A giant red-faced man stepped forward. “We’re going out to do what should have been done seventeen years ago.”
Ortiz tried to remain calm. He was 5’8” and weighed in at 160 pounds soaking wet. Not exactly the imposing figure necessary to quiet down a mob. He spoke with authority he didn’t feel, “I don’t know exactly what you mean by that but I’m sure you folks aren’t thinking of doing anything stupid like taking the law into your own hands, right?”
The red-faced man stepped closer to Ortiz and leaned forward, looking down at him. “The law is the law and justice is justice; sometimes that don’t mean the same thing.”
Ortiz moved his hand toward his holster. “I’m not going to play games with any of you. We have a report of a missing child that I’m here to follow up on. If you want to be of any assistance, form a search party. Obstruction of justice is a serious offense.” His gaze never wavered from the larger man’s.
This seemed to make sense to some of the crowd and they began talking among themselves.
Red-face spoke again. “You damn well better follow up, Officer; we will not have our children disappearing again.”
Ortiz met his stare, and then turned to the crowd. “Begin forming groups of four. I need to get a statement from Mrs. Noonan and then I’ll assign territories to each group.” He brushed past red-face and went to the Noonan residence. Joyce Noonan was upset but holding herself together. Her husband was on his way home from work and from what Ortiz could gather, theirs was a stable home, no reason to think the boy ran away on his own. He took the necessary information as quickly as possible, eager to get back outside and make sure there would be no riots. Red-face was gone, probably on his way to Greymore’s. Ortiz called Crawford on the radio and told him to expect trouble, then began organizing the men into a search party. “We don’t have a lot of daylight to work with so we’re going to have to move fast.” He ended up with six groups of four and quickly instructed them where to go and what to look for. “If you find anything, anything at all that looks suspicious call the station immediately and an officer will meet you. Otherwise send the lead man from the group to the station at six o’clock. Nobody out past six, understand? I’ll be coordinating from the station and try to arrange dogs and a helicopter. Good luck.”
Ortiz watched the men split up and head out in search of the missing boy, and then he jumped into his car and sped back to the station. He had hand-picked one group from the men he knew and sent them out to search the woods around the lake. At least this would cut down on the likelihood of any trouble out there. Crawford probably would have dragged Greymore in before anyone got out there anyway. This was bad. He jumped in his cruiser and headed back to the station. When he got there he would work on getting bloodhounds out and a chopper at first light. On a sudden impulse, he pulled over at the first payphone he saw and made a call that had nothing at all to do with choppers or dogs.
(28)
Paul Greymore thrust the shovel into the dry earth, and then jumped with both feet onto the spade. Turning over the soil in his yard was going to be no easy chore. The dirt had hardened to a crusty clay-like substance from the relentless heat of the sun. At least it will be some exercise, Paul thought as he moved to drive the shovel into the ground again. He had stripped to the waist, the ungodly heat overpowering his inhibitions about his scars. If they can stand my face then they can sure as hell stand the rest of me. Muscles rippled as he turned over another shovelful of sunbaked earth. His skin was beginning to cook as well, highlighting the whiteness of the scars that covered him. As he bent to pull a rock out of the last heap of dirt, he heard the car pull into the driveway.
His first thought was that it was Father McCarthy but when he turned he saw an older model pick-up truck shaking to a stop. The second thing Paul noticed about the man was how red his face was. The first thing was his size. The man was easily taller than him, probably six-three or six-four. He had broad shoulders and big, beefy arms, and he was approaching with a look that told Paul he wasn’t with the Haven Welcoming Committee. Paul tensed and positioned himself in case there was trouble. “Hi, what can I do…?”
The man’s anvil-like fist stopped him in mid-sentence. He was able to react quickly enough so that the blow only glanced the top of his head as he ducked. In the same motion he brought his fist up squarely into the larger man’s gut. He heard the whoosh as the air emptied from the man’s lungs. The man was still able to get a meaty hand on Paul’s throat as he gasped to refill his lungs. Paul chopped at the wrist that held his throat but was unable to break the grip. The man’s hand was like a vise. He had recovered enough to grasp Paul’s neck with his other hand as well. The world began to fade as the man tightened his grip. Paul was able to pry one of the man’s rigid fingers from his throat and he gave it a twist that pulled it from its socket. The man winced but did not relinquish his grip. Black spots began to dance in front of Paul’s eyes in a ballet that only he could see. As his focus began to narrow, he shot out his leg with a quick snap-kick. There was a horrible crunch, like that of a good-sized tree branch snapping as Paul’s kick landed on the man’s knee, bending it back in a way that God did not intend. The man went down in a heap, finally letting go of Paul’s throat. Paul stumbled backwards and landed in the dusty soil he had been turning over. As he struggled to stay conscious and replenish his oxygen-starved brain, another car pulled into the driveway.
At first Paul feared it was others like this big guy coming to finish the job. But it was worse. Chief Crawford ambled slowly up the driveway, gun in hand. Paul glanced at the big man on the ground. He had been trying to crawl toward Paul, his leg flapping uselessly behind him, but had stopped. He was now leaning down on his elbows immobile, an expression of immeasurable pain on his ashen face. Crawford sauntered over until he stood directly in front of Paul. The expression on his face was an open book to Paul. He was going to kill him right here. Either blame it on the big guy or take the credit himself, saying Paul was going to kill the other man. “Larsen, look what you gone and done, you killed the Butcher.” Crawford never took his eyes from Greymore as he spoke.
Larsen. The name seemed familiar to Paul.
The man’s expression changed from one of horrific pain to one of horrific pain and confusion. “Cody, what are you…”
Crawford moved slowly and picked up Greymore’s shovel, never taking his eyes or his gun off of Paul. “Yep, saw the whole thing as I was driving up. Saw him swing the shovel at you,” with a quick movement Crawford swept the shovel in an arc that landed squarely on the side of Larsen’s face, “you had no choice but to shoot him ’fore he finished you off.”
Greymore was too stunned to react. Larsen had dropped flat and rolled over onto his back holding his broken face. Crawford reached down and withdrew a small pistol from under his pant leg. Greymore had heard other inmates telling stories about cops who carried such guns. Unregistered weapons cops could use at their discretion when they needed some physical evidence. Throwaways or throwdowns or something, they called them. If you listened to the inmates every one of them was wrongly accused of their crime by a cop who planted such a weapon on them.