Part II
(36)
The old man took a swallow from a paper-bag-covered bottle and settled down against the side of the building. Thank God for summer, he thought as he pulled a bunch of newspapers toward him. Now he could relax and enjoy reading them instead of stuffing his clothes with them to keep warm. Years of living on the streets had made him thankful for small things and wanting for little. He considered this to be a perfect night, a full bottle by his side and a stack of the day’s newspapers to read. “Not that there is anything worth reading about,” he mumbled as he flipped through the first pages and took another drink from his bottle.
When his eye caught the headline, his hands began to shake even before he went back and read it again. He placed the paper on his lap and gulped greedily from the bottle, knowing it would not help him prepare for what he was about to read. Wiping his mouth, he picked up the paper and quickly read the article, then began reading it again slowly. He had prayed this day would never come but somewhere deep inside him he knew it would. A car horn outside the alley made him jump and he snatched up the bottle and drank again. He reached into the pocket of his shabby overcoat and pulled out a piece of plastic. Protected inside the plastic was another article. He wanted to preserve this one until the day came that he needed it, so he had taken it into Zayre and had it laminated in one of those machines. He looked at the date in the corner of the article and then at the date of the paper he just read. Seventeen years goes by fast, he thought.
Once more he read both articles:
From the Boston Sun, June 2, 1978
General Hamilton Gunlinger was found dead in his California home early this morning. Sources state the sixty-seven year old Gunlinger apparently died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Gunlinger was a decorated soldier who spent most of his military career in biological research, a field in which he was a reputed genius. A bit of a mystery surrounds the incident due to a strange suicide note and a newspaper article found by the body. Sources say the handwritten note included phrases referring to “an experiment that got out of control” and “playing God.” The rest of the note was allegedly a rambling apology for “the damage done and that yet to be done.”
The newspaper article found with the suicide note was clipped from a recent edition of the Haven News, a publication from a small Massachusetts town. The article tells of the murder of a young boy from the town and implies a connection to the recent release of Paul Greymore from Braxton State Prison. Greymore was convicted of murder in 1961 for the death of Mary Larsen, an eight-year-old Haven resident. Greymore, nicknamed the Butcher, was believed to be responsible for the disappearances of almost twenty children that year. Coincidentally, Gunlinger suffered a tragedy in Haven, Mass. in 1944 when his entire base was wiped out in an ammunition explosion while Gunlinger himself was off-site. “He never really got over that,” an anonymous source is quoted as saying, “it was the only black mark in his entire illustrious military career.” Private services will be held.
From the Haven News, August 30, 1961
Haven—The summer-long terror which has plagued the small town of Haven may have come to an end last night. Paul Greymore, 18, was arrested for the murder of eight year-old Mary Larsen, also of Haven. Details are sketchy but apparently Haven Police Officer Cody Crawford found Greymore carrying the lifeless body of the girl behind Greymore’s house and made the arrest. Greymore reportedly had serious wounds to his head and body, the cause of the wounds is unknown. He is currently listed in stable condition at County General Hospital under tight security. Greymore will be charged with Larsen’s murder and is suspected of being responsible for the disappearance of almost twenty children in the Haven area this summer.
The old man stuffed both articles in his pocket and slowly got to his feet. He shambled down the alley and handed his bottle to another street person, who looked at the bottle suspiciously before taking a drink. He continued on out of the alley into the city streets. The night was quiet, only the sounds of light traffic coming from the highway. He walked slowly at first, then faster. The city seemed larger to him, overwhelming. The enormity of the situation hit him and he felt dizzy. He suddenly understood the futility in trying to drown his past with cheap wine. The realization jolted him and he knew what he would do, what he must do. Something he should have done seventeen years ago. He reached involuntarily to his chest and slid his hand between the buttons of his old flannel shirt. His fingers found the key he kept on a chain around his neck and grasped it tightly. He was going home.
(37)
The early morning fog was already burning off when they arrived at the caves, promising another sweltering day. They dropped their book bags, filled with flashlights, spray paint and extra batteries, and quickly uncovered the entrance. Denny had told Billy of his new theory while they had hiked through the woods, and of his almost sleepless night. “To tell you the truth Denny-boy, I never even thought of that and I still didn’t sleep much myself.”
They had no problem descending through the tunnels, always stopping to mark their trail with bright red spray paint. At most of the forks they quickly spotted their sticks from their last trip and knew which branch to follow. Soon enough—too soon, Denny thought—they were at the entrance to the cavern which held the run-off from the lake. They took a few minutes to make the gap in the rocks larger, Denny remembering too clearly how trying to squirm back through last time had seemed to take an eternity, all the while expecting something to wrap itself around his legs and pull him back. Once inside they shined their lights around.
“Let’s not spend too much time in here, I think we’ve seen all there is to see,” Billy suggested.
Denny bent over the pile of bones that had sent them scrambling last time. “I still can’t tell what these are. There’s too many of them. I think it might be a few different kinds of animals all piled up.”
“Which means…” Billy whispered.
“Which means unless some deer decided to shack up with maybe a couple of raccoons and a fox or two, somebody piled these bones here.” The thought sent a shiver down Denny’s back.