From that point on, they were inseparable. Of course, two weeks detention helped them get to know each other. It was then Joe admitted that he’d been spying on Paul, both at home and in school. He wanted to approach Paul but was intimidated by his looks. He looked Paul directly in the eye when he told this, his face flushing with embarrassment. His honesty impressed Paul, helped create a bond. To Paul, the fight and ensuing detention were worth it. The harassment diminished. It didn’t go away completely, probably never would, but it got a whole lot better. And now Paul had an ally or two. Frankie became much friendlier after that day, so did a lot of kids. But he and Joe had something special, something that twelve-year olds take for granted. They were best friends.
Greymore shook his head and tried again to call Joe at the hospital. He needed to talk to him, but once again he was told Joe was resting and was not to be disturbed. He wondered if Joe was hurt worse than Tina had made out, or if Crawford was once again keeping him isolated. The thought of Joe lying in a hospital bed because of their friendship was unbearable. Another reversal, he thought, remembering when he had been the one in the bed and Joe had visited him.
(62)
Mossy and Chris sat on the front porch of Betty Chandler’s house as the sun set on another blistering day over Haven. Chris sipped slowly from a bottle of beer while Mossy nursed a glass of iced tea. What he was about to do was not easy; nothing is when you don’t know what the consequences will be. But before he put his final plan in motion, he had to be sure.
“Chris, I have to talk to you, about your father.” He hoped the few beers put Chris in the right mood for what he was about to hear.
“What about him?” Chris’s tone was curious, with a hint of suspicion.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been honest with you since I arrived in Haven. Perhaps once I explain you’ll understand. If not, then I don’t know what will become of me, of this town.”
“Frank, what are you talking about? What does you being here have to do with my father?”
Mossy looked him in the eye, and for a second, he got the feeling Chris already knew everything. “Let’s start with my name: it isn’t Frank Rodman, it’s Moses Blaakman. Folks call me Mossy, at least they used to.”
Chris continued to meet his gaze. “Go on…”
“The truth is… I wasn’t transferred before the explosion, I was off the base without authorization. You see, I was your father’s contact. I was the one feeding him information. I… I am responsible for his death.” He swallowed hard, taking a sip of iced tea, waiting for a reaction.
Chris sat back in his seat, took a long drag on his beer, and slowly nodded his head. “I knew something wasn’t quite right about you, Frank… I mean Mossy. Why are you here, after all this time? Why are you dragging this all up again?”
Mossy exhaled, not even realizing he’d been holding his breath. “Because of what’s happening in Haven, because of the children disappearing, getting killed…”
Chris jumped out of his seat and faced Mossy. His face was red; one hand held his beer bottle, the other was clenched in a tight fist. “You… you have something to do with this? You…”
Mossy held his hands up in a surrendering gesture. “Chris, please sit down and let me explain. When I’m finished, you’re free to do whatever you think is right. But please hear me out.”
Chris continued to stare at him, then his whole body seemed to sag and he sat heavily back in his chair. He sighed loudly and downed the rest of his beer. He reached toward the cooler to pull another one, then changed his mind. “I don’t know if I want to hear this. Some things… maybe they should be left alone.”
“I’m afraid this isn’t one of them, Chris. If things weren’t happening again in Haven, I wouldn’t be here and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But we are, and at the end I’m going to ask for your help. The same way I asked for your father’s help back then. Maybe this time it will have a better ending.”
Chris nodded silently, then did reach in for another beer. “If my father trusted you, I guess that’s good enough for me. I don’t know how I can help, but go ahead and tell your story. After that, we’ll see.”
Mossy spoke for a long time, pausing only to refill his glass. He told everything, as best as he could, wishing more than once that his glass contained more than iced tea. Chris seldom interrupted, only to ask a clarifying question or two. He has his father’s nose for getting a story, Mossy thought. Finally, he got to the end, to his plan to kill the creature. “I can’t do it alone, and I hate to put anyone in harm’s way, but I don’t have a choice. I can’t go to Crawford, he’ll arrest me or throw me in the nuthouse. I have to make this right… at least as right as it can get at this point. It has to end.”
Chris sat quietly, looking out at the horizon. The sun had set, it was almost full dark, and he took another slow pull from his beer. “Okay, I get it. But what do you need from me? Are you asking me to go into the caves with you?”
Mossy turned to face him, “No Chris, I couldn’t do that. I am responsible in a way for getting your father killed, I couldn’t ask that of you. What I need from you is confirmation. This whole thing, it’s so unbelievable. When I tell the story out loud, it sounds even more made-up than when I think about it. I need to know I’m not crazy before I do what I’m thinking of doing. I need to know for certain that this whole thing isn’t some fantasy, some form of insanity or alcohol-induced hysteria. I need to know.”
Chris nodded. “It does sound crazy, I’ll give you that. But I still don’t know how…” Mossy could see it in his eyes when he figured it out. His face darkened and he started to shake his head.
“Chris, your brother is the only other person alive who has seen it. Please, I need to be one hundred percent sure. Then I promise I will leave you and your family alone.”
Chris was still, lost in the possible ramifications of forcing his brother to face the horror of his memories. Then his expression softened. “Maybe… maybe if he talks about it… and someone believes him… maybe he can get better?”
Mossy felt the desperate hope in Chris’s words. “Maybe so, Chris.” He hated himself for using Chris’s emotions as a means to an end. He knew better than anyone the grip the bottle could have. He doubted one conversation could heal that, but then look at where he was less than two weeks ago and where he was now. If that was possible, maybe anything was possible. “Maybe so, indeed.”
Neither man noticed the movement of the curtain in the open window behind them.
(63)
Mossy, Chris, and Jake McCauley sat huddled in a booth in the back of the Witch’s Hat. Mossy already had doubts about how this was going to turn out. Jake was a wreck, so deep into alcohol and depression that it was impossible to tell if he was drunk or sober at any given time. Chris introduced them, telling Jake that he was an old friend of their father’s. They talked for a while about Matt McCauley, Mossy sharing some stories about him and the fact that they were working on a story about the old army base. During the conversation, Mossy watched with a keen, knowing eye how many drinks Jake was putting away. Vodka was Jake’s weakness, while Chris drank beer and Mossy nursed ginger ales. He waited for the right moment to turn the talk to the day at the lake.