“Fine. Let’s go.” He wiped the tears with his sleeve, nodded at the bewildered faces of Mossy and Billy, and without another word, began walking again.
(94)
Father McCarthy sat rigid in the passenger seat of Crawford’s cruiser, hoping to God he’d made the right decision. When he was unable to find Paul or the boys, he’d gone to see Joe Cummings. Joe had another visitor, a young man McCarthy recognized from the day at the gas station. The day this all started, he thought. The boy was telling Joe that he’d given Julie a ride to Greymore’s to warn him that Dale Crawford and the rest of the gang were going after him. The boy said he thought he’d seen Dale’s car heading that way as he was on his way back to the hospital. Joe was frantic but McCarthy had been able to calm him down. Joe also mentioned an ally in Robert Ortiz. Unable to track down anyone else, he’d gone to the police station in hopes of finding Ortiz.
What he found instead was an enraged Crawford. Sensing time was running out and that Paul and the boys were in danger, he’d confronted Crawford, telling him enough to convince him to get him to head back to the lake with him.
Now, he felt like he’d made the proverbial deal with the Devil and would have been better off going it alone. Crawford looked like he was about to explode. His face was bright red, littered with broken blood vessels. He was mumbling incoherently to himself as he sped toward the lake, periodically sipping from a flask he held between his legs while driving. McCarthy wasn’t sure they would even get to the lake at this rate, and was less sure of what might happen if they did find Greymore and the boys.
“Chief, maybe you should slow down with whatever is in the flask and concentrate on the task at hand.”
Crawford ignored him; McCarthy realized he probably hadn’t even heard him. He screeched onto Hillview Street and pulled into Cummings’ driveway and was out of the car before it had stopped bouncing on its shocks. He pounded loudly on the door, yelling for anyone to open up (it’s the police goddammit!). He finally gave up, and with a final scowl at the dark house, tore up the street, repeating the process at Greymore’s. This time he didn’t give up when nobody answered, he thrust his meaty shoulder into the door until it swung open from the splintered frame. McCarthy watched him disappear into the house, knowing Greymore was not to be found. Crawford burst back outside and lumbered through the yard to the back of the house. Finally, he returned, looking at McCarthy as if he’d forgotten he was there. “Canoe’s gone.” He thought for a moment. “Son of a bitch, that was his canoe tied to Lovell’s dock. Now her and most of her fucking cats are gutted—what do you think of your friend now, Preacher?” He drank deeply from the flask, his face turning a deeper, somehow more dangerous shade of red.
“Chief, they’re heading for the caves. Or tunnels, whatever they are. Under the old army base. A boat would be faster but we can get there through the woods.”
Crawford’s face took on a sudden calmness, a resignation. “Then let’s go for a little hike, shall we?”
His gaze was maniacal. McCarthy said a silent prayer, crossed himself, and got out of the car. God only knew what they would find or how this would end. With the enemy at his side, he walked resolutely through the now-abandoned massacre at Lovells and into the woods.
(95)
Robert Ortiz didn’t have to look far to track down Chris McCauley; as soon as he pulled out of Betty’s driveway he saw the man walking purposefully toward the house. He pulled up to the curb beside him. “Chris, hop in, we need to talk.”
Chris leaned in the open window. “Sorry Officer, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
Ortiz saw the pain in the man’s eyes. Christ, he found his own brother dead, who wouldn’t be hurting? Ortiz had spent a good deal of time talking with him at Jake’s apartment. But this looked worse somehow. “He’s already gone, Chris. Rodman, or Moses, whatever you want to call him. I know most of what’s going on but I need your help with the rest. Please, get in.”
Chris’s expression went from haunted to savage in an instant. “What do you mean ‘gone’?”
“I just spoke with Betty, he left a while ago. The O’Brien boy and Billy Cummings were with him. Told some story about interviewing him for a school project. Let’s go, Chris, I feel like we’re running short on time.”
Chris looked once toward Betty’s, then got in the passenger seat. “I know where they’re going. Christ, I wish I didn’t. We need to get to the lake, to the old army base.” He was thrown back in his seat as Ortiz peeled away from the curb. “There’s some caves or tunnels there. Something lives there, something Blaakman made.” He looked at Ortiz, anger slipping toward fear. “He’s going there to kill it, Robert. He says it’s responsible for the killings. Now and in 1961. I believe him, as crazy as it sounds, I believe him. My brother saw it, he killed himself because he was too afraid to see it again. In his mind or in the flesh.”
Ortiz sped through the darkening town toward Hillview Street, praying he would be in time.
(96)
Dale Crawford pounded on the screen door, standing in exactly the same spot Paul Greymore had stood moments before. Behind him, the Mustang growled while its riders sat warily. If Crawford could read minds, he would likely kill both Buddy and Costa for doubts they had. It was fear, not loyalty, that kept them from fleeing. The door finally opened and Crawford did his best to seem sane. “Hello, Mrs. O’Brien. Is Denny home?” He used his best Eddie Haskell voice. The smell of spaghetti sauce wafted by Janice O’Brien and Dale noticed her tense at his question.
“No, he went… out with his friend Billy. Maybe they’re at his house?”
Dale ground his teeth trying to maintain the fake smile that was torturing his face. “No, ma’am, we just checked there. I’m pretty sure he came here.”
“I’m sure they’ll be home for dinner soon. Maybe they rode their bikes to town.”
The woman was lying. Dale’s rage-o-meter went into the red. The smile twisted into a sneer. “That would be difficult, since both of their snotty little bikes are RIGHT THERE!” Before the woman could react, Crawford was on her. He threw the door open and shoved her roughly to the ground. He straddled her, his knees on her shoulders and slapped her face, forehand then backhand, forehand then backhand. “WHERE. ARE. THEY.” If she was going to answer, she couldn’t as he continued to slap her, her face jerking violently from side to side with each blow. It was fatigue that made him stop, not the blood flowing from her mouth and nose. He cocked his head to one side as if hearing something, then nodded and pulled his knife. The blade opened with a satisfying snap and Dale leaned in holding the blade below the soft flesh of Janice’s eye. “Tell me where he is and you can keep your eye. I’m not going to hurt him, just that freak Greymore.”
She stared, tried to speak, and choked on her own blood. Dale slid the blade closer and watched with fascination as the tip slid under the skin below her eye. A quick flick of the wrist and he could pop the eyeball right out. It suddenly seemed like the best thing in the world he could do. Her gurgling voice interrupted his train of thought.
“The woods… hiking… please… don’t… hurt him…”
Satisfied but disappointed he wouldn’t get to hold her throbbing eyeball in his hand, he got off her and went outside. “Kill the engine, grab the flashlight out of the glove box and let’s go, they’re in the woods.”