Greymore stared at the priest. “I know. Joe has been great…”
“I’m not talking about Joe.” McCarthy looked around and then moved closer to Paul. “Do you think it was just a coincidence that I arrived at your house when I did?”
Paul opened his mouth to speak, but realized he had no answer.
In a barely audible whisper, McCarthy told Paul of the strange phone call he received, telling him to get to Greymore’s house. “I didn’t know the voice, but whoever it was may have saved your life.”
Greymore was puzzled. Other than Joe Cummings and McCarthy, he was sure everyone in Haven wanted him dead or back in Braxton.
“Have you ever considered another possibility, Paul? Perhaps almost as crazy as the rest of your ideas, but then again…”
Paul frowned, unable to grasp where the priest was going with this. “But what else…”
“Maybe you’re being framed,” whispered McCarthy. “Maybe they couldn’t catch the real killer in ’61 but when they found you at the lake with the girl in your arms, the case was solved. Maybe the real killer knew when he had it made and just moved on.”
“That doesn’t explain the present.” Paul muttered, his mind frantically calculating what the priest was suggesting.
“This is true, but what of the present? Kids run away all the time. Maybe the original killer is obsessive enough to follow you back here. Maybe there is a copy-cat killer.” He paused, and then lowered his voice. “Or maybe there is a reputation at stake.”
Paul raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Are you accusing…”
“Shh, Shh. Enough for now, Paul. I’m merely presenting alternatives. You’re not the only one who has thought about this for seventeen years.”
“Obviously not,” Paul laughed. But his mind was racing, rewinding seventeen years—recalling the hatred he had felt at the trial—back to the present when only a few hours ago his very life had been threatened. Could Cody Crawford hold such a vendetta?
(30)
Molly Sheehan jogged quickly to her car, keys jangling in the quiet dusk. She glanced nervously toward the lake. She couldn’t see the twins, but she could hear them laughing and hear Lobo barking excitedly. They’re almost ten years old, she told herself, and they are both strong swimmers. Besides, they won’t go in the water until I get back, just like I told them. She had parked the old Country Squire on the shoulder of East Border Road. It wasn’t legal, but it gave her quick access to the lake, and they wouldn’t be here long. A few cars went by, but it wasn’t really busy. She thought again of the boys and the lake—it was starting to get dark, and anything could happen.
Normally at this time of the evening, they’d all be sitting around after dinner to watch television together. But when Rich called and said he was stuck working a double, she’d had it. The heat was getting to all of them and she couldn’t stand the thought of cooking dinner and trying to entertain the kids all night and get them to bed. So, she made sandwiches, packed a picnic dinner, and headed to the cool waters of the lake. That will tire them out, she thought, and they’ll be asleep in the car on the way home.
What a dummy, she thought, leaving the cooler with the sandwiches and sodas in the back of the wagon. Instead of dragging them all to the car and back, she’d left the boys playing Frisbee with the dog down by the water. Damn! Of course the tailgate lock was stuck. As she fumbled with the key, jiggling it in the latch, she wondered how many times had she told Rich to fix this? Before she could get really worked up, the lock clicked. She grinned to herself and swung the back gate open. Suddenly a scream pierced the stillness and Lobo began barking. She couldn’t stop the grin from spreading to a full-blown smile, thinking about what kind of silliness the boys were getting into. She’d be down there in a minute, laughing along with them.
Then another scream ripped through the dimming light, and Molly realized the boys weren’t horsing around. Lobo’s barks had turned into guttural howls and she could hear furious splashing. Oh my God, one of the boys is drowning! Molly ran like she’d never run before, slowing for a second when Lobo’s howl turned to a yelp of pain, then nothing. Dread closed in on her like the night, and she flew to the water’s edge.
Freddie stood frozen on the grass holding the Frisbee by his side and staring at the horror by the lake’s sandy shore.
Eddie’s body was literally in pieces. The autopsy would later show that his limbs had been torn off his body, not cut off. Molly acted quickly, knowing that if she could put the pieces back together, Eddie would be okay. All the King’s horses and all the King’s men, she thought, as she placed his arms by his torso. After she put his legs back where they belonged, she couldn’t figure out why Eddie was still lying there. Just lying there like he was dead or something. Then she had it, his arms were switched! She put the right and left arms in the proper place. All the King’s horses and all the King’s men. Then she waited.
And that’s how Officer Nelson would find them. Molly sitting on the ground by Eddie, fully expecting him to get up and finish the game of Frisbee. Lobo’s head and front paws were sticking out of the water near Eddie’s crudely reconstructed body. The rest of Lobo wasn’t in the water; it wasn’t anywhere. He would also find Freddie standing in the very same spot, still holding the Frisbee, his bathing suit sagging in the back filled with a load of his own shit. If Nelson hadn’t been cruising East Border Road looking for kids drinking or parking in the usual spots and seen the wagon parked illegally with the back gate hanging open, they might have stayed that way all night.
(31)
McCarthy wasn’t allowed to stay and Paul wasn’t allowed to leave. Crawford had seen to it that the judge would at least delay long enough to keep Paul overnight before setting bail. If he even allows me out on bail, Greymore suddenly thought. He shook his head, knowing this kind of thinking would only induce another panic attack. He tried to focus on what Father McCarthy had talked about. Another killer returning when he found out about Greymore. A copycat killer. The real killer long gone but Crawford perpetuating the Butcher story. As the evening wore on, these theories began to sound less and less crazy. Paul began to analyze the facts, after all, what else did he have to do? Most intriguing was the mysterious phone call that tipped off McCarthy. Who besides the priest and Joe could Greymore consider an ally? And who would know that Crawford was on his way… except another cop…
In any of the situations McCarthy had presented, there was a killer out there that had done all of the killings back in ’61. Paul had been found with the body of one child in his own backyard. He had come from the lake in his canoe with her, that much he was sure. But what about prior to that? Where had he been? How had he gotten the girl away from the killer? And most disturbing of all, why couldn’t he remember? From the front of the police station, none of which Paul could see from his cell, a flurry of activity was occurring. Doors were opening and closing, loud, urgent voices came in clips, and a moment later the screech of tires and wail of sirens.
Paul heard none of it. His eyes were closed tightly, childlike, as he concentrated on that day. The storm had been almost biblical. The rain was blinding it came down so hard. Over seven inches in a two-hour period he later heard. Lightning touched down all around. The almost continuous earth-shaking thunder. He breathed slowly, almost in a trance in his effort to remember. It hadn’t rained all summer, literally. The storm had come from nowhere, unexpected, unpredicted. That was it, something about the storm itself held the key to the memory. The day had been the hottest of the hot. The temperature hovered near the one hundred mark, as did the humidity. It was unbearable. But what was it that made this so important?