The World's Finest Mystery...

by Ed Gorman

  A pause; then, "What the hell are you talking about?" His voice was a whisper.

  "I told you: I saw you. You cared about that kid, Bob. I saw that. I'll bet you cared about them all."

  I watched Hurst, one thing in his eyes, another in the line of his still-clenched jaw.

  "And this kid, the Rogers kid, he liked you, too, didn't he, Bob? You were nice to him. That's all he wanted, someone to be nice to him. You cared about all of them, you were nice to them. That's why this is so unfair."

  "What…" Hurst's shoulders slumped. He looked around the room, his place, his closed-up fortress. He brought his eyes back to mine, saying nothing.

  "It's like this," I went on. "I saw you with the kid. I'm a cop and I have to report that. But I wanted to talk to you first, give you a chance. Because I know how it is. Because it isn't like they say."

  Everything in the cabin was still, no sound, no movement. Just the smell of coffee from the puddle on the floor.

  "He was a good kid," I said. "He liked you. They say you killed him, Bob."

  For a long time, nothing.

  "If you don't tell me," I said, "I have to report it just like I saw it. But I wanted to talk to you, Bob."

  Slowly, Hurst shook his head. "I want to sit down," he said.

  I nodded, gestured with the rifle to the couch in front of the living room window. He settled tentatively on it, as though it was not something he knew.

  "I never wanted to hurt that kid," he said, hands on his knees.

  "I know, Bob. But they're saying you did."

  "No one cared about him," Hurst said. "Frankie. Someone needed to care about him."

  "And that was you."

  A long silence. Finally, "No one else cared about him."

  "He played baseball out by your job, didn't he?" I said.

  Hurst nodded. "He liked baseball. After a game he'd come looking for me. After a game. He knew."

  "Knew what?"

  "He knew I cared."

  I slipped a cigarette into my mouth, lit it. "So tell me what happened, Bob. At Gray's Cove."

  But something more important was on his mind. He looked up at me. "You said 'rape.' That's wrong."

  "Wrong, Bob?"

  "Just, I cared about him. I wanted to show him. He wanted to show me."

  "Tell me what happened."

  "I never meant to hurt him."

  "Then tell me."

  Hurst slowly shook his head, a man overwhelmed by the unfairness, the arbitrariness, of life. "He wanted me to see how good he was, climbing on the rocks. Like a little mountain goat." He smiled, but the smile faded. "He was happy. But he was so happy he wouldn't go home."

  "What did he want to do?"

  "Come home with me. I said he couldn't, but he said if I made him go home he'd tell about me."

  I waited. Then I said, "You couldn't let him do that, could you?"

  "I tried to tell him. I tried to talk to him. He ran away, over the rocks." Hurst looked up at me with desperate eyes. "He fell."

  "Just like that? He fell?"

  He looked away. "He slipped. He fell off the rocks into the water."

  "You chased him and he fell. Did you catch him? Did you talk to him?"

  "I couldn't let him tell anyone! And then… he fell."

  I wondered if Hurst thought I believed him. I wondered if he believed himself. I asked, "What did you do?"

  Hurst jerked his head up to look at me. "What the hell could I do? Jump in? I don't swim that good. And anyone finds out I was with him… I ran like hell to the car, drove to a pay phone, called nine-one-one. Kid in the water, Gray's Cove, I said. Best I could do. Best I could do."

  I met his eyes, said nothing. That part, the call, squared with what Ben had told me. The rest, I wasn't sure. Maybe it had happened that way, a slip, a small mistake, and the world changed. Or maybe Hurst had decided there was only one way to avoid going back to prison for caring about a kid in ways the rest of us didn't understand. And then maybe he'd found that was where his own line was, the one he hadn't meant to cross, after he'd done it.

  In any case, I had enough now for Ben, and I could take Hurst in, let Ben take over. I stood, and Hurst's face clouded; he knew what was coming. But before I could say anything the cell phone in my pocket started to vibrate. It had to be Ben. My eyes and the rifle still on Hurst, I took the phone out.

  "Smith."

  Ben's voice, rapid and loud. "You anywhere near Bob Hurst?"

  "At his place."

  "He there?"

  "Yes."

  "Grab him and get out."

  "Why?"

  "We've got another one."

  "Another what?"

  "Kid. Gray's Cove. A tourist's kid."

  "What—"

  "I don't know. But Tom Rogers and two carloads of drunks are on their way out there. So am I, and I called the state, but Tom's way ahead of us."

  "Okay," I said, then, "Shit!" as headlights flooded the room and brakes squealed. "They're here, Ben. I'm armed. I'll do what I can."

  "Shit!" he echoed. "Try not to kill anyone. Try not to get killed."

  "Thanks," I said. "Advice always welcome." I flipped the phone shut. In a stride I reached the switch, killed the light.

