“You’ll do no such thing, Paul, unless you have hopes of returning to Braxton before the week’s end!” The old priest put a hand on Greymore’s chest and to Denny he seemed to grow larger. “Just settle down until we figure out what to do.”
Denny watched as the two locked eyes for what seemed like a very long time. Greymore’s filled with fury and vengeance, McCarthy’s with righteousness and concern; both gleaming with power. Finally, Greymore lowered his gaze and slumped into the chair next to Denny. His eyes had changed again; this time Denny saw a more profound emotion than before in them, the same anguish he had seen in them on the day of Billy’s party. Greymore put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. Denny was relieved because the gut-wrenching pain he had seen in them was too much to bear yet impossible to turn away from.
It was McCarthy who finally spoke. “We need to stay calm and rational. We can’t let our emotions get in the way of clear thinking.”
“But, Father, look at what they did to him. Because of me.” He looked to Denny like he might cry. “We can’t go to the police for obvious reasons. What can we do?”
“We’ll think of something, Paul. First, we need to get Denny squared away.” McCarthy turned to him. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches but it might not hurt to have a doctor tell you that.”
Denny suddenly felt like someone let the air out of him. The events of the evening were taking their toll on him. His adrenaline rush was gone, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. He heard Father McCarthy talking to him but he had trouble concentrating on the meaning of the words.
Suddenly McCarthy was shaking him awake. “…alright, Denny? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. What’s the matter?”
McCarthy looked relieved. “I thought you might have a concussion the way you went to sleep so quickly. Did they hit you on the head at all? Maybe when that boy tackled you?”
“No, nothing like that, Father. I just got tired all of a sudden. Too much excitement, I guess.” He started to say something else but his mouth wouldn’t let the words out. Through the haze of sleep he heard Greymore call the Cummings and have Joe call his mother to say he was sleeping there. Then he felt himself being carried by two strong arms that he knew didn’t belong to Father McCarthy. He forced his heavy lids open and looked at Greymore’s face. Up close the scars were worse. The skin looked like melting wax. But it was the eyes that captivated Denny again. They had softened to a blue the color of a pair of faded jeans. In them Denny saw a look that he couldn’t recognize. He knew he had seen it before and he struggled with the seduction of sleep to identify it. As Greymore gently placed him down on McCarthy’s bed and covered him up, Denny drifted off. He dreamed of his father carrying him to bed after he had fallen asleep watching television.
(26)
Officer Robert Ortiz took the call Wednesday afternoon and instinctively made the sign of the cross when he hung up. The entire town had been on the edge since Paul Greymore’s return but this was going to raise all kinds of hell. A boy was missing.
Mike Noonan was supposed to be home immediately after school to go to the hospital to visit his grandmother. When he did not show up his mother began calling his friends and discovered he had not been in school that day. That was when she called the police. Ortiz went directly to Chief Crawford’s office and knocked quietly. He knew the Chief would go after Greymore once he heard the news.
Ortiz, only a child himself at the time of the killings in ’61, had done quite a bit of research when Greymore’s release became imminent. Frankly, he was not convinced Greymore was guilty. There were too many holes in the story. Ortiz considered Crawford the kind of guy who would convict a man because of his looks, just as he judged Ortiz because of his ethnicity. He entered the office and sat down opposite Crawford.
“What’s up, Ortiz?” Crawford mumbled without looking up from the file he was reading. Greymore’s file, no doubt. The man was obsessed with the case.
“We just got a call from a Mrs. Joyce Noonan from over on Stadium Road.”
“I know her. So? What’s her problem?”
“Her son Mike is missing. Has been since he left for school this morning.” Crawford’s head jerked up from the file and he stared hard at Ortiz for a moment. “I thought you might want to handle this one yourself.”
Crawford quickly closed the file and stood up. “You go get the report from Mrs. Noonan; I’m going to bring in Greymore.”
“Shouldn’t we wait until…?”
“Go get the report, Ortiz.”
Ortiz opened his mouth to argue but the look in Crawford’s eyes made him swallow his retort.
“Yes, sir.”
Crawford watched Ortiz go, then collapsed back into his chair. He knew what he had to do, what was expected of him, but he needed a little help. On top of the papers from Greymore’s file that were strewn across his desk was a photo of the final victim from the ’61 murders, Mary Larsen. This was no grisly crime-scene photo, however, but a glossy third-grade school picture used in the newspapers following her death. She was a beautiful little girl; her smile seemed brighter than the rest of the faded photo, leaping from it. Her radiant blue eyes held Crawford’s gaze. To him, they weren’t smiling but accusing. Why didn’t you get there sooner? Why didn’t you save me? The only answer Crawford had was in a flask in his top drawer, and he reached for it then; it was the help he needed.
He had been the one to find the missing Larsen girl and finally put the pieces together that led to Greymore’s conviction. How many times had he replayed that day in his mind? How close had he come to being in time to save the girl? It haunted him. Shit, he thought, is there any man alive that this wouldn’t haunt? But there was another voice that fought to be heard from its sealed-off room in his mind. Somehow, it managed to escape its prison and poke at Crawford.
What if you had saved her, Chief? What stories would she have told? Would she have damned Greymore, or would she have led everything to a different ending? And just what were those marks on her and Greymore, Chief? Would they have been a part of the story? Yes, I think they would have been a big part of it.
Crawford knew of only one way to silence the voice. He closed his eyes and took a long drink from the flask. The liquor burned his throat and stomach, but sent the voice back to its room, slammed the door on it and slid the deadbolt into place. It would get out again. It always did.
But I didn’t get there in time, he thought.
And the rest, as they say, is history. Crawford was the hero, Greymore the psycho, and Haven was safe. His career took off and here he was, the great Chief Crawford. He pulled another newspaper photo out of the pile, this one of himself. He was shaking hands with the Attorney General outside the courthouse on the day of Greymore’s conviction. He was in uniform, the short-sleeve shirt clinging to his muscular frame. His eyes were clear and determined, his face serious above his square jaw. Here he was, indeed. But just how did he get from that… to this? Everything in between seemed to be a blur, half a lifetime in a fleeting blink. He shook his head. Shit! How long had he been sitting here? He took another greedy gulp from the flask, threw it back in the drawer, and headed back to the scene of the crime.
(27)
Officer Ortiz left the office and drove out to Stadium Road. The scene he found there sent a chill down his spine. There was a group of men gathered in front of the Noonan home, apparently forming a lynch mob. As soon as Ortiz pulled up, they gathered around his car. Ortiz stepped out and was greeted with angry shouts. Good Lord, he thought, all they need are torches and pitchforks. He raised his arms and gestured for the crowd to quiet down. “What’s going on here, folks?”