Later, at the cemetery, McCarthy found himself scanning the crowd for the old man. He silently cursed the weather. As much as people complained about cold, cloudy, drizzly days for funerals, McCarthy would take it over this every time. This was a day for picnics and beaches, cook-outs and cold beer, not a day for burying a child. The sun was relentless and he was sweating profusely. The humidity made it seem like he was breathing with a hot pillow over his face. Everything felt as moist and rancid as an armpit. But the Sheehans had gotten themselves together and were holding hands as they each dropped a handful of dirt on their son’s casket. The hollow, scratchy sound it made always made McCarthy shudder. It was the sound of finality, of an ending, not a happy one. Molly and Rich hugged and McCarthy thought they might just get through this after all.
As the service concluded and he invited the mourners back to the Sheehan’s house, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. It was the old man, he had been there after all, watching from a distance in the shade of a stand of old pines that bordered this side of the cemetery. McCarthy finished, had a few words of consolation with the family, and made his way toward the old man. Clearly this was no relative or he would be with the rest of the family.
McCarthy knew that murderers sometimes went to the funerals of their victims, and he had a gut feeling that this guy had something to do with whatever was going on in Haven. As he strode across the thirsty grass, the man turned and began walking away. He wasn’t hurrying, McCarthy didn’t even think he had seen him coming, he had apparently just decided it was time to go. McCarthy caught up to him on the other side of the pine grove. “Excuse me, sir?”
The old man stopped, hesitating for a minute before turning to face McCarthy. When he did, McCarthy realized the man was older than he had first thought, and his eyes were still clouded with the same look he had seen in the church. Up close, McCarthy saw it wasn’t the fresh, unfamiliar look of new loss that Rich Sheehan carried, but an older, well-acquainted look of a lifetime of pain. The man met his gaze and a hint of a smile touched his weathered face. “Lovely service, Father.”
McCarthy was taken aback. He wasn’t sure exactly what he expected by confronting the old man, but he felt immediately disarmed by the man’s open expression and calm voice. “Thank you. I’m Neil McCarthy, are you a relative?”
“No, just an old man with bad timing, I’m afraid. I went to the church to think, maybe to pray. I didn’t realize there was a… service.”
McCarthy was instantly back on his guard. The man is lying. He wasn’t sure how he knew this, but he was sure of it. But for some reason, McCarthy was not afraid and pressed on. “So… you decided to come to the cemetery to think or pray, not realizing the service would end up here?” He tried to keep his voice light but it came out as what it really was: an accusation.
Instead of getting angry, the man’s face seemed to sink. “I’m sorry, Father. Lying is obviously not one of my better skills. I read about the boy in the paper. I don’t really know why I came… I’m not a relative, not a friend of the family. I’m nobody.”
“Do you have a name… Nobody?”
The man seemed to relax, perhaps sensing McCarthy was not an enemy. “For now, you can call me Frank Rodman. Later, well, we’ll leave that alone for the time being. I’m staying at Chandler’s for a bit.” He extended his hand.
McCarthy shook hands with him, his instincts telling him that as strange as the man was acting, he had nothing to fear. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rodman. I apologize for… stalking you, but these are strange times in Haven. I feel it’s my responsibility to do my part to keep it safe.”
“Strange times, indeed, Father. About to get stranger, I fear. A pleasure meeting you. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to seek refuge from this heat. It really was a beautiful service.” He turned and began walking.
McCarthy’s instincts told him that this man knew something and not to let him go. Before he could speak, cries from back at the grave site drew his attention. He turned and saw some people forming a circle around someone on the ground. It could have been Molly Sheehan but McCarthy wasn’t sure.
Torn, but knowing his responsibility was with the funeral, he addressed the stranger. “I guess I need to get back, Mr. Rodman. Perhaps we’ll speak again sometime.”
The old man stopped and turned to face the priest, his mouth again dancing at the edge of a smile. “I believe we will, Father.” Then he was gone. McCarthy slowly walked back to his car, thinking about how familiar the man’s face was but unable to place the resemblance.
(46)
Denny tossed his books into his locker, slammed it shut, and turned to leave. His eyes tried to look everywhere at once. He and Billy were dead, it was just a matter of time. After the scene at Billy’s game, he knew Crawford meant what he said: it wasn’t over. They would get him, Billy too, it wasn’t a question of “if,” it was a question of “when.” Denny expected to be more afraid then he felt. As he walked down the hall, waiting for the sound of footsteps running, the strong hands grabbing him, it was more a sense of resignation he felt. In a way, he just wanted it over with. But he knew when the time came, he would be plenty scared, and with good reason.
School let out an hour later than usual, thanks to a mandatory safety assembly. Denny left the school and walked slowly down the steps. The bus waited on the other side of the parking lot, a yellow safe house of sorts. Denny knew Stubby would not let Crawford on the bus. All he had to do was cross the lot and he’d be safe right to his doorstep. Billy had baseball practice and would get a ride home from there. He’d be safe, and if Denny could make it to the bus on his own, they’d both be okay, at least until tomorrow. One day at a time.
When he turned and began walking in the opposite direction, toward Haven Square, he was surprised himself. His heart was beating too fast and he felt his face and hands tingling he was so keyed up. If he turned and ran he could still make the bus. Every logical fiber of his brain was screaming at him to do just that. But anger and adrenaline were in charge, and he walked slowly and steadily toward town. Fear and logic had ruled for too long. A strange sense of calm overtook him as he heard the bus grind its gears and pull away. No turning back.
He left school grounds and wandered down side streets in a meandering route to town. The day was sunny and hot and he was in no rush. In many of the yards he passed, crocuses and tulips were bursting on the scene. The trees had filled with brilliant green leaves and lawns had shed their brown winter coats in favor of green themselves. Birds chirped loudly and a few dogs barked lazily when he passed. People were out, welcoming the spring. They cleaned leaves out of their flower beds and raked up last year’s mulch. Everyone had a smile and a wave, and Denny eagerly returned each one. This is how it ought to be, he thought, this should be life in Haven.
He reached Main Street and paused. Going left would take him toward the library and the ball fields where Billy practiced. He could browse books for a while, then watch the end of practice and catch a ride home. Going right would put him in Haven Square. It wasn’t much, boasting a Woolworth’s, the Grand Theater, and a bunch of other stores including a pizza place and ice cream shop. Denny knew Crawford and his disciples would likely be in one of those two places. The hobby shop was also in that direction, and that was Denny’s second favorite place (the library, of course, taking first place), and for the second time that day his feet carried him away from safe harbor.