  "What the—"

  "The other kid, Bob." I crouched at the living room window, took a look outside. Two cars, doors hanging wide, headlights glaring; dark forms, shifting, moving, vague behind the glare.

  "What kid? Who's out there?" He started to rise from the couch, turn to the window.

  "Get down!" I shoved him back.

  From the shapes in the yard, a shout: "Hurst! You fucker, get out here!"

  Hurst turned wild eyes to me.

  "The tourist's kid, tonight," I said. "That why you're home so late, Bob? You go back to Gray's Cove? You care about that kid, too?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Shut the fuck up, Bob. These guys came out here to kill you and it's not a bad idea."

  "I told you! I told you about Frankie. He fell!"

  "And the kid tonight?"

  "What kid tonight?"

  I said nothing, watching the dark forms.

  "I was at work!" Hurst grabbed my arm. I shook him off. "Ralph needed someone to stay. He pays time-and-a-half! I was done, I came here. Stopped at the 7-Eleven. You could ask the girl, you could ask Ralph! What the hell are you talking about, a kid tonight?"

  I felt a coldness slip up my spine. That kind of story made a bad lie, too easy to check. Maybe Hurst was so scared he couldn't think of anything better; or maybe he hadn't been out at Gray's Cove tonight.

  One of the shadows in the yard made a fast, jerky movement, and I ducked just before the window broke, showering glass into the room like ocean spray.

  Showtime.

  "On the floor," I ordered Hurst. "They're probably out back, too, so don't think about leaving."

  Hurst dropped to the floor, huddled against the couch. I could see him trembling.

  Actually, I didn't think they were out back. None of the shapes had peeled off, as far as I could see, and this wasn't a military operation, it was a mob. They needed each other for the courage to do what they didn't really want to do.

  Yanking open the front door, I stood in the blaze of headlights, the shouldered rifle pointed into the dark forms. "State police!" I shouted, thinking if I said it again I'd believe it myself. "The sheriff's on his way, more state cops behind him. Get out of here before I see your faces."

  "We want Hurst!" a voice yelled. A rumble started, others echoing.

  "He's secured," I said. By his own fear, but I didn't add that.

  "He killed my boy!"

  Silence, then a growl, and the shadows surged forward.

  I lifted the rifle, fired into the air. The shot's thunder made a barrier between us; as though they'd hit it, the men faltered, stopped.

  "Tom Rogers!" I shouted. "I know that's you. Let the sheriff handle this."

  "He hasn't done a damn thing
yet!"

  Another shout: "How many more kids?"

  "He had nothing to go on," I said. "He has now." I said nothing in answer to the second voice, the question.

  Someone yelled something else, a curse; more men muttered, growled, but no one moved, not me, not them. Then the wind shift brought the scream of a siren. The men before me heard it too: all voices silenced, and then the siren howled loud and close, and tires scattered pebbles as a new set of headlights swept into the yard.

  Red and blue light pulsed from the roof of the new car, the sheriff's car. Before it stopped the passenger door flew open and I heard Ben yell, "All right, you guys! Back off! Back off!"

  He came forward, gun still holstered. After the slightest hesitation the young deputy who climbed out from behind the wheel did the same, just followed Ben's example, waded into the mob. Ben moved through, speaking calmly, calling the men by name, and so did the deputy, and the wildness subsided, the mob became a crowd. I lowered the rifle as Ben came to stand beside me.

  From the doorway, lit by the glaring headlights, Ben looked over the men in the yard. "Go home," he said.

  Some muttering, some movement. Ben and the deputy just stood, looking, and I did too. Ben spoke quietly to the deputy: "Move the car, Andy."

  The dark forms moved aside for Andy as he crossed the yard to the sheriff's car. He started it up, and pulled it forward, out of the driveway, close against the trees. When he shut the engine silence was everywhere, and for a few long moments the night stayed like that, nothing changing at all. Then another engine growled to life. Men moved, car doors slammed. Trees, grass, the sheriff's car were lit and then dark in the jumpy headlights as the cars backed down the driveway. We heard the shift as tires scratching gravel became tires brushing asphalt, and then we heard nothing.

  "Shit," Ben said, letting out a long breath. Coming up beside him, the deputy gave a shaky grin. Ben put his hand on the deputy's shoulder, then turned and walked through the doorway into the cabin. I flicked on the light. Ben stepped over the puddle seeping from the broken paper bag to where Hurst still huddled against the couch, surrounded by shards and splinters of glass.

  "Come on," he said.

  From the floor Hurst looked up. "I didn't mean to hurt that kid."

  "Get up."

  "Ask him. He knows," Hurst said, nodding toward me. Slowly, he got up.

  Ben glanced at me.

  "You can take him in," I said.

  "I cared about him," Hurst said again.

  "Okay," Ben said, cuffing Hurst's wrists. "Take him to the car, Andy. Read him his rights."

