He grabbed one pack and quickly stuffed it in his pocket. Suddenly sure he would be robbed, he slammed the door of the safe deposit box shut, drawing confused and somewhat annoyed stares from the other customers around him. He stuffed the key in his pocket and hastily retreated, frequently looking over his shoulder, certain he would be followed and jumped, losing the money and the key. Losing whatever waited for him back in Haven.
Two hours later, dressed in new clothes and carrying a duffel bag containing more clothes and toiletries, all purchased at Woolworth’s, he returned to the Post Office and emptied the rest of the cash into the duffel bag. Three other items tumbled into the bag along with the stacks of money. Moses reached in and fished them out. Two of them were metal canisters with what looked like spray triggers. They looked almost like whipped cream cans. He placed them carefully in the duffel bag. The other was a small billfold. He opened it and found a driver’s license with the name Frank Rodman and a picture of a young man that looked familiar. When he moved the license closer to examine it, he realized with a wave of despair that he was looking at a picture of himself. A much younger (and sober) version of himself. He slid the billfold in his pocket, thinking again about the lifetime that had passed him by. His mouth suddenly felt like it was full of cotton, his throat like sandpaper. He wanted… no, he needed a drink. Just one, he told himself, and he made his way next to the nearest liquor store. As he reached for the door with a violently trembling hand, a vision hit him with such clarity that he froze, his arm stuck in mid-flight to the door handle.
He saw the younger version of himself, the one in the picture, wearing a white coat, a lab coat, and safety glasses. He was leaning over a table, holding a beaker of liquid just above the lick of a flame from a Bunsen burner. He poured the bubbling liquid into a test tube that held a small amount of powder. As the mixture began to smoke, his eyes widened and he began furiously writing in a log book.
“Pal, you comin’ or goin’?” A young man with a toothpick hanging out of the corner of his mouth and slicked back hair was waiting to get into the store.
“Pardon me… sorry…” He stepped aside and let the man pass. The tremor in his hands spread until his entire body was shaking. It wasn’t for need of a drink this time, it was something worse. He realized the vision wasn’t a vision at all, but a memory. He had been a scientist, and a damn good one. He had been a well-respected member of a research team at a company called BioHealth in Cambridge. He had helped discover… something. A breakthrough in cough medicine, or decongestant… it was hazy. But that’s where the money came from. Before he gave it all up, or before the bottle took it away. When he was able to get the shakes under control, he turned away from the liquor store and began walking toward the bus station, afraid of the once-drowned memories he felt fighting their way to the surface of his mind.
(39)
Robert Ortiz’s body tensed involuntarily as he picked up the phone. “Haven Police, Officer Ortiz speaking.” Every time the phone rang he thought the worst; another child missing or dead. “Okay, I’ll check it out.” Not this time, he breathed. He quickly strode into Crawford’s office. “Just got a report that there’s a van parked up on old Hospital Hill Road behind one of the state hospital buildings. Might be Walter Cronin’s.”
Crawford didn’t even look up. “Bugsy’s probably doing some fishing or sleeping one off. Go get him out of there and make sure the gate gets locked.”
“Yes, sir.” Ortiz grabbed his hat and headed out to his cruiser. Crawford is burnt, he thought to himself, spending way too much time on Greymore. He glanced up at the sky as he walked across the black desert of the parking lot, hoping to see rain clouds. Weathermen had mentioned a chance of showers but it didn’t look likely. He hopped into the inferno that was his car and headed for the lake. Weathermen had been predicting showers for days. It was becoming more wishful thinking on their part than an actual forecast. It seemed most areas were at least getting scattered showers but not a drop had fallen in Haven, not even a threatening cloud lately.
Ortiz pulled over when he arrived at the open gate to Hospital Hill Road. He checked the chain and found the padlock hanging open. It must be Cronin, he thought, he’s the only other person with a key. Sure enough, there was Cronin’s van, parked behind one of the old cottages. Either the caller had taken their dog for a walk up Hospital Hill or maybe the van was visible from the lake.
Ortiz stepped out into the blazing sun and walked beside Cronin’s van. Looking inside he noticed several empty beer bottles in the front, but Cronin was nowhere to be seen. Ortiz walked around the other side of the van and noticed what looked like a path leading into the woods. Crawford was right on both counts, thought Ortiz, fishing first, sleeping it off later. He stepped onto the path and headed down toward the lake. He had no problems following the path. The advantages of youth and sobriety made the trip uneventful compared to Bugsy’s. Still, he noted the steep incline and loose footing, wondering how Cronin had made it considering his age and the empty beer bottles. He was sweating through his uniform as the ground began to level out.
As soon as he reached the bottom, he felt that same feeling he always got when something was wrong. Whether it was his cop’s instinct or just a burst of adrenaline, he knew it well. The trigger this time was the flashlight at the bottom of the path. Ortiz’s mind immediately began processing this information. The flashlight meant Bugsy had been down here last night or very early this morning. The way it was thrown down on the ground was mildly alarming. Maybe he dropped it without realizing. Ortiz walked over and picked it up. The flashlight switch was on and the light was out. Cronin had been here in the dark. He quickly began a visual search of the surrounding ground and his body pumped out another surge of adrenaline. A few feet closer to the lake was a gun. Knowing he should get back up to the car and call for back-up, he walked over and bent down to look at the weapon. Just an old .38, but what would Cronin be doing down here at night with a pistol? A quick inspection showed the gun had been fired recently, all chambers empty. Clearly if he was going to do any hunting, he would have brought a rifle. And why was this stuff here on the ground? Where was Cronin? The heat was unbearable; with the sun reflecting off the lake it felt twice as hot. Ortiz stood and looked at the rest of the area. He frowned as he circled a small section of ground near the water’s edge. The ground was disturbed, as if something heavy had been dragged out of the water. Or into it, the realization came abruptly.
Ortiz was suddenly uncomfortable. Something was very wrong with this whole scene. “Cronin! Walter Cronin can you hear me! Bugsy!” His voice echoed eerily across the lake’s expanse. Ortiz made a cursory search of the rest of the area, noticing how thick and impassable the woods quickly became. He’s dead, the voice inside his head called, he’s in the lake just like all the kids. Ortiz shook his head, trying to suppress his fears and suspicions and act rationally. Looking out across the lake he could see the few houses that bordered the other side. One of those is Greymore’s, he thought. Won’t that just fit right in with Crawford’s theory.
The climb up was considerably more difficult than going down. There was no way Bugsy would have made it, Ortiz thought. He was breathing hard and bathed in sweat when he reached the top. He leaned over with his hands on his knees for a minute, wishing he had thought to take a drink from the lake before he came up. His mind was still actively working on the possible scenarios that occurred here. Could Bugsy have stumbled down the incline at night and gotten hurt? Emptying his gun in hopes of someone hearing the shots? Lying in the hot sun all morning until he finally had to drag himself into the water to escape the searing heat? Ortiz’s analytical mind dismissed this immediately. What could he be doing with a handgun in the middle of the night? It simply made no sense. Just like a lot of things these days. It would make perfect sense to Crawford, though. Greymore came over in his boat and killed Bugsy, dragging the body into the lake. Ortiz stood and looked again across the lake; the reflection was blinding off the water. It would be too easy for Crawford to make that story believable. Ortiz needed to find out more before reporting in; otherwise he might not have the opportunity.