wouldn’t have got very far in football if you let yourself get taken down like that in the open field, O’Brien. Your brother would have broken it. Now let’s get down to business. You see this?” He leaned closer so Denny could see what he was pointing at. It was the scar on his cheek. “That’s from the deformed maniac that you and your little faggot friend are buddies with. Jumped me from behind, the crazy freak did. I gotta get a message to him.” Denny heard a click and suddenly Dale was holding a knife in Denny’s face. Denny squirmed frantically and tried to kick but the others held him tight. The blade inched closer to his face and he could almost feel heat coming from it. Like it was an extension of Dale, of his rage. A brilliant flash of heat lightning momentarily silhouetted Crawford, making him appear demonic. Then the blade touched skin and it was no longer hot but icy cold. Denny was motionless as the blade etched a groove in his cheek.
“Dale, what the heck. Are you crazy?” Chuck Brantley cried. “I thought we were just gonna scare him, beat him up a little?” Denny felt on the brink of hysteria, certain Dale was going to kill him.
“Shut up, Brantley or I might do you next.” Brantley shut up. “Now we match, fuckface. You show this to the freak. You tell him who did it. Got it?”
Denny was numb, unable to respond. Dale grabbed his hair and nodded his head for him, sending streams of hot blood in different directions up and down his face. “Yes, Dale, whatever you say.” The others chuckled dutifully, though more hesitant than before. Denny closed his eyes and when he opened them they were gone. Above him a few stars twinkled as the clouds began to break.
(25)
“And the others held you down while Dale did this to you?” Denny nodded. He reached up to touch the wound on his face but the priest grabbed his hand and gently put it down. “We just got it cleaned and the bleeding stopped. If you touch it you’re liable to open it up again.”
Denny had not known what to do when he sat up and felt the hot blood streaming down his face. He bunched up his shirt against the cut, scrambled to find his notebook, and ran. He ended up at Father McCarthy’s doorstep. He had only wanted someone to help him, maybe drive him home, but McCarthy had managed to coax the whole story out of him, including Dale’s threats toward Greymore. The priest had immediately called Greymore to warn him in case Crawford decided to follow through on his threats tonight. Greymore was on his way over to McCarthy’s now, more to avoid any situation that would send him back to Braxton than out of any fear of Crawford and his gang.
Denny felt uncomfortable now that he had calmed down. He looked around the priest’s humble home and began to reshape his opinions. He had always assumed priests spent all their spare time praying around candle-lit altars and blessing rosary beads or something. To see McCarthy’s walls lined with regular books instead of bibles made him seem human to Denny. He got up and went over to the shelves, his love for books overtaking his shyness. He was surprised to see the diversity of the titles. “Excuse me, Father, but I didn’t think you could read about this stuff.”
McCarthy laughed, “My superiors don’t understand it or approve of it but they cannot forbid it. Are you interested in mysteries, Denny?”
“I really love to read all sorts of books, but mysteries are my favorites. Especially when they’re really scary and have monsters in them.” He suddenly remembered he was talking to a priest and shut up, feeling his face redden.
“Those are my favorites, too. I have several you might want to borrow. These over here,” he pointed to an entire row, “are real life mysteries, or so they say. The Loch Ness Monster, Bigfoot, UFOs, that sort of thing.” Denny looked over the collection and onto the next shelf where his eyes fell on a thin, worn volume. It was the same one he had read in the library earlier that night.
“Have you read this one, Father?” he asked.
“No, that shelf is for books I haven’t found time for yet. That particular book just arrived last week. It’s very rare.” Denny was about to mention the article about Haven when someone knocked loudly at the door. Denny jumped and his eyes widened. “Relax, Denny, it’s only Paul.” The priest opened the door and Greymore stepped in.
“Hi, Denny, how…” his words trailed off when he saw the fresh cut on Denny’s face, his scraped chin and swollen lip. He quickly moved toward Denny to examine the wound. Denny watched his eyes change from a deep sky-blue to a blue-green that churned like the winter ocean, finally hardening to a cold ice-blue as he inspected Crawford’s handiwork. “This is my fault, Denny. I’m so sorry this happened. I’m going to have it out with the Crawfords once and for all!” He turned and strode toward the door. There he was met by McCarthy.