  The young deputy clamped his hand on Hurst's arm, walked him out the door. Hurst threw one glance back at me, but didn't say anything else.

  "He was there," I said to Ben, when we were alone in Hurst's cabin. "With Frankie. He'll tell you, I think. He molested him up there and I think he'll tell you that too. And your man Crandall might be able to identify him. Hurst's the one who called nine-one-one. He says the kid fell."

  Ben gave me a long look. "Fell? You believe him?"

  "No. He's trying to tell himself that's what happened, but no."

  Ben nodded. "And the second one? The kid tonight?"

  "He says he worked late, stopped at the 7-Eleven, came straight here."

  Ben frowned. "That's easy to check."

  "I know."

  A siren wailed, came closer. Another set of headlights poured into the room. A corner of Ben's mouth tugged up. "The fucking state." He stepped out the front door as the siren cut off abruptly. "Gleason?" he called to one of the figures piling out of the cruiser. "That you?"

  "Yeah. Everything all right?"

  "No thanks to you. How come you heroes never make it on time?" Ben crossed the yard, talked with the state cops while an idea I didn't like formed in my mind.

  The cops got back in the cruiser, K-turned in the yard and were gone. "Useless," Ben said as I went down to stand with him.

  "What's the story on the kid tonight?" I asked.

  "Six years old," Ben told me, still watching the car. "Family's camping out at the point. Kid wandered away, no one saw him again until they found him dead on the beach. Could be an accident," he said, sounding unconvinced. "Set Tom and the guys off, but it could be an accident."

  "Yeah," I said. "Is Andy okay taking Hurst in alone?"

  Ben met my eyes. "Sure. Level-headed kid, Andy. Always been that way."

  * * *

  Andy, with Hurst, headed back toward town in the sheriff's car. In my car Ben and I drove to the shore. As we got closer the fog thickened. I asked, "Who found him? The kid tonight."

  "Older sister. They had a search party going, other campers, local volunteers. I was off duty. They called the department but no one thought to call me. I'd have been all over Hurst."

  "Who responded?"

  "When she found him? State was closest— not Gleason, some other car they had near there. Too late, kid was dead when they got there, but they did all the things you're supposed to do. They're not bad guys, really." He looked over at me, to make sure I hadn't gotten the wrong idea about state cops.

  "What about your guys?" I asked.

  "The deputy who's on tonight with Andy, Mike Lane, he got down there a few minutes after the state. So did Fred Reilly— he's off duty, but he had his radio on. Shit, I wish I'd had the damn radio on. When they called for a search party." He turned to watch out the window at the dark trees, the starless sky. "There'll be an autopsy, see if anyone messed with the kid. But if Hurst was at Ralph's…"

  "I don't think you'll find it," I said. "I don't think that's what happened."

  "What do you think?"

  I told him.

  "No," he said. He stared at me. "Oh, no. That's got to be crazy."

  I said nothing.

  "No," he said again.

  "I don't know," I said. "Maybe I'm wrong."

  Neither of us said anything more until we reached Gray's Cove, except that Ben used my cell phone to call the 911 dispatcher. She patched him through to Mike Lane, the deputy on night duty in his office. Ben told him to call all units, have them call my cell number, didn't say why. Andy, by then almost in town with Hurst, responded quickly. So did Fred Reilly, and a guy named Tod, on his way home from the movies with his girlfriend. That was it.

  The trees thinned but the fog didn't as we approached the shore. Ben directed me to the dirt road where Larry Crandall's small frame house stood, but it was dark and empty, so we went down to the water.

  From the top of the cliff we saw the waves break and fall. We saw dark masses of rock, and patchy gray fog on the sea. No lights on the water, and no stars.

  "There," Ben said.

  I looked where he pointed. A figure stood on the boulders below, watching the waves.

  Ben and I climbed down the cliff together; then Ben hung back and I worked my way along the rocks. The sea was wilder than before, the waves larger. Cold spray soaked my clothes. The figure didn't move as I approached. Maybe, over the sound of the sea, he didn't hear me coming, or maybe he didn't care.

  I came up to stand next to him. "Larry," I said.

  Nothing, just the waves and the spray.

  "What happened, Larry?" I asked.

  Without turning he said, "You don't care what happened."

  "You're wrong."

  He didn't answer.

  "Frankie Rogers," I said. "The sheriff arrested the man who was with Frankie."

  "Frankie's dead."

  "But the man's in jail. He won't hurt anyone else."

  Again no answer.

  "I told you I'd help, and I did," I said. "Now you have to help me."

  The words came: "No one can help," but they came from a different voice, the voice I'd been waiting for, hoping not to hear.

  That voice was behind me, in a shadow in the rocks. I turned that way. A dark shape, muscular, stepped toward me.

  "Tell me what happened, Richie," I said.

  "I don't know." Richie's voic
e was ragged. His eyes searched mine the way Crandall's searched the sea.