Edwards pointed the S amp;W. 38 at Crease, holding it in his right hand. Crease wasn't sure if the guy was just paranoid or if he really did have fine-tuned instincts and could sense one of his victims rising up before him. Crease wondered what the sheriff might be expecting. Tears? Drop to the knees?
Crease lit a cigarette. "Well?"
"You son of a bitch. I'm taking you in."
"Taking me in?"
"You heard me."
"On what charge?"
"I'll worry about that later."
"I think you should worry about it now."
"I'll worry about it later!"
"I just want to talk."
"I don't give a damn. You listen to me. We're going to move slow." Edwards was in cop mode, which didn't bear any resemblance to the cop mode Crease knew. "You're going to walk backwards to me. Turn in the hall. Then walk out to the driveway and get in the back of my cruiser. You're going to talk to me downtown or I'm-"
Crease let the cigarette dangle from the corner of his mouth. It was something his father used to do before the big fall. It gave his old man a cool '50s hipster look. Crease wasn't sure what it did for him, but he needed his hands free, while Edwards was throwing around the tough talk.
He moved.
His left forearm shot out and snapped hard against the inside of Edwards' right wrist, shoving the gun away. Crease's right hand flashed out and his palm thrust under Edwards' chin, shoving him up onto his tippy-toes. Then his fingers clenched into the sides of the sheriffs jaw. It was a good hold, one that Cruez had taught him. You didn't even have to hurt the guy, just lift and grab and the whole body went along. Edwards' eyes filled with panic.
Crease gripped the sheriffs gun hand and tightened his fingers on the nerve center in the wrist. Edwards held on and Crease kept tightening his grip, slowly putting on more pressure. Edwards' hand went dead and flopped open, the. 38 balancing there on his palm like he was making an offering. Crease closed his hand into a fist and slugged Edwards twice across the bridge of his nose.
It was enough. The gun fell on the floor and the sheriff dropped to his knees, blood running from his nose and mouth.
The women all over the place looked down at him. Crease picked up the S amp;W and put it in his pocket. Then he helped Edwards to his feet and walked him over to his lounge chair and sat him down. Crease cranked back the lever and put the sheriff's feet up on the foot rest, got him nice and comfortable. Crease sat on the coffee table, facing him, still smoking the cigarette.
He'd thought that getting his hands on Edwards again after all these years would have a greater meaning for him. Siphon off some of the fever, put his old man's ghost back to sleep. Give him some kind of a perk, make him boil with laughter, fill him with joy. At least give him a chuckle.
But Crease felt nothing but a little pity for the guy and a concern about whether he was making all the wrong moves for all the wrong reasons.
He looked a little closer at the sheriff now. He saw that Edwards had a fairly recent knife wound on his forearm and buckshot scars across his shoulder, a few pings to the neck. The top half of one of his ears was gone and the cartilage ended in a ragged kink. Somebody's teeth had done it. If nothing else, the sheriff was the real deal, for Vermont. He'd gotten roughed up on the job.
"Who are you?" Edwards asked. "What do you want here in my town? In my house? You're asking for a lot of hurt, kid."
You had to, if you were going to get anywhere.
Crease said, "Tell me why you didn't come clean about Mary Burke."
Edwards' eyes focused but the blood kept dribbling from his nose and across his white tee-shirt. Once your nose was broken it didn't take much to crack it again. Crease found a mustard-smeared napkin near the burgers and tossed it to Edwards. The sheriff tore it in half, balled each piece and gently eased them into his nostrils.
"I didn't hit you that hard," Crease said.
"Broken capillaries. I get nosebleeds easy." Edwards was trying to play it cool, roll along with the set-up. It was the smart move to make, and the fact that he made it surprised Crease. "Give me my beer."
Crease handed it to him. "Listen-"
"And the whiskey."
"Listen-"
"Son, you've just bought yourself a whole world of trouble."
"I think you should listen-"
"Striking an officer of the law. You can do two years for that."
Cool but not cool enough. Now he was going to rag talk. You can't spook a guy who's taken your gun away. "You never were very smart."
The voice, in the quiet of the house, came on strong and resonant and ancient. Edwards might remember now. The afternoon of the funeral, the days afterward in the jail kicking the crap out of Crease. Edwards' gray matter had gone through a lot, but certain memories would be seared in there good. Crease finished his cigarette. Edwards' expression suddenly smoothed and his eyes flooded with recognition.
Crease thought, Here we go.
"You. You! You're back!"
"I'm back."
Edwards couldn't control himself. He shot up out of the chair and lunged at Crease, letting out a growl. He hurtled forward, his gut leading the way. He caught Crease around the waist, lifted him off the table, and carried him three steps across the room. The women smiled blankly, watching the scene. Crease spotted one he recognized. It was Reb.
Reb's had enough problems without all you boys chasing her farther off the narrow path.
He let out a sigh just before he was driven into the far wall. A paint-by-numbers of Jesus on a cloud with his arms open swung crazily beside him. A picture of a dog fell to the floor and broke into a hundred pieces. Crease saw it was a jigsaw puzzle that had been glued together and hung up.
Somehow, the very thought of it got the fever going inside him again. Not his past humiliation, his anger, not even his father's death. It had nothing to do with the man's cruelty. For some reason, it was the goddamn dog.
"Okay," Crease said.
His hands flashed out and plucked the wadded up bits of napkin out of Edwards' nostrils. His fists, almost on their own accord, rapped Edwards twice in the nose until blood burst and arced across the floor. Crease worked slowly, expertly, chopping the sheriff in the throat, driving a knee into his thigh, jabbing, striking him in the solar plexus. It was slow, methodical work, just like Edwards had given him back in the jail cell.
Thinking of the man putting the puzzle together, carefully like a child, working with the glue, and taking the time to hang it on the wall. Probably stepping back to view it with a certain kind of pride, even love. It was taunting as hell, thinking of the guy like that. An affront to his senses.
All of these years adding up to so little, but the dog, man, the dog. That was insulting, that was something he couldn't suffer.
He held his fist high for one more strike, but Edwards was nearly out cold on his feet. It took all of ten seconds. The paint-by-numbers Jesus was still swaying. Crease took the sheriff in his arms and duck-walked him back to his chair. Got him settled, got his feet up again.
He went to the kitchen and found more napkins and a dish towel. He wet them and returned to Edwards, who was moaning the way Crease's father used to moan in the gutter after the whores had thrown him out on the street.
This damn town, he couldn't do anything without thinking of the old man.
Crease started to wash the blood from the sheriffs face. He checked the nose. It wasn't broken this time, but kept on bleeding. He got more napkin up in there. Pressed the cold towel to the Edwards' forehead, wet down his neck. The sheriff quit moaning and started to snore. Crease sat back on the coffee table and lit another cigarette.