Ortiz felt his own face grow warm, tingling with sudden nervousness. “Greymore? What does he have to do with this?”
Crawford stopped pacing and stood in front of Ortiz. He locked eyes with him and Ortiz matched his stare. He didn’t like what he saw in those eyes. Hatred, anger, madness? Nothing good. Not for the first time, lately, he thought he caught a whiff of alcohol on the Chief’s breath. This Greymore thing is making him crazy, he thought. “Doesn’t it seem suspicious to you that a baby disappears, once again in the vicinity of Greymore’s house? Don’t you think somebody fucked up on coke could see Greymore as a monster? Christ, the guy is a monster. Make sure you’re there when she wakes up and find out if it was Greymore. Update me as soon as you hear from the search team. I’m going to find out where Mr. Greymore has been today. If he doesn’t have a story I like, I’m bringing him in.”
Ortiz opened his mouth to argue, but again Crawford’s eyes made him change his mind. Nothing he could say would change what was going to happen. “I’m on my way. Docs say it might be another couple of hours and she might not be very lucid but I’ll be there. Jameson is in charge of the search team. As soon as I’m updated, I’ll track you down. Phillips is following up with more of her friends. He might end up talking to Dale, unless you want to take care of it.”
Crawford seemed to relax a little. For a minute, he had looked like a tightly stretched wire, ready to snap. “Let Phillips handle the questioning. I want Greymore. I want to know immediately about any reports of kids missing. I don’t care if they’re five minutes late from school or their mother says they were abducted by aliens. I want to know about every one. This could blow and send the town into a panic and we need to be prepared for it. Try to keep it out of the papers for a day if you can. Understand?”
Ortiz understood all too well. “Yes, sir. I’ll be in touch soon. Do you want back-up on Greymore?” Ortiz didn’t like the thoughts of Crawford handling this alone.
“I’ll call if I do but I’m not concerned right now. Let’s keep the resources focused where they are now.” He brushed by Ortiz on his way out of the office. When he got to the door he stopped and turned to face Ortiz once again. His face had returned to its normal blotchy complexion and his eyes had lost the fire of a few moments ago. “You understand it’s our job to do what’s right for the people of this community, don’t you, Robert? That sometimes we need to make decisions for the greater good?”
Ortiz swallowed hard and cleared his throat considering how to answer. Before he could, Crawford was gone. It was beginning to seem much worse than Ortiz had thought. “He’s never called me Robert before,” he said aloud. His gut told him something bad was coming. He thought about getting someone else to cover the hospital and tracking down Greymore himself. Not for the safety of the town, but for Greymore’s safety. It would mean his job to disobey a direct order. He was torn between his sense of duty and his instincts. He stopped to check something in the files before leaving the office. He made just one brief stop before heading to the hospital to question Cheryl Peroit.
Greymore dozed peacefully on his favorite chair on the screened porch. Father McCarthy had picked him up and treated him to lunch. There was still plenty to do around the house but the big meal combined with the heat had sapped his motivation. A short while ago he had heard police cars and an ambulance over across the lake, but wasn’t able to see much because of the trees. Whatever it was, it didn’t look good. He thought about heading over to find out more but the thought of Crawford being there made it seem intolerable. Instead, he had let the heat deplete his strength and ambition and kicked back in the chair. His eyes snapped open at the first ring of the phone. His life had been controlled by bells for seventeen years; it would be hard to ever sleep through an alarm clock or a phone ringing again.
He grabbed the phone on the second ring, assuming it was either Joe or Father McCarthy. “Get out of the house now, Greymore,” the voice on the other end of the phone rasped. It was clearly somebody trying to disguise their voice.
“Who is this?” Paul demanded.
“Someone who doesn’t believe all the stories. Crawford is on his way and you don’t want to be there. Trust me.” The phone went dead. Greymore slowly placed the receiver in the cradle. He couldn’t make out the voice at all but he had an idea who it was. If Paul had learned one thing in prison, it was to trust his instincts. Right now his instincts were telling him to get the hell out of there before Crawford got there. He tried calling Father McCarthy and Joe but there was no answer in both cases. He moved quickly out of the house and down to the lake. Without thinking about where he would go, he hopped into his canoe and began paddling out, wanting to be around the bend of the lake before Crawford showed up.
As he paddled he began to size up the situation. Why would Crawford be on his way over? That answer came quickly as Paul remembered the activity across the lake earlier that day. There must have been a disappearance and that’s why Crawford was coming. Sure, Paul had been with Father McCarthy for a good part of the day, but would Crawford even wait for an explanation? Or maybe he’d just lock Crawford up and not allow him a phone call. The thought of it made Paul angry and scared at the same time. He could not spend another night in a cell. Not one. He had broken a sweat rowing and he was safely out of sight of his own house.
As disturbing as the phone call was, Paul felt a sense of relief. More than that, he was actually happy. Someone in this town besides Father McCarthy and Joe believed in him. Paul knew it was the young police officer, Ortiz, that had made the call. The man had treated him with respect the morning he drove Paul home. He must know Crawford is losing it. Paul shook his head, sending beads of sweat flying off of his face. Sooner or later, probably sooner, he would have to find a way to get Crawford off his back.
He was rowing in good rhythm now, moving steadily across the lake. The burn in his back and arms felt good. He lengthened his stroke, feeling the muscles strain, just like the old workouts in the prison yard.
At first, everybody had wanted to fuck with him. He was a scrawny kid with a mangled face who was convicted of killing kids. Even with the assortment of scum that called Braxton home, Paul was at the bottom of the food chain. A pervert. At a loss for anything else to pass the hours, he began lifting weights. It quickly became an obsession. Most would look at it as a release, but in fact it was just the opposite. The stronger he got, the angrier he got. He had been beaten countless times during his first few months, to the point he had considered suicide. He was able to put an end to that, prison-style justice. That was when Father McCarthy started visiting. His savior. McCarthy had kept him sane. He continued his workouts in the yard. He continued to gain strength pretty quickly, handling impressive amounts of weight for someone his size. It just wasn’t in his metabolism to become bulky. It was deceiving to see his wiry frame lay down on a bench and start putting up two hundred and fifty pounds. Though still thin, he was all muscle, not an ounce of fat on him. There was always someone looking for a fight, though. He didn’t win them all, but he did earn respect.
Now he felt that same energy coursing through him, fueled by contempt. His strokes were long and powerful, propelling the canoe faster and faster across the lake. His whole body was screaming but he continued in a frenzy of anger and adrenaline. His mind swirled, he pictured the prison goons coming for him, but now they all looked like Crawford. Faster and faster he paddled, cutting through the calm water, leaving a turbulent wake behind him. Only when he saw that he was approaching the opposite side of the lake did he allow himself to stop and cruise into shore.