He awoke shortly, refreshed after only a few hours of sleep, a new plan in mind. After turning on the kettle to make a pot of tea, he returned once again to his bookshelf. Instead of grabbing the next chronological volume, McCarthy skipped all the way to the latest journal he was working on. After adding a few heaping spoonfuls of sugar to his steaming cup of tea, he settled back into his reading chair, determined to figure out what was bothering him. Something about the explosion in ’44 had started the gears moving but he couldn’t quite make the connection. He started at the end of the journal, working quickly backwards from his most recent entries. It wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for. As the tea cooled beside his chair, the article answered questions that had eluded him and robbed him of sleep for the night. It described the suicide of General Gunlinger and the strange note and newspaper article found with the body. The article talked about Greymore’s release and the recent disappearances.
“Of course, how could I have forgotten this,” McCarthy sighed aloud. The stress of the Sheehan funeral must have been weighing on him more than he thought. He sat back and closed his eyes, trying to decipher what it meant. Sitting up, he reached down to sip his tea, wincing at how cold it had already grown. He thought about a hot refill, but instead grabbed a pen that he always kept with his latest journal and began an entry for the day. Perhaps it would make sense written down, he thought.
August, 1944: Explosion at Haven’s ammo base. Gunlinger survived, everyone else dead. Gunlinger makes strange quotes regarding “changing God’s plans.”
Summer, 1961: Disappearances/murders plague Haven. Greymore arrested and convicted for the murders.
May, 1978: Greymore released, disappearances begin again in Haven. Gunlinger commits suicide. Quoted in suicide note as “playing God.” Found by the body was an article from the Haven Sun describing Paul’s release and the new disappearances.
McCarthy read the lines over and over, and then began writing again:
Why wasn’t Gunlinger on the base when the explosion occurred?
What is the connection between the killings in ’61 and Gunlinger?
Why was Gunlinger monitoring the Sun? Couldn’t be a coincidence that he stumbled on that article.
McCarthy was stumped. There had to be some sort of connection between Paul and Gunlinger, but what? Paul was just a child when the explosion happened, and then Gunlinger went to California. Could Paul’s parents have known Gunlinger or had friends or family involved in the explosion, or with Gunlinger? McCarthy wasn’t even sure Paul’s parents lived in Haven in 1944. It would have to be somebody in that age range. Wait! He again flipped through his latest journal and found what he was looking for. The man he had met at the Sheehan funeral, Frank Rodman. He had said some strange things but with everything going on, McCarthy had forgotten about him almost immediately.
Shaking his head, he got up from the chair and walked slowly to the front porch. The heat was suffocating, even in the early morning. The air was still and heavy; it was like breathing underwater. McCarthy looked toward the sky, not an unusual pose for a priest. He was looking for rain clouds, however, not guidance. He decided he would talk to Greymore, confront him with the information he had when he returned from his seminar. Then, with Paul or alone, he would find this Frank Rodman.
(55)
Joe Cummings sat at the bar of the Witch’s Hat nursing a beer and glancing around nervously. He pondered the message he received at work just as he was getting ready to leave. His secretary had taken the call at the end of the day. She said it was Father McCarthy, pleading to meet him here this evening on an urgent matter concerning Paul’s safety. She had seemed shaken up just from taking the call. Instead of trying to reach McCarthy or Paul, he had done as instructed. He had been here for almost an hour and there was no sign of McCarthy. Now that he had time to really think about it, why would McCarthy want to meet him in a bar of all places? As he waited the place began to fill up, Joe looking expectantly at every new person to enter, willing it to be McCarthy.
Something was wrong. He could almost feel the wrongness hanging in the smoky air. He was getting strange looks from some of the other men. Furtive looks, like they knew something he didn’t. He glanced at his watch for the thousandth time and decided it was time to go. He headed for the pay phone to let Tina know he was on his way when another guy from the bar cut in front of him and grabbed the phone. “I’m gonna be a while, pal,” he said with a stiff smile.
“I just need to make a quick call before I go so maybe you’d let me go first?” Joe answered jovially, trying to hide the rising fear.
“I was here first, pal, either wait or save your dime for later.” Joe hesitated. He needed to find out what was going on. “You got a problem, pal?” He looked at the man, puzzled, and turned away. When he got to the door the man wasn’t talking on the phone, just holding the receiver and staring at him. He stepped out into the night air and headed for his car. The parking lot of the Hat was dark, spotlights from the building losing the battle with the darkness that seemed to grow out of the surrounding woods. As he approached his car something seemed odd about the way it was parked. The reason for the strange angle of the car hit him and his whole body tensed.
When he got to the car he confirmed his suspicion—he had a flat tire. No problem, he told himself, probably ran over a bottle. He’d just change it and get home. He knew the spare in the trunk was good. Had to be a bottle, this was the parking lot of a bar, after all. It wasn’t working, though; he couldn’t convince himself that there wasn’t something terribly wrong. His whole body was tingling with anticipation, fueled by adrenaline.
A dog barked off in the distance, the smell of stale beer and greasy hamburgers cooking over an open flame, everything seemed so intense.
The gravel crunching as he moved to the trunk to get the jack and the spare. The sound of the Hat’s door opening and closing, opening and closing.
He had the trunk open and grabbed the jack and tire iron, the metal cool in his sweaty hands.
The sound of crunching gravel again, this time not caused by his own movements. Just other customers headed for their cars, goddammit, that’s all. Probably give you a hand and get you home faster.
But when he turned he knew he had been lying to himself. His instincts were right, something was very, very wrong. As the group of men approached he squinted to recognize them at the same time he tightened his grip on the lug wrench. The sound of their footsteps seemed deafening. Then the lights went out. For a moment he was in total darkness. His heart pounded and he considered running for the bar, or better the street; he had no allies in the bar. The darkness turned to blinding light as the high beams of a pick-up truck assaulted his eyes.