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.
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.
