He pulled the newspaper articles out of his pocket and read them again. This time they began to make sense. Moses had been a scientist for a highly secret division of the Army. The “ammunition depot” in Haven was just a front for his division, led by General Gunlinger. Their work had been in gene research. The cover of the ammunition depot had worked out perfectly. He knew now that Gunlinger had intentionally destroyed the base, killing everyone on it. He didn’t know how he managed to get off the base or if he even knew of Gunlinger’s plan.
He remembered stumbling through the woods of Haven and he vowed to avenge the deaths of his friends and fellow soldiers. At some point the realization hit him that trying to expose Gunlinger would undoubtedly lead to his death and his accusations would become the ranting of a madman. A few planted incident reports in his files would show him as unstable and the cover-up would be complete. He had seen it dozens of times and, God forgive him, he had participated in it on more than one occasion. Always for the good of the country, for national security, he had told himself. He knew deep down it was for personal gain or survival.
He had crept through the woods, wanting to see his family. Family! The revelation shook him. He had a wife and daughter in Haven. He had been afraid to go to them. He feared for them more than for himself. If they knew he was alive they would be in serious danger. He made the decision to get away for a while, until he felt it was safe. Once he was away he realized the only way to keep everyone safe was to let them believe he had been killed in the explosion. He read about his own funeral in the paper, tears streaming down his face as he thought about the pain his wife and daughter must be going through. Fresh tears burned his cheeks now as he thought of his wife and little Jan. Sweet little Jan growing up without a father. His beloved Catherine having to fend for herself and their daughter. The guilt and shame had been too much back then and he fell easy prey to the bottle. It wasn’t just those emotions, it was fear too. Everywhere he turned he saw people he suspected of being Gunlinger’s spies looking for him. As the years slipped away so did his character. His drinking and paranoia led to problems at work and he was eventually fired. He took menial jobs that fit in better with his drinking schedule, eventually losing those too. At some point he put all of his cash and his fake identity into the safe deposit box and faded into the street life of Boston. Almost as disturbing as the memories themselves were how quickly they were returning the closer he drew to Haven.
He wiped his face and smiled feebly at the woman sitting across from him who stared at him. She looked away, probably thinking him just another drunk judging by his appearance. He had no idea of the fate of his family and the realization sickened him. Anger welled and mixed with the swirling revulsion and aching grief he felt. Half of his life had been spent trying to wipe out the memory of Gunlinger’s act, but he had also erased his own existence. He struggled to regain his composure and think this thing through. He had been drawn to Haven after reading of Gunlinger’s suicide, even before he had remembered he had once had a family there, had a life there. Was his subconscious responsible for setting him in motion before his conscious mind caught up to it? He didn’t think so. He read the articles again. An experiment that got out of control. Playing God. As the sign for the Haven exit flashed by the window unnoticed, he began to remember the experiment.
(41)
Ortiz smiled to himself as he walked into the dim, smoky bar. While his eyes adjusted he saw the reaction that was universal anytime a cop walked into a bar: guilty stares from the patrons and a suspicious “now what?” look from the bartender. It was not crowded, it was barely five o’clock, just the regulars passing time with tired old stories and illogical political theories and the barroom staple of Red Sox talk. Ortiz suspected that Bugsy would have been an active participant had he not gone missing.
The searches at the lake for the past two days had turned up nothing. Ortiz himself had helped search Bugsy’s house and had found nothing remarkable. The house was small and looked like it had once been well-kept, but those days were sliding into the past. The furniture was looking threadbare, a few years past the “lived in” look that was generally accepted. A thin layer of dust coated the family photos that decorated the walls. The sink was half-full of dirty dishes, not to the point of total disregard, but enough to clearly state that washing dishes wasn’t a priority. All evidence of a lonely old man just getting through the days.
The only area that was in any state of order was a small room off the kitchen that Bugsy evidently used as an office. The furnishings consisted of a battered old desk with a leather chair and a pair of dented metal filing cabinets. Ortiz swallowed hard as his eyes scanned the dozens of framed pictures of Bugsy’s family. There was no rhyme or reason to how the pictures were arranged, somehow making it even sadder.
Ortiz had spent a couple of hours meticulously searching the files but it seemed like anything Bugsy had discovered was either left in his van or was still with him. At the bottom of the lake. The thought had come unbidden and Ortiz remembered having a similar thought after finding Bugsy’s gun and flashlight abandoned on the shore.
Now Ortiz’s only hope was that Bugsy had, at some point during his amateur investigation, shared his theories with his drinking buddies. There was a group of three older men at a table in the back, pitchers of beer and bowls of pretzels littered the surface, while the men spoke earnestly. Ortiz recognized them and knew Bugsy hung with them. He suspected that their conversation would ordinarily be filled with good-natured ribbing and easy laughter, but not tonight. These were no ordinary times in Haven. Ortiz signaled to the bartender to set up a couple fresh pitchers, and walked slowly over to the table.
“Evenin’ gentlemen, mind if I join you for a bit?” His timing was perfect as a waitress delivered two fresh pitchers of beer. The men looked at him without guilt or suspicion, but with an expression of mild alarm. They figured he was here to give them bad news.
John Shields, Haven’s lone accountant, answered for the group. “Pull up a rock, Officer, we’re not going anywhere.” The other two, Charlie Nasmith and Scotty McMann, murmured greetings. Charlie was sales manager at a Ford dealership in Danvers and Scotty worked for the town Parks and Recreation Department. In fact, he was the Parks and Recreation Department. John waited for Ortiz to get settled before speaking again. “Is this about Walter or Greymore?”
Ortiz was confused for a split-second before recognizing Bugsy’s given name. “What gives you the idea I’m here for either?”
John smiled. It was the same smile he probably gave his customers who were trying to claim too much for charitable deductions on their tax returns. It said “cut the bullshit.”
Ortiz needed information and game-playing wasn’t going to cut it with these guys. “Have you guys seen Walter for the past couple of days?”
The three men exchanged glances and it was all the answer Ortiz needed. They looked concerned, if not plain scared. Scotty topped his mug off from one of the pitchers and Ortiz saw a slight tremble. “He hasn’t been around the last couple of nights, Officer. I haven’t seen his van around either and there was no answer at his house today.”