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 & 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.
Edwards pointed the S&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, whic
h 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&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.
A part of him very much wanted to clean up the jigsaw pieces. He thought maybe he was losing some of his edge in Hangtree.
Edwards was enjoying his nap. He cooed like a baby. It took a while for him to wake up.
Crease said, "I'm on the job. You're not about to bully me. You want to file charges, you do it. You want to come at me some other way, that's fine too. But that's for later. Right now I want to know about Mary Burke. You were there the day of the switch."
For a second it looked like Edwards might try to muscle his way through, like he was going to dive across the room again. But then he shifted, grunted in pain, visibly deflated and sank back in the chair.
He said, "I was there. The switch never happened."
"You were going to pull a job and grab the cash. You were staked out in the woods, keeping an eye on my old man. You were both dirty and had the same idea to bounce the fifteen grand."
Edwards said nothing.
"My father hid the cash in the mill. Somebody cut the girl loose and plucked the money, probably while he was dozing or too drunk to notice. Y
ou got impatient after all those hours and showed at the door. You both tried to ice each other and the girl got it instead."
"I didn't want to kill him. I—"
The way he said it got Crease curious. "What?"
Edwards had some trouble getting it out. He tried to sit up in the chair but he hurt too much. He let out another groan through his clenched teeth. Whatever he was about to say was coming up from down deep.
"What?" Crease repeated.
"He taught me everything! He was my friend! Don't you know that? Don't you see that, you shit? My mentor." Edwards' feet bounced against the foot rest like an angry child's. "I wasn't there to steal the money, I was looking out for him! I knew what he was planning. I could see it in his eyes, the way he was walking around the office. I didn't want him to make the worst mistake of his life. Fifteen g's, it was nothing. All he had to do was lay off the sauce and get himself organized. But he was too drunk most of the time. He wouldn't listen to me, couldn't see the only way to get out was to step up and clean up. It was easier for him to hatch a stupid plan on the spur of the moment. He snatched the money and was too wasted to even cover his zone. I walked in to check on him and he got off one shot and killed Mary Burke. I thought he was ready to shoot me too, to cover it up, and I fired a warning shot over his head just to settle him down, get that fucking notion right out of his head."
Crease looked away. He spied the dog in pieces again. All those years of torment because Edwards felt angry and ashamed at being let down by the old man. In a way they were brothers. Jesus.
"I don't know what happened to that money," the sheriff said. "Nobody does."
"Somebody does," Crease said.
"So that's what you want?" Edwards let his smile out, showing off all those teeth again. It was still the movie star's leer, he hadn't lost that. His voice was starting to go out, weak from Crease having jabbed him in the throat. He swallowed more beer. "That fifteen grand? Just like your father."
The Fever Kill Page 6
