If his father had seen Edwards in the tree line, then the kidnappers would've seen him too. Edwards had botched any chance of a straight switch.
Crease took up the position for a long wait, glancing about every so often across the width of the factory. Checking behind him, filling his head with his father's thoughts. He tried to imagine that fifteen thousand would be worth everything in the world, paying off the damn doctors. It would settle bad debts, allow for some breathing room with the mortgage company. What else? Not even a new car. A nicer secondhand model maybe. A couple rounds of drinks at the bar. Crease just couldn't understand it.
Still, he decided to ride it out. He imagined the door opening wide, the silhouette of a man with a gun in his hand. Crease held his arm out and fired twice. He would've put the guy down, but his father had missed.
His old man had been too keyed up. He said he'd waited in the mill from noon on. Four hours, five, six. Only tipping back some whiskey from a flask every now and again. It wouldn't have lasted long. After a couple of hours, he'd have had the shakes. He would've tried to get away from the pain. He might've slept.
Crease got back in position between the trimmers. He ran through it again. Saw how the guy at the door would be firing back. Turned and looked for bullet holes in the machinery near him. There weren't any. Up higher, near the log ramp. He found a ricochet mark that had scored and twisted one of the wheels on another flatbed. The bullet would've gone right out the platform opening where they hauled down the lumber. It proved Edwards hadn't hit the girl.
Now he had an idea of what the scene was like. He imagined Mary Burke wandering through. Which direction would she come from? The far end of the factory. The 'nappers spotted Edwards in the woods, didn't want to come in the front door, and sneaked in through the other side where the rough-cut lumber would be loaded on the log ramps. His father was so worried about Edwards stealing the money that he hadn't been paying enough attention to all the other ways the 'nappers might get inside. They could've been in there before him, waiting him out, watching him suck down his booze and fade into sleep. Then they tippy-toed to where the cash was hidden and plucked it out while his old man snored on the floor.
So they let the girl go. Six years old. Maybe they'd told her to just walk straight ahead, the nice sheriff would take her home to her mommy and daddy. She walks forward, stroking her teddy bear's head, probably talking to it the way Stevie used to talk to his. We're going home now, Teddy.
~* ~
The fever broke inside Crease.
It happened so suddenly that he didn't know why there was the sound of twisting metal until he looked down at his hands. He'd gripped the edge of the trimmer and was pulling on the heavy iron sidebar of it, wrenching it loose. He tasted blood and realized he'd bitten his tongue. Sweat ran down his face and snaked across his scalp. In less than a minute he was so wet it looked as if a hose had been turned on him.
His father aiming at Edwards. The deputy's revolver going off, and now, the little girl walking past. He could almost see his father turning the gun on her, firing while thinking, No witnesses.
All of it such a waste. The girl snuffed for nothing. His father's downfall completed. The 'nappers didn't even make enough money to change their lives any. Why had they only asked for fifteen k? What could you buy that would make this all worth it? Christ, it wasn't even a big enough bump in somebody's bank account for anyone else to notice. Not like somebody who walks off with a million bucks. Those assholes you could spot easily, some lowlife buying a Cadillac for cash.
Crease looked down and saw Mary Burke dead on the floor.
We're going home now, Teddy.
The house gave off the same vibe as a lot of the others in town. A second rate effort had been made to fix the place up within the last few years. A new coat of paint had been added, but the paint was cheap and the job had been sloppy. The foundation had been reset with brick, but the brickwork hadn't been perfect and the rain and snow wash had already made it partially topple. Hedge roses had been planted along the front edge of the property to give it some curb appeal. They were overgrown and choking each other.
Crease stood on Sheriff Edwards' porch and knocked on the door.
Edwards answered in a stained tee-shirt and torn trousers, barefoot. His wet, bloated features, especially the busted schnoz weaving across his face, were even more unsettling now that he was out of uniform. He really did look like Crease's old man. Jesus.
The sheriff stood there and said, "You. Rebecca Fortlow's friend, so you said. You're at my house? You come to my house?"
"I came to your house," Crease said.
"Who the hell do you think you are coming to my house? Standing here on my doorstep. What do you want here? You got a problem? Don't bring it here."
Clearly Edwards' concept of civic duty ended the minute he clocked out. "I'd like to talk to you."
"How'd you know where I live? You following me?"
"I've always known where you lived."
"What the hell's that mean? I ought to book you for trespassing. Don't you move. I've got some questions for you."
"I've got a few for you too."
Edwards reached out to grab Crease's jacket. The hands were slow, even slower than Jimmy Devlin's.
Look at them having to struggle through the air, so fat and weak. He was so soft now that his body wobbled behind the arms, left to right, sorta chugunga chugunga. Crease still couldn't quite believe this was the same guy that had stirred so much inside of him when he was a kid. The hands still coming.
Crease turned and sidestepped, and Edwards' arms shot past him. Crease thought how easy it would be to yank the Bowie, bring it up easy, without even any real force, and snap it under Edwards' chin, jam it into his brain. Sometimes you couldn't think too hard on a thing, your body might respond before you decided you were just joking.
"Get in here!"
Give him his moment. What the hell. It was where Crease wanted to go anyway. He slipped inside and let Edwards shove him from behind. Once, twice. Again. Edwards was out of breath already, the air hissing from the sides of his mouth.
The living room was small, fairly clean, devoid of a woman's touch. A greasy bag stood open on the coffee table and a couple of hamburgers from a fast food joint sat unwrapped on it. There was one full beer bottle on the table, four empty ones, and a half-finished pint of Dewars. A. 38 Smith amp; Wesson revolver sat on the mantel, wedged between a couple of frames of middle-aged women posing in mock cheesecake.
There were a lot of photos of Edwards and different women all over the place. The same lady never popped up twice. What did that tell you about the sheriff? Usually it was embarrassing not to latch on to one that was worth your while, but Edwards was showing off the fact. Declaring to everybody-even the women-that this is just routine, this has happened many times before, this means nothing. You weren't supposed to be looking at the ladies, you were meant to keep your eyes on him.
Crease knew he was the reason why. It was because Edwards was no longer beautiful. His pettiness and fury came from a whole different place now than it did back in the days when he'd torment Crease and his father. Now, every morning Edwards had to wake up and look in the mirror and see a guy he wasn't supposed to be.
"What do you want?" Edwards asked.
"Answers."
"You're going to talk to me, kid, or I'm going to put you away."
"I am talking to you."
Edwards pulled a face. What Joan used to call a booboo face when Stevie got upset and pouty. It wasn't a good look on a fat, pissy alcoholic. Edwards glanced around the room. Crease knew he was looking for his gun, but he'd forgotten where he'd left it. There was plenty of time. Crease could walk over there and pick it up, hand it to him. Instead he just stood there, waiting. Eventually Edwards spotted it, stormed over, and plucked it up.