He glanced down at the girl who lay motionless on the floor of the canoe. She was dressed in shorts and a matching t-shirt and she was barefoot. In his mind’s eye, Paul could see the little girl taking off her sneakers so she could hang her feet in the cool water over the side of the boat. Just a carefree day on the lake, trying to get relief from the oppressive heat. Paul leaned over to feel her head for any injury that might explain her unconsciousness and found none. Her strawberry blonde hair was pasted to her head but there was no sign of bumps or bruises. Her skin was somewhat sunburned across her shoulders and on her face but her legs… Paul squinted in the driving rain. The girl’s legs had slid under the rear seat of the canoe when he had laid her in. Now he could see something there that wasn’t a sunburn. Leaning over precariously in the pitching canoe, Paul saw a row of strange marks across both of her legs. Angry red welts with a white center, like giant bee stings, ran in perfectly straight lines across her legs. Paul gently put his hand on one and could feel heat radiating from her otherwise cold skin.
Get to shore! The thought shook him with its intensity and raw instinct. All around him, the storm had gotten worse. The sky was completely black; the silver-gray rain was a blinding sheet between him and safety. He had let instinct and adrenaline take over since he had first seen the rowboat go over but for the first time, he was afraid. Something was wrong, something worse than this storm and a little girl whose mother was probably dead. Something much worse. A vivid image of his mother came, and he knew despite every instinct, every fear and every rational thought, he had to try one more time to find the little girl’s mother. Before he could talk himself out of it, he filled his lungs and dove into the ocean-like surf. He swam under the rowboat and all around it, tiring quickly but suddenly obsessed with not leaving the girl motherless.
A sudden stinging sensation on his calf changed his thoughts in an instant. His lower leg began going numb and he felt a tugging, like he was snagged in weeds of some sort. He began pulling himself up onto the rowboat when the tugging became more insistent. Panic seized him and he began to flail his legs when he remembered the birthday gift his dad had given him when he turned thirteen.
“You’re a teenager now, almost a man. Old enough to have this”
Clinging desperately with one arm to the rowboat, Paul deftly reached to his belt and whipped out his prized birthday gift: a Buck knife. Flipping open the blade, he slashed blindly toward the vines he felt gripping his ankle.
Paul sat rigid in the suffocating heat of his cell. His body was soaked with sweat yet he suddenly felt chilled, weak, like when a fever has just broken. He had never remembered any of those events before and yet he now knew there was more. He closed his eyes and placed himself back on the rowboat. He pictured the injured girl lying motionless, the raging storm, felt the pelting rain, willed himself to remember… but it was no use. The memory was done. Whatever had happened from that time until he had gotten back to shore was still locked somewhere in his mind. He tried once more to go back in his mind, to play out the rest of the memory, but it was no good.
He caught the sounds of voices drifting in from the station. A phone was ringing and Paul could see the reflections of bubble-lights ebbing and flowing like a silent blue tide. For a brief moment, a dark cloak of dread threatened to wrap itself around him—the missing boy was found dead… what else could cause such a stir at this hour… whatever this hour was—but he pushed it aside quickly. The memory was too important to be lost in the whirlpool of panic that was trying to pull him in.
Despite the frustration he felt for not being able to remember the rest of that day, Paul felt relief. His memory was finally coming back. Maybe it was being back in Haven that had triggered it. He lay back down on his bunk when the meaning of his memory hit him. He had been so caught up in the fact that he actually remembered something that he had completely ignored the enormity of what he had remembered. What were those marks on the girl’s legs? What was that strange shape that had been draped across the bow of the rowboat? Paul felt suddenly very alone and vulnerable. Answers to these questions teased him from the dark corners of his mind but would not show themselves. Paul was not so sure he wanted to remember any more.
The stress of the day and his restless night began to take its toll. The murmur of voices and strobing blue light were all his exhaustion needed and he slipped back into a dreamless sleep.
(32)
Ortiz hung up the phone, the irony of the situation hitting him like a hammer. Mike Noonan was home, safe and sound. He had blown off school, taken the bus to Malden Station, hopped on the Orange Line to Boston, and walked the rest of the way across Boston to the Fens. He sat in the bleacher seats watching “The Spaceman” Bill Lee get knocked around by the Blue Jays, giving up six runs in just two-thirds of an inning. Bob “The Steamer” Stanley came out of the bullpen and pitched shutout baseball for the rest of the game. Fred Lynn, Noonan’s hero, went 2-for-4. All in all, it was still better than a day at school. He was sunburned beyond recognition, and having spent his return fare on hot dogs and soda, had made his way back to Haven on his thumb. He was eventually picked up by an off-duty State Trooper who drove him home.
Ortiz felt the blood rising in his cheeks. Since Nelson had radioed in from the lake, it was all hands on deck: the scene had to be secured, teams were out searching the woods around the lake, the family was being questioned, the husband brought in from work… and the Noonan boy had been forgotten. He shook his head, thinking the timing of it all might just be a blessing in disguise.
The Statie had brought the Noonan kid home just after seven. The parents, thinking that State and local police actually communicated with each other, assumed Haven PD would know the boy was home safe. If not for Noonan’s father having too much to drink and calling to thank the police just now—Ortiz looked at his watch and saw it was after two o’clock in the morning—they still wouldn’t know. And wouldn’t that have been embarrassing when they finally got around to investigating.
But if they had found out earlier, Greymore would have been released immediately and had no alibi for the killing at the lake. As it stood now with the Noonan kid safe and Greymore being locked up during the Sheehan murder, there was no way Greymore could be a suspect. Crawford would have no choice but to let him out in the morning. Ortiz knew it wouldn’t change what Crawford thought of Greymore, but he’d have no justification for keeping him locked up.
Ortiz knew Crawford would see it only as a roadblock to keeping Greymore behind bars. Sure, Greymore had to be set free… for now. But it didn’t answer the real question: who was responsible for the Sheehan murder? Such a brutal killing, so similar to the string of murders in ’61. Ortiz couldn’t shake the feeling that the real killer would get away as Crawford just put his blinders on and tried to find a way to pin it on Greymore, despite the fact he was locked safely away in Crawford’s cell at the time of the murder. Instead of being relieved that at least one more child in his town was safe, Crawford would be incensed that he couldn’t fulfill his obsession of putting Greymore back in Braxton forever. He sighed heavily and went in to talk to Crawford.