Denny felt panic beginning to take him over, clear thinking going right out the window. Billy pushed Tony Costa’s hands off of his shoulders and took a step forward, “Leave us alone, Crawford. We didn’t do anything.”
Buddy stepped forward and shoved him back hard against the wall, “Leave us alone, Crawford,” he mimicked in a girlish voice.
Crawford leaned in closer to Denny. Close enough for Denny to smell cigarette smoke on his breath. “We look like twins, eh Denny-boy? What would your big brother say if he saw you now?”
Denny’s mind was buzzing but now with something more than fear. Maybe it was Crawford mentioning his brother or maybe he had finally had enough of being pushed around. But now his head was filled with a blood red anger he had never felt before. “Yeah, Crawford, it’s like looking in a fucking mirror. One of those funhouse mirrors they have at the carnival where I know I look normal but my reflection looks really fucked up. You know what I mean?” From miles away he heard Billy inhale sharply, and then begin to laugh. Crawford’s face twisted in surprise and rage and he sent a wild fist at Denny’s face. To Denny, pumped full of adrenaline, it looked like it was coming in slow motion. He ducked quickly and for a split second relished the sound of Crawford’s fist smashing into the solid brick school. Then they were on him.
Buddy had his arms pinned while Crawford hammered him repeatedly (with only one hand, Denny noticed). He writhed and squirmed but couldn’t break free as Crawford continued to throw punches. Crawford stood up and reached into his pocket; a deafening click told Denny what was coming. The next instant Crawford was reeling forward, throwing his arms up wildly to save from smashing his face into the brick schoolhouse wall. Crawford turned, murder in his eyes, and stood face to face with Stubby, the bus driver. Stubby deftly moved his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, “Put that blade away before it becomes your after school snack.”
Crawford stared at him, his face twitching. Stubby held his eyes, all the while maneuvering the cigar in his teeth, looking calm as ever. Finally, Crawford folded the blade over and slipped it in his pocket. He turned to Denny, “This isn’t the end O’Brien,” then nodded to his gang and walked off. Stubby appraised the damage, apparently decided everybody would live, then turned and headed back to the bus.
Billy heaved a sigh of relief. “Nice going, Denny, did you take your brass balls pills today? Good thing you were careful about what you said or you would have pissed them off.”
Denny cracked a nervous grin, “What’s up with Stubby? I never knew he could talk.”
Billy punched him on the shoulder and they headed toward the bus laughing.
Denny sat at his desk that evening looking out at the lake, trying to make sense out of everything. The tunnels had something to with this whole mess, but what? He thought back to the first time they were in there, closing his eyes and willing a mental picture to show him something. All those bones; something was wrong with the idea that the animals had been trapped in there. He thought of the bone dust on the floor of the cave, shuddering at the memory of the sound it made when he stepped on it, like sea shells at the beach crunching underfoot. He fast-forwarded to finding the larger bones in the corner. That was it! He grabbed his journal and started making notes before he forgot. The last line he read out loud.
“If the animals were all trapped in the cave at the same time, why were some bones whole and others reduced to dust?” Denny lay down in bed but the thoughts of the caves held sleep at bay for most of the night.
(35)
Bugsy Cronin made a few more colored marks on the map and used a pencil to roughly connect the dots. “Goddamn, will you look at that.” he whistled to himself. He had spent most of his free time the past few weeks driving through the streets of Haven, just looking. He couldn’t even bring himself to tell the gang down at The Hat what he was looking for. Not after the razzin’ they gave him after he visited Greymore’s house. He had filled them in on his observations about the lack of roadkill only to be met with laughter and sarcasm. “Maybe the Butcher couldn’t find anything better to eat so he drives around the streets collecting them,” “Yeah, check his barbeque. Maybe you’ll find something there.”
So how could he tell anyone that he had spent the last couple of weeks driving around Haven and taking body counts of small woodland creatures? But as crazy as it sounded, something was going on. He stared silently at the lines he had drawn on his map, representing the areas he had found to be unusually clear of roadkill. The lines traced almost perfectly over the roads that bordered Triangle Lake.
Two hours and six beers later he was driving slowly on Hospital Hill Road. Bugsy was the only person in Haven besides the police and fire departments authorized to drive this road. After the state mental hospital had shut down a few years back, the town decided to close the entire road since nothing else was on it. Too many kids coming up to drink and screw around. Somebody was bound to get hurt. So they gated the access road. And Bugsy had a key.
He had gone through his records for the past few years and found no lack of calls to the Triangle Lake area until he went back as far as 1961. Then he had discovered the same situation as he had now… very few calls to remove roadkill from any of the roads in the Triangle Lake vicinity. Mysteriously few, one might say.
He pulled his van behind one of the small cottage-type buildings that surrounded the main hospital. Many of the state hospitals had adopted the theory that housing some patients outside of the actual hospital-proper increased success rates in mental patients. The medical treatments took place in the main building but the patients were supposed to have the feeling of home, or a safe place, living in these cottages. From what Bugsy had heard, some of the “treatments” sounded worse than the mental illness itself. And the other things that had taken place in that hospital, the things that finally led to it being shut down, well, Bugsy didn’t even want to think about that.
Downing the last third of his beer in one long gulp, he grabbed the old canvas bag from the passenger seat and climbed out of the van. He unhooked a heavy-duty flashlight from his belt and headed for the path that led down to the lakeshore. He knew from experience that the lake at night should be very active this time of year. He should have no problem spotting several different kinds of critters; maybe even a deer or two. He just wanted to know what was going on. He found the path and started down, sliding and stumbling. The path seemed steeper than last time he’d been down it, a few years back. Then again he was younger and probably a bit more sober that time.
He climbed across some larger rocks that were part of the path and when he jumped off on the downhill side he lost his footing on the loose ground. He desperately tried to regain his balance but it was too late. He cried out in pain as he tumbled down the incline, branches and bones cracking, until he slammed to a stop at the water’s edge, flat on his back. “Shit! Maybe I shouldn’t have had that last beer. Or the one before it, for that matter.” He tried to sit up but the pain shooting through his legs made him flatten right back out on the damp ground. Above him the sky was littered with stars. Bugsy remembered his mother telling him when he was just a youngster that God pulled a big shade across the sun and sky so people could sleep. Stars were just little pinholes in that shade that let some sunlight through. Used to tell him that just as he drifted off to sleep…
He was awake suddenly, not sure if he had passed out or not. He heard rustling off to one side and tried to roll over to see what was making it. His legs were a symphony of pain. He could feel the swelling, felt like his skin would just split from it. “Least I’m not paralyzed,” he muttered. He tried to see where his flashlight had dropped but couldn’t find it. Knowing he had another one in his bag, he moved his arm cautiously to where the bag had landed. The bushes moved again over to his left and he thought he could make out a shape as he tried to move his head further over. He reached in his bag feeling around for his flashlight when his hands closed on something else. He pulled out the gun as a large dark shadow separated from the darkness and moved toward him. “I must still be pissin’ drunk. Or in shock.” The shape paused at the sound of his voice, and then moved suddenly on him. Ignoring the searing pain in his legs he sat up and fired at the figure, emptying the gun’s chambers. The shape moved closer. It was now very clear to Walter “Bugsy” Cronin why there was so little roadkill in the area. Crystal clear. If only I could tell the boys at The Hat, wouldn’t they shit themselves, he thought as he did just that. He felt himself sliding along the ground and realized the pain was gone from his legs. They really do look like little pinholes in a shade, he thought just before his eyes and lungs filled with lake water.