Crawford dropped the pistol on Larsen’s chest. “For what he did to little Mary,” he muttered.
Greymore remained motionless. His choices weren’t very good; charge Crawford and probably get shot or wait for Larsen to shoot him. Mary Larsen. She was the one Greymore had tried to save that day on the lake. This must be an older brother. “Crawford, I was trying to save her, you prick. Tell him how you found me carrying her out of the lake. Tell him the truth.”
Paul watched Larsen as he stared at the gun on his chest through one good eye and one swollen one. Paul could see the hatred in them, burning like a torch for seventeen years. But he could see something flicker behind the rage: doubt. Even a man burdened with the loathing Larsen held for Greymore would have a hard time shooting an unarmed man while the Chief of Police watched. Hatred is one baggage that can be carried quite easily for seventeen years but the thirst for vengeance is more passionate and short-lived. Or so Paul hoped.
“Do it now Larsen, or by God I’ll beat in your skull with the fucking shovel and shoot him myself!”
Paul watched both men. The wrong word, any word, would most likely get him a bullet in the chest. Larsen took his eyes off the gun and stared hard at Greymore for a long time. He squinted, an expression of confusion seeming to take over his face. Then he turned and met Crawford’s gaze. Larsen winced and with a look of resignation closed his fingers around the handle of the gun. Paul tensed, ready to lunge at the big man. Then Larsen tossed the weapon in the crusty dirt at Crawford’s feet. “Do it yourself. Killing is what I came here for but not like this.”
Crawford’s face twisted in rage as he raised the shovel. The blaring of a car horn stopped him in mid-swing as Father McCarthy’s sedan screeched to an abrupt halt in front of Greymore’s house.
The old priest leaped out of the car with the agility of a man thirty years younger and marched over to the three men. “What in the name of God is going on here, Chief?”
Crawford stood there with the shovel poised over his head and his gun pointed at Greymore. His expression was an ugly mixture of a cornered rat and a snared rabbit.
“Got an extra bullet for the priest?” Larsen sneered.
Crawford grunted with disgust and threw the shovel across the yard.
“You’re under arrest, Butcher, we got a missing kid. Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say, Father?”
Paul froze when he heard Crawford’s statement. Could it be true or was Crawford just using it as a way of getting Greymore alone to finish what he had started here? His eyes met McCarthy’s and he was relieved not to see the same look he had seen at the gas station on his first day back. He stood stunned as Crawford grabbed him roughly and handcuffed him.
“I’ll meet you at the police station, Paul, after I see to an ambulance for Denny.”
Paul nodded at the priest as he was led away by Crawford.
(29)
Paul Greymore sat huddled in the corner of the 10 x 10 cell shivering in the rancid hot-box. The bars seemed to be closing in on him. His stomach felt like it was twisting around itself, threatening to add to the stench of vomit that already hung heavy in the air around him. He knew the feeling would pass, it always did. Other prisoners talked of the feeling. It was really just a type of anxiety attack, Paul had discovered when doing some reading. Just an excess of adrenaline in the bloodstream. Sounded logical enough when he read about it, but when it actually happened, logic took the express train out and he was sure he was either dying or going crazy. He pulled his knees up tighter to his chest and felt, no, listened to his heart beat. Fight or flight they called it. He could do neither.
The ride to the station had gone as expected. Crawford spent the entire ride telling Greymore what a sick piece of shit he was and how this time he would never see the outside of Braxton’s walls again. Paul had sat silent, staring at the scenery outside the cruiser’s windows. The free, unobstructed scenery. His silence had only added to Crawford’s opinion that he was a psycho and sent him on another tirade. Paul had tuned him out completely by then.
It was the arrival at the police station that had caused Paul’s panic. It was a mob-scene; the street was full of frantic Haven residents. Paul was reminded of the old Creature Feature movies where villagers would storm the castle to kill the monster.
Crawford had to slow the police car down to a crawl as the sea of people parted before it. They were screaming, banging on the car, even spitting on it, while Crawford continually threatened to stop the car and let them have him. He could hear them yanking on the door handles. The pounding on the windows was so violent Paul was sure the glass would give. The looks on the faces of the people was the worst part of it. Pure hatred, sheer malice.
When the car finally pulled up near the station, they had to wait for other officers to come out to help get Greymore inside safely. Even with the protection of several officers pushing the crowd back, Paul was jostled around, grabbed at and spit on. Once, a strong hand had gotten hold of Paul’s shirt and pulled him toward the crowd. Before the police were able to break the man’s grip and push the crowd away, Paul had taken several punches and a woman had opened a claw-like gash on his cheek. During the entire time, shouts and screams of “freak” and “child-killer” and “pervert” mixed with the angry death threats. If the mob had gotten to him, Greymore was sure they would have torn him apart.
Now he sat, his panic ebbing away like the tide. He was beginning to become more aware of his surroundings, the stink of piss, the angry shouts still coming from outside, the pain in his swollen throat. He had no idea how long he had been there. He stood up and stretched, his heart no longer trying to beat out of his chest. There was no window to the outside and the bars faced a wall that prevented him from seeing anything going on in the station.
He had declined his phone call knowing that Father McCarthy was on the way. The only other person he would have considered calling was Joe but he didn’t want to involve him. He knew their friendship had already caused Joe enough problems.
When the old priest was led into the cell Paul sat quietly, waiting for him to speak first. “I know you didn’t do it, Paul”, McCarthy almost yelled as if reading Paul’s mind and trying to cast out the doubt and fear that hid there. Paul almost smiled.
“What will it take for you to believe I did do it?”
“I know you, Paul. You are no more a child killer than I.”
Paul kept his gaze focused straight ahead as he spoke, concentrating on the words “HELP ME” that were carved into the wall of the cell. “What if I am?” he said finally.
“What are you saying, Paul? You’re being irrational.”
“Think about it, Father, there hasn’t been anything more than an occasional bar room brawl or domestic dispute in seventeen years, right? Within weeks of my return Haven is rocked by the disappearance of another of its children. My limited knowledge of statistics tells me this is no coincidence.”
“Then there must be something more than a coincidence going on here, Paul. I take it as a personal insult that you think I spent all those years visiting you, befriending you, in vain. I have more faith in my judgment than you do, apparently.”
Paul sat silent, idly wondering what tool had been used to carve into the concrete wall as he tried to form his thoughts into words. “What if I don’t know what I’m doing, like a split personality or blackouts? Something like that.” Paul finally raised his eye to meet McCarthy’s and was surprised to see the man smiling.
“Stop doing this to yourself, Paul. Are you forgetting the airtight alibis you had for some of the ’61 disappearances? How does this theory explain that piece of the puzzle?” Paul was beginning to feel stupid. And confused. For a while he had actually been listening to that little voice that was screaming in his head. What if you really are the Butcher? A voice that sounded an awful lot like Chief Crawford. “I’m not the only one trying to help you, Paul.”